THE FRIBBLE

I decided that I was sick and tired of working at Walgreens and that I needed a change of scenery. I therefore applied to be a waitress at Friendly's, got the job, and jumped ship further down the Simsbury mall. I should have quit the minute I felt my blood pressure rise when I waited on a table of sixth graders who had the audacity to tell me that A) there would be no tip and B) they were going to time me with their cheap Casio stopwatch because Friendly's was running a get-your-order-in-ten-minutes-or-get-your-money-back special. It's nothing personal, they said, by way of apology. I scorned them, refusing to speak to them for the entire duration of their visit. I think I might have made them feel bad, because they left a dollar in nickels after all. Bastards.

I did not quit, however, choosing instead to "tough it out." I was yelled at by soccer moms, scorned by my co-workers, and shamed in the face of my fellow high school students who would come into Friendly's for a cheap date. I was even hit on by a creepy lesbian who pressed a $5 bill into my hand, squeezed it way too long and said, "Thanks," in a kind of long and drawn out breathy and inappropriate way. I endured all of this, only to quit after two more miserable weeks-- after the fribble incident.

I am just no good with kitchen appliances, period. This is unfortunate for many reasons, but in this case it was particularly disastrous, because the waitresses at Friendly's were responsible for making the Fribbles, which is basically just a shake that is the exact same color as I imagine plutonium to be. Nevertheless, I had to learn to make one. Even after several tough coaching sessions with the head waitress, I confess that I never got the hang of it.

One day one of my old managers from Walgreens came in, a horny old bastard who called douches "mouthwash." Go straighten out the mouthwash aisle, he'd say with a sly chuckle when it was time to close. He was a dirty old man, but I liked him. So anyways, he comes into Friendly's on his lunch break and says hey Lisa and I say hey Dave and he says I'll have a Fribble.

All I can say is that things went horribly wrong. I thing I overfilled the tin cup thing, because when I pressed the blender the nuclear pink contents of the Fribble went spraying across the kitchen in a wild meteor shower of pink ice cream and ice shards. The tin glass slipped out from the blender and rocketed in the air, bounced against the faux-brick wall, landed on the floor, and dribbled out at my feet. I think a got a few customers wet in the process, because they looked horrified--Dave, of course, was laughing his ass off. Then I started laughing too, in that nervous and embarrassed sort of way, and tried again to make the Fribble. By this time I was spooked--terrified even, of the blender, and I underfilled the cup, barely ran the machine, and filled the remaining part of the cup with whip cream--a good five inches of whip cream. Dave just took the Fribble wordlessly, handed me some money, and walked back to Walgreens. I think I saw him throw it away. That was it. No more Friendly's.

Let's face it--I have no business waiting on people. I am just no good at this. After hearing the Fribble story, Scott once said, "I just feel sorry for you--not because there's anything wrong with being a waitress, but because I know how terrible you'd be it." He was so right. I was the worst.

 

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