The Malingering Series #4

Socrates was too ethical for me, I guess.

It was 2007. Fresh and young, April to be exact.

I was finishing up my sophomore year at University of Texas and had a job, bus boy, at Joe's Crab Shack. It's a likable place. I had put my two week notice in a few days earlier, which I had gotten grief for, mainly because I was the only bus boy still working there. It's not that it was an entirely awful job, but most of the kids that came in to interview and go through the training for the job, were in high school, motivated to make money while doing as little as possible. I was motivated for other reasons. We won't get into them here, this is a family site.

When I get to work, I check the schedule for the upcoming week as I usually do. I scan down the list to the 'Busser' section, occupied solely by my name, with a time under every day. I gasp. I groan. I throw a mental fit the likes of which surely should have worried me a little, but as I stand at this schedule, I plot. I run through scenarios for an escape plan for the rest of the week, including the one I had used only a few months before; it involved a 'sudden move to Arizona'. I didn't know at the time if I would actually be going there, but it seemed like a place far enough away that they wouldn't come looking for me at another establishment. I think of going back to Houston, or at least saying that I was going back to Houston, like I had done a few semesters before in a math class to get an extension on an exam. None of these seemed adequate for a group of people that had come to know me pretty well over the months I've been here. I move away from the schedule towards the break room. Everyone is in here. The store hasn't started to pick up at this point, so there is not a lot to do. It's always nice on these days.

But, I am still angry about the scheduling and continue to look for a plan to get out of this weeks schedule. First off, I should have never told them I was done with finals. That would have been the good thing to do. But, then I tell them that I am quitting within the next week and a half, so naturally, I should have also expected my schedule to be very hectic. I think I saw some doubles in there. I sit down at one of the empty tables and put my head down, thinking intently on breaking free from the playground sweeping chains, the waves capping off of a freshly wiped table, and the noise pollution that is the American consumer.

"Hey Josh, you doin' alright?"

Before I bring my head back up, he gives me a great idea. In fact, the most difficult acting job I've ever had to pull off in my life, but a challenge I am excited to meet.

"Actually..." I stutter, "I think I might be pretty... low," I gasp, and choke on the words.

"Can I get you something?? Maybe a Coke or Sprite or something?"

"Coke..." I say in between heavy gasps for air, "No Sprite."

"Alright there, hang in there. I'll be right back."

He moves away, and I can feel the plan unfolding right on top of my coddled head. My minor display had attracted attention and the waiters were moving towards me, as well as the other managers. I sense their movement and lift my head, slowly and showing great strain. I motion to stand and the group collectively tries to will me back into the seat, with "Hey nows!" and "Don't you think you should be sitting?" and other things of that sort in a mish-mash of sounds. I hold myself upright on the table, and look up to them, motioning with my arm for them to move away, saying, "I can do this. I just need to stand and get that Coke."

And as I break free, I count to four, and collapse to the floor. I lay motionless for a second before raising my head to someone asking, "Should we call 911?"

"No, no, it's fine. There's no need for that. I just need to call my friend to pick me up. I'll be fine if I go take care of myself."

A few people nod and one asks me for my friends number. They call and fifteen minutes later he arrives.

While waiting, I sit at the table with my head in my hands, groaning every once in a while, and sipping the Coke in front of me. I would need to do insulin when I got home. When my friend does get there, a few of my co-workers hoist me up from the seat, and carry me on their shoulders out the door to the parking lot. I thank them and get in the car. I explain the situation to my friends and they laugh their usual laugh and take me home. For the next few days, the Shack called me to see if I would be able to make it into work that day. I told them, each time they called me, that I was still having lingering effects from the case of severe hypoglycemia. Eventually I did go back in, but I took my time. I may have worked the last two days of the week.