The Apron

The sweat is pouring down from my forehead and my T-shirt is wet with it. I stand in the kitchen of an Italian restaurant in my home town, loading dirty dishes into large plastic trays and running them through an industrial dishwasher. The kitchen is already hot from the stoves and ovens, but even hotter around the steamy dishwasher which is where I am stationed for this crappy job. At 17, this type of work is among the little available for young, unskilled labor like myself. It’s not my first rodeo, I’ve had a few of these gigs before, but I have to say, this is the worst I’ve had yet.

The name of my boss is Tony and he looks pretty much like Tony Soprano from the TV show about gangsters. Can you believe that? What are the odds? Well not totally alike, there are a few differences like my boss weighs more and doesn’t speak English nearly as well as the television character does. My Tony actually has a thick Italian accent and a temper he’s demonstrated on others a few times. Due to my stereotype of Italian restaurant owners and gangsters, I have this unreasonable fear that if I push him too far, I might end up in a New Jersey landfill. My co-workers are not too friendly and I feel like an unwelcome outsider from the start of my employment. I am not a happy camper to say the least, but the worst thing is the apron.

On my first work day, Tony was away meeting a supplier, so he had his head cook, Henry, show me the lay of the land. Henry walked me through the kitchen to familiarize me with the machines and routines of my not so prestigious dishwashing job. After the walk thorough, he handed me a plastic apron and I started work. The first day was pretty busy and I hardly got a break at all. A constant stream of dishes, pots, pans, and silverware that had to be cleaned and then put away. The cheap plastic apron was confining and made me feel hotter than it already was in that kitchen from hell. I was the only one in the kitchen wearing a plastic apron, as the cooks all had cloth aprons which seemed less ridiculous looking and much cooler to wear. At some point I saw some washed and folded cloth aprons in a stack in the break room and took one. Untying my plastic inferno of an apron, I exchanged it for the cool fabric of the cloth apron. From hell to heaven in a few seconds, the feeling was amazing. I return to my work refreshed with a new bounce in my step, thinking maybe this job isn’t so bad now that my plastic nightmare is over. My first shift is almost over and none of the cooks seem to notice or care that I am now garbed just like them. When I’m done for the day, I put my used cloth apron in the bin with the used towels and other aprons to be cleaned and head for home. I survived my first day on the job.

So, when I show up for work today, I’m thinking problem solved and grab a clean cloth apron for myself. About an hour after starting, Tony arrives in the kitchen. I can tell he’s unhappy right away.

“What’s going on? Where’s your plastic apron? Didn’t my cook tell you to wear one?”

I’m a little taken aback by his questions, but try to defuse things. “Sorry, Henry handed me a plastic apron but I didn’t know it was required.”

“You need to change in to it now. The cloth is only for the cooks. Dishwashers wear plastic.”

“Is there a reason? It is awfully hot in that plastic apron and it restricts my movement as well.”

Tony’s face reddens. He’s angry that I’m questioning him. His voice gets louder. “Dishwashers wear plastic!” He points to the break room. “Go, change now!” Then he storms off.

I’m pissed off. Humiliated that everyone in the kitchen heard me being dressed down. But I need the job and swallow what’s left of my pride. Dishwashers can’t have much pride anyway, can they?

I head to the break room, take off the cloth and don the plastic torture device before heading back. The dishwasher is steaming and so am I. Getting hotter and hotter as my anger rises at my vinyl humiliation visible for all to see. I’m using every cuss word I know in my mind, thinking of all the horrible things I’d like to do to Tony. But it all feels so impotent. There’s nothing I can really do but quit. Is the humiliation of the plastic apron worth this job? Then there is the money I’d lose in quitting.

Finally, I think. I’ll just wear no apron. What’s the harm in that? They are my clothes and if I’m willing to get them dirty, what business is that of Tony’s anyway. Why should he care?

I take off my torture device as I’m standing at the dishwasher and place it off to the side while I continue to do my menial work. I’m in the full view of all the other kitchen staff who seem in shock at first but quickly return to their duties. I guess no one else had ever dared to defy gangster Tony in his own territory. So. I’m working away, sweating much less, and feeling pretty good when the inevitable happens. Tony returns.

“Why you not wearing apron?” I hear the angry voice from behind me in his thick Old World accent.

I turn, and see his fat red face twisted in a deadly looking expression of disdain. I’m starting to feel a little fear. What is this guy capable of anyway?

“The apron is too hot so I’ll just risk getting my street clothes dirty. There shouldn’t be a problem. They are my clothes and I don’t mind.” I say in a somewhat shaky voice. The guy outweighs me by a whole bunch of pounds and looks like he has put a few people in an early grave.

“Here, you wear apron or don’t work here.” He is almost shouting while waving my discarded apron in his hand. It looks like the blood vessels in his forehead are going to pop.

“That’s just fine. I hate this place. I quit.” I’m yelling back at him as I start to walk away.

“You can’t quit. I fire you.” He’s yelling at me as I walk toward the back kitchen door of the restaurant.

I reach the door, and make sure it’s open before giving him my final salvo. “I quit, you can’t fire me, you motherfucker!” Then I run through the door and keep running. I can at least out run the fatso. The running continues until I am well away and make sure there is no car following me. Then I walk the distance back to my parents’ house thanking God I had them drop me off this morning and not had to leave a vehicle behind.

Getting home, I tell the parents I had gotten off early because there weren’t that many customers. I’ll deal with telling them the truth later. I just want to calm down and hide out for now. It’s not till a few hours later when my mom calls to me to say there is someone at the door for me. I ask her who and she says it’s a large man who says he’s my boss. Now I’m really scared, but what’s he going to do? Kill me in my own house in front of my parents? So, I put my courage on the sticking point and head to the open front door and there he is in all his gangster glory.

He’s holding a closed paper bag which he hands to me. I have no idea what’s inside. It’s not heavy enough to be a bomb or a severed human head as a warning. So I take it, wondering what’s inside.

“You left this.” That’s all he says before turning and walking away. No yelling. No threats. No gun drawn and no blood on my parent’s front porch. Just a bag, which I carefully open. Inside is my plastic apron and a check for my day and a half of work at minimum wage.