• Join The Fed
• Advertise with The Fed

• About Us
• Contact

In This Issue

• What To Do With Books
• Craigslist Finds New Ways to Disturb
• Ovary Mining: Profit In Your Pants
• Letters to the Feditors
• Experience? Uh, no
• Sitting On Babies?
• The Internet = Porn. Porn = The Fed. Logically...
• "Which Came First, the Chicken or the Dregs?"
• Hey, Athletes! Need a Team? Call Me Ishmael.
• Hot Sex? Meh. Mock Interviews? Ooo Yeah, Baby.
• Swipe, Suffer, Suffocate
• From The Desk of Lee "El Cuisinart" Bollinger
• Practice Protectionism in the Bedroom
• Living at the Speed of 2.99x10^8 m/s
• Sensitivity Training Averts Termination
• Congrats, You're Fucked
• The Hierarchy of Columbia
• THEY Watch

Helen Buyniski

Your favorite hometown hotspot just got hotter!

There are many different opinions on when one takes the leap from childhood to adulthood. Some think it occurs at a predetermined time, like at a bar mitzvah. Others seem to think it is a direct result of losing one’s virginity. I found that after these two milestones I felt pretty much the same. It is true that after my bat mitzvah I lost all faith in organized religion (because my best friend made a lot more money at hers than I did,) and after my first time in the sack, well, let’s just say I lost all faith in organized sex too. All things considered though, I was the same person. It took something much more serious to enter Phase Two of my life. My perception was to be forever changed on one fateful day at Applebee’s.

No, I didn’t do blow, nor did I bang a fry cook in the parking lot. This past winter I decided to take a job at that fine food establishment we Americans all know and love. It is a place where, according to the commercials, everyone feels welcome, a Mecca where the tired, the poor, and the huddled masses flock for the promise hot food and a warm smile. This is the restaurant that will stay open after hours for a football team that just lost a game. It is, in every sense, eating good in the neighborhood. It seemed like the perfect place to work. Without hesitation, I applied. This was mostly because they were the only restaurant willing to hire a 17-year-old with no prior experience. That in and of itself should have been a hint about the bad things to come, but being naive, I took it to mean that Applebee’s was staffed by the caring individuals I saw on TV looking to give a young girl a chance. I was an idiot.

Practically every time I set foot in the restaurant, I saw something entirely foreign to my apparently silly ideas about what constitutes socially acceptable behavior. For instance, when Tina, a full-time server of 50 with poorly dyed blond hair and a distracting limp, would come out of our restroom with a large, foolish grin on her face, wiping her nose, I’d figure that at her age, it must be quite a rare treat to have a satisfying experience in the can. I thought she was just bursting with pride, and must’ve had a runny nose that just wouldn’t quit.

It was hard to maintain that belief after hearing her whisper to a co-worker, “I’ll grease your rail if you know where I can get some,” but hell, she was old, and old people don’t give head for drugs. Drugs are for disillusioned, affluent kids and the homeless (who, according to my parents, used to be affluent kids, and by God, I don’t want to wind up like that.) She was obviously a good person.

Sometimes communication proved difficult, as none of the kitchen staff spoke much English. This may have been because they were all illegal immigrants. Every time I went back to the kitchen, I smiled at them and let out a poorly pronounced, “Hola, como estas?” figuring that their muttered responses were some equally polite response. I picked up the word “puta” relatively frequently, so I decided it was a cute Spanish pet name. I would nod and say “gracias” and they would laugh and smile. From my end of things, it was really a rather lovely exchange.

Once I heard my 30-something boss talking on his cell phone loudly in the back. I knew he was married, but I also knew he was fairly obnoxious, so hearing the phrase, “I’d really like to fuck her up the ass!” came as no surprise. Then I realized who he was referring to: a 16 year-old coworker who had just finished telling me about “how totally awesome!” it was to get her braces off.

Then it all came crashing down.

It was 10:45 on a rainy April morning. I had just gotten in. All of a sudden, a slew of men in uniform walked up to the locked front door. I looked for my bosses, saw they weren’t in sight, and unlocked the door. About 20 men came pouring in, complaining that they had “been driving all night and needed something to eat and drink.” They spoke of missing their wives and children and how they would soon be heading to Iraq. The least we could do, as human beings with souls, was to grant their wishes. This was my chance. The commercial was unfolding right in front of my eyes. I hurriedly tied my apron on and applied some last minute lip gloss, knowing that by working before I could officially clock in I was brightening the day of some very brave, patriotic men who, I assumed, would tip me very well. I still believed in the magic of Applebee’s.

My boss came in, walking briskly out of the kitchen. I waited impatiently for his response. He sighed and, with a grimace, promptly told the men to go to Bob Evans. He turned as they shuffled out, muttering, “Fucking army men… think they deserve different treatment from everyone else.”

Applebee’s was a sham. Everything made sense. I promptly took up smoking, cursing, and lying. I was now an adult.