The Terminator

“What do you mean fired? How can that be possible?”

            “We have made the decision to terminate your position of waiter at O’Hanigans.”

            “But why would you do something like this to me? I have done nothing to warrant a pink slip from this place. What’s the reason for this decision?”

            “You failed to comply with company guidelines when you walked off your shift Tuesday without consenting with the manager on duty. Brenda had asked you to stay and you left early which means our management team has to take strict and swift action against you according to our no exceptions policy. Under the no exceptions policy that was implemented by upper management eight months ago, O’Hanigans has little to no leeway when it comes to which employees we will and won’t fire and for what reason.”

            “That’s not true. If I had been asked to stay, I would have stayed. Also how could this be grounds for firing since it is my first offense and I have only been working for the company for eight days? And why does upper management have a say on the decision to fire me when they have no idea what happened since they weren’t involved with the situation?”

            “Your position has been terminated. Thank you for your time with O’Hanigans. If you do not leave the restaurant property immediately I will alert our team of security guards to escort you to the nearest exit.”

            I place my clock-in card and food handler’s permit in the hands of my former manager and step out of the restaurant for the final time. Although I do not realize it in the moment, my former O’Hanigans manager has just pushed the first domino in my new, thrilling life.

            While I had pledged to myself that my days of being destructive to others were over, I knock over a few garden planters on my last walk out of this dreadful sham of an Irish eatery and pub. I glower at the magnificent portrait of the Notre Dame Fighting Irish leprechaun mascot as I had every day coming to and leaving a shift as waiter at O’Hanigans, the worst place on the face of the earth. Calmly, as an act of passive protest against big corporations, I smear my fingers covered in vegetable oil from the onion rings on the face of the poor, defenseless leprechaun.

            I prepare myself for the grand finale and ultimate demonstration against the management of O’Hanigans, the sorry excuse for a business that made the mistake of firing Stan Moss. As I walk through the tables on the outdoor patio, I notice the Tiki Torches have been freshly lit. A brilliant idea hops into my mind as an imaginary light bulb sparkles brightly above my freshly trimmed head of hair.

My attention is drawn to the mountain of garlic fries at the two top next to the fire pit. Without a grain of consideration, I smash my greasy palm into the appetizer dish as if searching for a needle in a haystack. The horrified couple who had been enjoying a romantic fireside meal of garlic fries mere seconds ago does not know how to react in the first instant of confusion. With an instinctive act of bravado, the man swats the fistful of garlic fries out of my grasp in an attempt to protect his lady from the potential dangers of calories from fat and too much seasoning.  

The spider web of garlic fries soars miraculously directly into a Tiki Torch, flames already soaring high. Somehow the handful of fries is not only ignited by the blaze, it also carries its momentum and continues to carve through the evening air like a base jumper. Unfortunately for the mother of four whose attention had been diverted by her youngest child’s inability to eat spaghetti with his hands, the flaming fistful of fries flies unswervingly into her bird’s nest of hair.

“Get it off me!” The poor mother shrieks into the clouds as if to question why the gods had bequeathed her with such prodigious capabilities to produce offspring.

Not knowing what to do in this moment of pandemonium, I swipe at her ignited mane while apologizing for ever crossing paths with her. The fire begins to die down as her emotions start to flare up.

“How dare you do something like this to me in front of my family?” The poor lady screams as her freshly crisped hair hangs over her face.

Her sheepish husband continues to sit in the middle of the table, flanked by his two young daughters, as he is either too afraid to confront me or too beaten down by life to care. My former O’Hanigans manager has made her way out to the patio area along with the team of security guards she had previously warned me about. I figure I could beat two of the three in a fight but the guy on her right does not look like he messes around. He has impressively bright red hair, shaved to his skull on the sides and a few inches long on top, as well as a sleeve of nautical themed tattoos covering his left arm. He’s wearing an expensive looking Rolex watch on his right wrist which seems like too nice of an accessory for someone whose job is to bash people’s faces in.    

“It was an accident and I was going to apologize for my clumsiness but now I don’t feel like this is warranted.” I say stand-offishly, as if I am unaware of the team of goons that is praying for the chance to pounce.

“That’s it everyone stop this nonsense right now!” My former manager yelps at the top of her lungs, silencing the courtyard.

Seeing this as my chance to break free, I grab some breadsticks and go in for the kill. You have to understand, O’Hanigans doesn’t have just any run of the mill breadsticks. These breadsticks are lethal, the size of Olympic batons or universal remotes. If you were pulled over by a police officer and asked if you had any weapons in the car, you would legally be required to notify him of any leftover breadsticks from O’Hanigans you were taking home. A single order of breadsticks from O’Hanigans could feed a small family of brush animals for several weeks. And it’s not just the breadsticks; they also come with a platter of dipping sauces fit for a king. Queso dip so cheesy, stone ground mustard so stony, salsa so spicy it came straight from the festival-strewn streets of Mexico City. You should be ashamed if you have not appreciated the luxurious assortment of dipping sauces that accommodate the breadsticks that could double for a diving toy at a pool party.

Anyway I grab a pair of breadsticks, one adorning each hand, and face my maker, or my former manager, and her team of security assailants. First I wisely dip the right breadstick in queso and whip it at the weakest security guard. He falls in a heap of cheese, delicious appetizer and misplaced sense of purpose in life. Having taken down one third of the O’Hanigans security squad, my confidence is going through the roof. I take the second breadstick, this one in my left hand, and let it swim in stone ground mustard until it cannot breath. Then I take the newly minted breadstick and slap it across the face of the second weak security guard. I can see the poor schmuck asking himself if he spent eighteen months of his beloved weekends at security training school to be slapped in the face by a grain product. I almost feel sorry for him as he slouches to the cement, but not before accidentally or perhaps purposely, planting his face in an untouched plate of lasagna.

Now for the final showdown; it’s the matchup against the boss at the end of the level before you save the princess. The redheaded, Rolex-wearing massive man is standing between me and the exit to this godforsaken place forever. Figuring the only way I can possibly defeat an ogre like this is through shear wit, I pull one of the oldest moves in the book.

“What is that?” I utter quietly, under my breath with a look of horror on my face as I point to the opposite corner of the outdoor patio area.

The redhead, being the gullible goof that most security guards are, takes the bait like an unsuspecting halibut snatching a seemingly free worm.  

Right when the security goon turns his big red head, I see my moment to shine. Without looking, I grab a handful of lettuce and chicken from a massive Cobb salad on the three top to my left. In one fell swoop, I pluck a bottle of hot sauce from the center of the table and begin moving aggressively towards the redhead, who is still not looking.

“Watch out!” My former manager screams from her safe position on the sideline, obviously not wanting to dirty her hands in this mess. But it’s too late for the O’Hanigans management and their redhead security goon, at least when it comes to Stan Moss.

I lob a handful of Cobb salad into the grill of the security beast and douse him with hot sauce. With my former manager uncontrollably losing her mind in the background and a possibly blinded mountain of a man writhing in pain on the ground, I scurry off the property of O’Hanigans for the last time ever or so I hope.