The greatest incentive from doing the Disney College Program (this is the last time I will mention it, I swear) is not meeting people from all over the world. Nor is it taking a semester off to live in Orlando. It is also not being a pasty white dude from Michigan and finally finding yourself with a fine-ass tan. The greatest incentive, by far, is putting Disney on your resume. It pretty much guarantees you an interview, and when you go into one you know exactly what you will be talking about for the next twenty minutes. Disney. (Okay THAT was the last time. I swear.) Even today, despite the fact that the College Program (you know what, fuck it. I'm not done with it yet) is only briefly mentioned in the "Personal" section of my resume, long ago replaced in "Work Experience" with, you know, relevant experience, the question still comes up every time. It practically assured me employment at most places I ever applied to for some time afterwards. But we're not talking about most of those places just yet. We're just talking about Jamba Juice.
Jamba Juice provided me with many "firsts." It was my first post-Disney job. It was my first job while taking classes in school. It was the first place I worked predominately with overweight black women where I became the victim of reverse racism (twenty years of white guilt thrown out the window right there). How I came across the position is a distant memory now. At this point we can only assume that, for whatever reason, I was walking around the financial district in Downtown Chicago and came across a Jamba Juice, and felt so inclined to inquire if they were hiring - or perhaps I saw an "Accepting Applications" sign in the window. Or maybe I just wanted to work at a Jamba Juice because it seemed fun. I wouldn't put it past myself. Sometimes I get these ideas. To this day I think being a waiter at a sit-down Pizza Hut would be the most awesome job in the world and regret that I have never lived in close enough proximity to one to make that dream happen. Either way. Jamba Juice. That happened.
Hours of operation at Jamba Juice? Rifuckulous. Since most patrons were local business people, we opened our doors at 6am. 6am! 6am is for coffee and donuts. Or sleeping in. Or designer drugs necessary to get you through the day. 6 am is NOT for smoothies. Especially in Chicago in the Fall. I indiscriminately hated anyone that entered our store before 9am. I especially hated the ones who got shots of wheat grass. Fuck you for getting up an extra half hour earlier than you needed to just so you could make it to Jamba Juice before work to show a handful of bleary-eyed fellow rat racers how health savvy you are by drinking liquid plant. Wheat grass? Yeah. It tastes like grass. No, I've never straight up taken a handful of grass and eaten it before, because I'm not stupid. Wheat grass cleverly skirts around that issue by being ground up and served at Jamba Juice. Tada! Trendy! Don't get me wrong, I'm not against healthy living. And I'm not against putting whatever the fuck you want into your body, be it heroin, trans fats or immunity boost. I just don't think you need to shove it in people's faces. I HAD to be there at 6am, and here come these douchenuggets at the same time as me, on their own accord. You'd be resentful too. Or...maybe not. Whatever.
As far as coworkers go, I don't remember many names. I remember my manager was Dionne. Okay...so here is where it stands with the Dionne situation. I know I'm good at dancing the fine line between funny observations and flat-out racism, but seeing as how most of what I have to say about Dionne is probably due to nothing more than my self-centeredness and persecution issues, it would behoove me to just state the fact that Dionne hated me, as opposed to my conviction that Dionne hated me because I was white. Because in terms of the former, I have plenty of proof. For instance, there was the buddy system we were meant to follow when taking trash out in the alley after dark. Everybody else was forced to take a buddy, but when I asked why I had to go alone, I was mocked, since apparently walking alone down a dark alley at night in the city is on the same level as walking through Adventureland to get a Dole Whip. (Aaaand there I am with the Disney references again). Also, I was reprimanded for not offering enough bread products to customers. I have a whole little story about the bread fiasco, but really, are you that interested? It's about bread products at Jamba Juice, and it does nothing to prove I was the victim of reverse racism, therefore, why share it?
Jamba Juice provided me with many "firsts." It was my first post-Disney job. It was my first job while taking classes in school. It was the first place I worked predominately with overweight black women where I became the victim of reverse racism (twenty years of white guilt thrown out the window right there). How I came across the position is a distant memory now. At this point we can only assume that, for whatever reason, I was walking around the financial district in Downtown Chicago and came across a Jamba Juice, and felt so inclined to inquire if they were hiring - or perhaps I saw an "Accepting Applications" sign in the window. Or maybe I just wanted to work at a Jamba Juice because it seemed fun. I wouldn't put it past myself. Sometimes I get these ideas. To this day I think being a waiter at a sit-down Pizza Hut would be the most awesome job in the world and regret that I have never lived in close enough proximity to one to make that dream happen. Either way. Jamba Juice. That happened.
Hours of operation at Jamba Juice? Rifuckulous. Since most patrons were local business people, we opened our doors at 6am. 6am! 6am is for coffee and donuts. Or sleeping in. Or designer drugs necessary to get you through the day. 6 am is NOT for smoothies. Especially in Chicago in the Fall. I indiscriminately hated anyone that entered our store before 9am. I especially hated the ones who got shots of wheat grass. Fuck you for getting up an extra half hour earlier than you needed to just so you could make it to Jamba Juice before work to show a handful of bleary-eyed fellow rat racers how health savvy you are by drinking liquid plant. Wheat grass? Yeah. It tastes like grass. No, I've never straight up taken a handful of grass and eaten it before, because I'm not stupid. Wheat grass cleverly skirts around that issue by being ground up and served at Jamba Juice. Tada! Trendy! Don't get me wrong, I'm not against healthy living. And I'm not against putting whatever the fuck you want into your body, be it heroin, trans fats or immunity boost. I just don't think you need to shove it in people's faces. I HAD to be there at 6am, and here come these douchenuggets at the same time as me, on their own accord. You'd be resentful too. Or...maybe not. Whatever.
