Camp Bullis Part 2

Bullis orders weren't just a pain in the ass for drivers.

Somehow, not a single soldier knew what building they were staying in. They weren't even named, they were numbered. A step outside ever would have solved the issue. We inevitably ended up delivering to the postal exchange building.

Since we delivered at timed intervals, this led to some fun experiences for drivers, at least. Jeremy would wait exactly 5 minutes at the PX and then leave, pizzas delivered or not. Jim, Jeremy, and Rob would often get back into their cars and cackle as they sped off, soldiers windmilling in the rearview.

Everytime I spoke to someone from Bullis, I was somehow physically accosted with idiocy. They mostly ordered for a large group of friends, and the stupidity on offer was offensive. Aside from not knowing where they slept, they had difficulty grasping pizza sizes, would often order 20 ounce sodas thinking that it was enough for multiple people, and never, not a single time, did they ask what everyone wanted ahead of time. The logisticians of the Air Force are astounding. The coordination necessary to organize the people and machines of a base and execute missions is mind-bogglingly impressive.

Not a goddamned one thought to check if their buddies wanted pepperoni or ham ahead of time.  

The couple times I got to ride along with Jeremy to Bullis were very instructional. The car wasn't typically searched, but getting to and then into the base was a nightmarish time sink for a job in which the hour was a very real loss of at least 20 dollars in tips. This is why every driver eventually instituted a strict 5 minute waiting period.

After witnessing firsthand the behavior of the soldiers, I made a conscious decision not to tell any of them about this time limit.  

But these extreme measures weren't enough to get the fuckers to tip. That's a story for next time on the Bullis Files.

The Scandal That Gently Rocked Nothing Of Consequence

Bobby was a buddy of Jim and Jeremy and I from high school. One time the four of us went to a movie at the Drafthouse and in the middle of the movie, a waitress approached Bobby, whispered something to him, then went out to the hall. Bobby got up and made out with the waitress for 20 minutes. They'd never met before.

What I'm saying here is that Bobby was stereotypically alpha. He had a magnetic appeal to women that meant he never had trouble sleeping with the ones of his choice.

I don't know why he chose to start fucking Natalie. My first instinct says to make his job easier, but I don't think he did any more work before he and the boss started shtupping than he did afterward. He flat-out admitted he wasn't physically attracted to her. I guess it doesn't really matter at this point. 

This is the sort of scandal that tears workplaces apart. People get fired, feelings get hurt, drama invades every employee's life no matter how disconnected they are, and eventually there is a breakdown. That's why every company in the world has rules against this sort of thing. 

Mahjong hummed along without the months-long tryst making a blip.

It is perhaps a testament to how chronically beyond fucked-up the business was run that when people found out about this, they shrugged their shoulders as if it was SOP. Jim and Jeremy informed me as if bored.  

"But...they do it here?!"

"Yeah, in the driver hallway." (The driver hallway was the only place in the store not covered by cameras, which made my nightly Dr. Pepper exceedingly easy)
 

"This is like really bad, you guys! Bobby's gonna get fired!" 

"I can't think of a single male from corporate who Natalie hasn't openly admitted to fucking." 

When I confronted Bobby about it, he was somehow even more nonchalant. 

"Well now when I show up drunk she won't say anything about it." 

These are the things that happen in your local pizza place whether you know it or not. People fuck a yard away from where the pizza is cut, leaning over the bags used to bring that pizza to you, in the name of the driver not getting hassled for drunk driving for a living.  

Have fun ordering pizza next time. 

Our Cast of Characters

Kevin - If it seems like he can do no wrong, it's because he's the one telling this story, chump, so fuck you.

Jim - On top of being to blame for everything, one of my best friends, and a FUCKING DRIVER at Mahjong. Took every ounce of shit heaped on him by the company in trademark stride and bitter humor.

A note for the uninformed: You will hear many, many terrible things that the company did to Jim and every other FUCKING DRIVER. I implore you now not to feel too sorry for them. FUCKING DRIVERS made like 15 bucks an hour with their tips, and they are only to be hated. Harden your hearts now.

Jeremy - Another good friend and FUCKING DRIVER. Darkly humorous. Showed me the ropes at Mahjong, particularly the noose.

Ron - FUCKING DRIVER and professional creepy person. Degrees in both history and education, but due to mysterious legal troubles, barred from being a teacher. Possible theories: due to tendency to sneak up behind people he doesn't know that well and rub their shoulders sensually, his resume is instantly met with an enormous red rubber stamp which says something ominous.

Mitch - Sane person, worked inside with me. My grounding in reality when Jim and Jeremy were on deliveries.

Bobby - FUCKING DRIVER, a severe alcoholic, very charismatic and admirable at least in his lack of fucks to give about Mahjong.

Redding - Stoner bro, incredibly wise man.

Edsel - Old, bird-like man. Completely inscrutable. Invariably answers, "How are you doing?" with "Fair." or "Functioning."

Natalie - General Manager of the store, 30-something, satan. A blend of idiocy and hateful evil so well-mixed that if Da Vinci painted in vitriol, she would be the Mona Lisa.

Joe - Assistant manager, handsome 20-something, one of the few people I've feared for my life around.

