Friday, July 30, 2010

My Two Weeks

This is the actual letter of resignation I turned in to South Beach Grill

To whom it may concern, regarding further employment at the South Beach Grille

It is with great disdain that I write to you this letter, as it signifies the end of my employment here at South Beach Grille, a job that I have grown to love dearly over these past one-and-a-half years. It pains me to inform you that my last day of employment will be on August 14th, 2010, as I will be pursuing greener pastures in the shapely form of drunken sorority girls in Gainesville – specifically those in Delta Gamma, who have a reputation for being especially slutty. But I must confess. The real reason for my departure is not just my dislocation from the greater Saint Augustine area. No, I have decided to seek further employment elsewhere, where the employees are rewarded for their heroic efforts in the workplace with shift drinks; where the shift drinks flow like the waters of Ponce De Leon’s fountain of youth and into my mouth; a fountain of shift drinks. My untimely employment here at the South Beach Grille did not properly prepare me for the removal of the shift drink. For three months I toiled and slaved into the spring season, eagerly awaiting the arrival of my 21st birthday, anxiously anticipating that ice cold, alcoholic token of appreciation: a draft beer. And then, in a flash, it was gone. Ripped from my tired and thirsty fingers, a certain anxiety set in. Without the promise of shift drinks awaiting me at the end of a busy Friday night shift, there was no light for me at the end of that perilous tunnel - only endless droves of Southerners requesting – nay – demanding that I bring them a four-ounce cup of ranch for their twelve-piece, fried shrimp dinner. The endless refills of sweet tea, the recanting of our (unlisted) salad dressings six times per table (why, why, why doesn’t anybody listen to me when I explain to them our menu! Hell, why aren't the salad dressings listed on the menu!?), and enduring the endless repetition of the phrase: “What do you mean you’re out of seafood platters?” Yes, without that lukewarm Bud Light glowing for me on table seven, I can simply bear it no longer. And it’s not just the customers that have lost their sheen – even the past times here at the Grille have grown dull and stodgy. Gambling on sporting events, whispering “balls on chin” past the tables, singing along to the original South Beach musical “weeded in the square,” even the penis jokes, at one time making me burst into uproarious laughter, have gone (much like their counterparts) flaccid and soft.

But it wasn’t all bad times at South Beach Grille. There were good times. Losing $100 dollars in fantasy football, burning my fingers on our shoddily poured hot white chowder (hilarious!), getting roofied at the Christmas party, fifty percent off food, stealing corn bread, 86’ing happiness, and last but not least, all of the sexual harassment - truly glorious amounts of it. (Although, I must admit, I am disappointed by the fact that every single time I stood naked in the supply closet, covered in our pasty bulk-order whipped cream, the only person to ever walk in and partake was James, from the kitchen. And I mean no disrespect to the man, but I simply cannot be involved with someone whose face is ninety percent beard.)

South Beach was so much more than just a job to me. It was a test of my truest character. Something changes about a man who drinks until four A.M. and then wakes up at six o’clock for a breakfast shift (still drunk), where he is again hassled by Southerners for a 4 oz. cup of ranch to go along with their pancakes and early morning cup of sweet tea. Seriously, Ted, whose idea was it to serve breakfast at a seafood restaurant? To quote the famous philosopher, Daft Punk, South Beach has made me “harder, better, stronger, faster.” The accumulation of so much rectitude in such a short period of time has been, to say the least, truly awe-inspiring. I will never forget my time here at South Beach Grille. All of the memories at table seven, all of the laughter, all of the hangovers, all of the write-ups, being weeded in the square, and how you totally didn’t fire me. Thank You, Thank You, Thank You, a thousand times, Thank You.


Ian C. Rowe

P.S. The purpose of this letter was to inform as well as to entertain. Most of these “facts” are made up. Nobody whispers balls on chin past tables, never have I waited naked in the supply closet (although James’s face is ninety percent beard), and never have I waited tables still drunk. (Or have I?)

Seriously though, please don’t fire me before my two weeks.