As far as coworkers go, I don't remember many names. I remember my manager was Dionne. Okay...so here is where it stands with the Dionne situation. I know I'm good at dancing the fine line between funny observations and flat-out racism, but seeing as how most of what I have to say about Dionne is probably due to nothing more than my self-centeredness and persecution issues, it would behoove me to just state the fact that Dionne hated me, as opposed to my conviction that Dionne hated me because I was white. Because in terms of the former, I have plenty of proof. For instance, there was the buddy system we were meant to follow when taking trash out in the alley after dark. Everybody else was forced to take a buddy, but when I asked why I had to go alone, I was mocked, since apparently walking alone down a dark alley at night in the city is on the same level as walking through Adventureland to get a Dole Whip. (Aaaand there I am with the Disney references again). Also, I was reprimanded for not offering enough bread products to customers. I have a whole little story about the bread fiasco, but really, are you that interested? It's about bread products at Jamba Juice, and it does nothing to prove I was the victim of reverse racism, therefore, why share it?
Matty was the assistant manager, and he was gay gay gay. How gay was Matty? Well, let's do the math. Take how gay it is to have people call you "Matty," add the fact that he was assistant manager at a Jamba Juice, and multiply it by how many days a week I came in and he would be blasting Tom Jones throughout the store. That's how gay he was. But he was pretty nice so I won't mock him. Beyond what I already did.
Twigger (another Disney reference. Sweet Jesus that place ruined me) was indirectly responsible for my departure Jamba Juice. For that, I should say... thank you, Twigger. Speaking of Twig, this was actually somewhat of a landmark event, as it was one of the first moderately ridiculous situations we found ourselves in throughout our long and sordid past four years. One day, she came to the city to visit me. I was supposed to get off work at 2pm, but around 1:30 Dionne said I couldn't leave yet because she hadn't taken her lunch. At 2:45 she returned from lunch, only to claim she had to go to the bank and make a deposit. I finally got relieved from my register at 3:45, but...uh-oh! My drawer was twenty dollars over! Hey! Here's a good spot for a tangent!
Why the FUCK do managers at food and retail establishments blow such a gasket when their drawer is over? I get the problem with being under. Money you should have is not there. It sucks. It must be dealt with. But money being over? So the fuck what? You worried you're gonna get audited or something? Just pocket the money and be done with it. No one has to know. Case closed. Way to press the Easy Button.
Dionne was NOT happy about my drawer being over. I was not happy about being kept almost two hours after my shift when I had a friend who had now been walking the streets alone for over two hours. Lucky for all involved, Twigger is used to street walking. I was fairly certain Dionne was ready to fire me. Maybe with good reason. Maybe my attitude of this being the fucking stupidest waste of time job in the world was being perceived by the Jamba Juice staff as a negative thing and I wasn't hiding my disdain as well as I intended. The next day, I got ready for work and hopped on the train. But I couldn't bring myself to get off at the Washington/Wells stop. Cosmic forces more powerful than you could ever imagine held me back and refused to let me go back to Jamba Juice. So...I never did.
Working in Downtown Chicago did have its perks. And by "perks" I mean "fair share of crazy."
One day, a guy and a girl, not older than sixteen, came into the store. The guy ordered a smoothie and said "How long will that be? 10 minutes?" I thought 10 minutes was an odd assumption to make in regards to the time it takes to prepare a smoothie (although I was the one making it so in reality that was an excellent estimate). I corrected/lied to him and said it would be ready in less than two. The guy quickly grabbed the bathroom key and ran to the bathroom. He came back later for his smoothie, which I realized was sitting on the counter for quite some time. He also left the bathroom key locked inside. Pissed off at what an idiot this "it takes ten minutes to make a smoothie" guy turned out to be, I took the spare key and went into the bathroom to see if I could find the original. Not on the sink. Not on the paper towel dispenser. Not in the door. Maybe he threw it out? I looked in the trash and what do I find? Not the key. A used condom. Is that what kids these days are doing for fun? Sneaking into Jamba Juices in the middle of the financial district, getting the key to the bathroom and trying to fuck while their smoothie gets made? Is it a game? Are they trying to cum before their Razzmattaz is ready, like a race? Or maybe they are simply that turned on by the atmosphere. The smells of citrus wafting through the air as "Dancing Queen" played left them with no control of their own urges, forcing them to rush into the unisex and handicapped-accessible bathroom and just fuck. Yeah. Could be.
Then there was the homeless man who came in to apply for a job. Unsure of how to proceed in this situation, we shrugged and pointed him to where the applications were and he went over there and sat down. About 45 minutes later he got up and came over to us and asked where the applications were. We pointed them out once more. This time he got one and sat down to fill it out.
He was there for at least an hour, and he didn't even finish half of the application. Most of the time he didn't write in the correct spaces, and he rarely (if ever) actually answered a question. In fact, most of it was just him writing craziness stuff on the edges.
For "When are you available to start work?" He wrote "I am from Mississippy. I want an easy job. I don't want a girls job."
For availability he wrote that he can only work "for the white man" 4 hours a week, and that "he doesn't have cancer. Just a touch of it."
When it asked if he had a criminal record, he assured us that "There is no record because it doesn't have a record when you kill somebody"
He also wrote in the margin that he does "not smoke mariyajne"
When asked what position he was applying for, he put "get groceries"
For address he put "The corner of Broadway"
When he turned in the application, he asked if he could start working right away. We told him he had to wait and the manager had to see his application first, and that she wasn't in yet. He said he needed a job right quick so he could buy drugs.
Sadly, unpremeditated teen sex and homeless people seeking employment was not enough of a reason for me to continue going in to work. Jamba Juice...I don't miss you. Frankly, I'm surprised I remembered enough to write a whole chapter about you.
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