Stan - Assistant manager, really great guy, simple and nice. Almost fools you into believing he is happy, but eyes are honest even when we are not.

This is the core of the group, with more to be introduced along the way, of course. But everything in its due time.

Welcome to Mahjong!

It was July of 2009. I was 21, 22 in August, and if disillusionment with Mahjong hadn't set in by a combination of previous job experience and orientation, it seemed, they were going to do their damnedest on my first day.

Jim introduced me to Mitch, Joe, and Natalie.
Mitch was 18 years old and was set to attend MIT next year. He both did not belong at Mahjong and was my salvation when drivers were not in the building.

Joe was a handsome 20-something Hispanic man, the assistant manager on shift. He was very pleasant. I had no inkling that soon enough he would be one of the people I would fear for my life around.

And then there was Natalie. The general manager of the store, Natalie was about 30, made 40 by what I can only presume was early pregnancy, a life of drinking and smoking, and her heavyset frame. She was Hispanic, and her makeup was absolutely excellent, because I never would have guessed upon meeting her that she was cloven-hoofed.

Mitch was appointed to help me learn the order-taking system. I want to take a moment to make it clear that I consider myself reasonably intelligent and have grasped most electronic registers within about 20 minutes of fiddling with them.

The Mahjong registers were a shrine to poor design. It required going through 8 screens for the simplest of orders. Buttons were often labeled in inscrutable shorthand of an eldritch tongue. You had to skip through each category (pizza, sides, drinks, extras, sandwiches) for every order to confirm that they didn't want any of those things. And this is all when it worked perfectly.

Mitch got to take one actual order with me, trying to slow down his motions learned by rote enough for me to keep up without falling behind. Customers speak in rapid fire.

After the order was taken, Mitch had to jump to the assembly line to help Joe make the pizzas, because as worthless as I would certainly be on the phone, I would be worse than worthless at making pizzas.

When the phone inevitably rang, I answered with the official corporate-approved greeting. "Thanks for calling Mahjong, where we love our customers! Can I take your order?" This whitebread, insipid bullshit is so etched into my skull that even now, 3 years out of Mahjong, I have to fight instincts to answer the phone that way.

Turns out I couldn't take their order.

At one point, while Mitch ran between the pizza line and the phone to help me take an order, Natalie cocked her head out of the office door and shouted at him, no shit, shouted at him for helping me.

Jim, eyes locked on mine with a wicked grin, said, "You made Mitch stop helping him after one order." To which she responded, exasperated, "Well he's been here an hour!"

When, in the future, I tell you stories about how Jim was constantly abused, understand that the merry grin he gave me as he took his delivery out the door, the flippant "Welcome to Mahjong, Kevin!", understand why I believe he deserved every bit of it. I still swear I saw him hop up and click his heels together as he left the building.

The remainder of my 4-hour shift was a swirl of learning a new language and interacting with my co-workers. Joe is going to be his own little post down the line.

By the time I left that day, I'd begun to understand what I'd gotten myself into. Seeing the worthiness of the job, I stole a Dr. Pepper, and waited for my ride home.

Welcome to Mahjong.

An Introduction

These are the collected tales of my time at the Mahjong Pizza Company. No names have been changed to protect the innocent; there are no innocent. No details have been spared out of respect; I have none.

Jim is to blame for the entire damn thing. Just try to call him out on it, he will hem and haw about how he warned me what it was like, how I needed the money, he will do whatever it takes to escape moral culpability. But when you read my tale of woe, know this: Jim is to blame.

I'd been unemployed for four months. My enormous stash of ramen and tiny stash of rent money had both dwindled, and I needed to rejoin the ranks of the gainfully employed. Jim had worked at Mahjong for over two years by this time. He said he could get me a job there. He couched it in constant reminders that it was the worst place he'd ever worked, but I had reached the point of no return. In poverty, you are allowed no standards.

So an application was filed and good words were put in, the churning colon of employment at Mahjong was massaged, and an entire fucking month later, I was ready for orientation. Never mind all the terrible things a month-long hiring process indicates about a company; never mind the hiring manager boasted to me the company's near-100 percent turnaround; never mind every bit of it, I was a fresh-faced youth ready to live the capitalist dream. It was time to earn money, to become an integral part of my community and pay my rent as a self-made man.

The orientation was held in the district office, which was little more than a tiny office building adjoining a Mahjong. The batch of new recruits were here told about the list of benefits Mahjong provided:

No Vacation

No Health Insurance

No Raise Structure

No Paid Time Off

Alright, sweet, Texas is a right-to-work state, got it. Money's money, right? Time for our drug tests!

Except there's only one bathroom and we need to hurry this along, so ladies, line up at the bathroom, fellas, pick a cubicle and pee into this cup. I laugh at this, and the orientation manager gives me a dead-eyed smile. "Yes?"

It takes me a moment to realize he's not kidding, and I decided then and there it wasn't worth it. No, money is not money, we are human beings, we are entitled to the basest level of dignity, this is the line. I rallied the other new hires. "We're not going to huddle in a 3-walled, shoulder-high cubicle and pee for these fuckers! Today we take a stand! Worker's rights are human rights! Unionize!"

The only bright side to my year-long term of wage slavery with Mahjong is that no one saw my dick that day. Money's money, right?