One
Monroe
HEAD RETENTION: A beer’s ability to maintain its foam head for a measurable amount of time before collapse
“I’m really sorry,Kayla, but we’re going to have to let you go.”
I try not to wince as I watch my employee’s face crumple like a failed soufflé.
“We’ve really loved having you here,” I continue, feeling like I’m making a pathetic it’s-not-you-it’s-me speech to a soon to be ex-boyfriend. Letting staff members go is ten times harder than any breakup I’ve ever been through—and no, I’m not going to reflect on what that says about my past relationships. “You’ve been an awesome employee, and this was a really hard decision to make. Sales just aren’t high enough for me to keep this many staff members now that the holidays are over, and you’re our newest hire. I promise I wouldn’t be doing this unless I had to.”
Kayla bobs her head and swallows. I hope she’s not about to cry. If she cries, I’m totally going to give her the job back, or at least send her home with a bottle of whiskey this bar can’t afford to part with anymore than it can afford to keep paying her.
“Your official last day will be two weeks from now, but if you have to leave earlier, that’s completely fine.” I’m giving the two weeks as a courtesy, but even that’s pushing the limits of our finances. I rifle through the papers on my cluttered excuse for a desk and hand her one tucked into an envelope. “I got this ready for you. It’s a reference letter, and you can feel free to give my name and the bar’s number to anyone you apply with. If you want, I can pass your name onto some other managers.”
Please take the hint, Kayla. Please don’t make me admit that not even angelic cherubs sent from on high could pull two weeks’ pay for you out of their asses if they descended on this bar right now.
She manages a thin smile as she accepts the envelope. “That would be great, actually, and I understand why you have to let me go.”
I smile back at her. “Like I said, I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t my last resort.”
She gets up off the stool I keep in here for the rare occasions I need to a have a sit down chat with my employees and pauses at the door.
“I just want to say that I’ve really liked working here. You’re the first boss I’ve ever had that I’ve actually, um, liked.” Her cheeks go pink. “Is that unprofessional? I didn’t mean to talk shit about my other bosses. Oh damn, I just said ‘shit.’ I’m sorry. I’m fucking this up. Oh, shit! I said fuck. Wait, I mean—”
She cuts herself off and clamps a hand over her mouth, blushing harder by the minute.
“This is not a PG rated institution, Kayla,” I inform her with a laugh. “You don’t have to apologize for dropping accidental F-bombs around me, especially when you’ve just lost your job. Honestly, I think that’s theleastprofanity I’ve ever encountered when letting someone go.”
She lets out a nervous giggle and drops her hand from her mouth.
“Have a good night, Kayla.”
“Thanks, Monroe. You too.”
She gingerly closes the door to my office—if you can even call this converted broom closet an office—and I slouch back in my chair before letting out a sigh. I hate firing people. In my opinion, it’s the worst part of being a manager. I could complain about the long hours, the never ending scheduling conflicts, or the customers who make the dreaded demand of, ‘I want to speak to the manager,’ but I’ve always seen that as part of the job description. The disappointment of people who’ve trusted, admired, and worked hard for me—just not quite hard enough, or in Kayla’s case, just not at the right time—is never easy enough to pass off as ‘part of the job.’ Those crestfallen faces haunt me like the Ghost of Christmas Past.
I’ve been reading too many Victorian novels lately, I tell myself as I imagine Jacob Marley floating through the door to rattle his chains at me and tell me off for sending a poor, helpless girl out into the cold.
Kayla is neither poor nor helpless. She’s a university student who works part time to afford a social life, and in all likelihood, she’ll have another job by the end of the week.
I still feel bad.
I start shifting through the papers on my desk to sort out what I need to take home with me tonight. The storage closet I managed to shove a chair and tiny desk into doesn’t have room for a filing cabinet, so my office always looks like an explosion of stationary supplies. I have a few baskets and folders to try to keep things in check, but my shifts here are usually a mad dash between the front of house, back of house, delivery door, and whatever last-minute manager errands I need to run. I periodically poke my head in here to toss receipts inside and let them land where they may. Cleaning up is a futile effort.
I’ve just about got my things packed when the door gets thrown open so hard it bangs against the drywall.
“Esti de câlice de tabarnak, it’s dead in here tonight!” exclaims a very loud Québécois accent as the girl emitting it yanks the stool out from where Kayla set it aside and plops herself down. “Comment ?a va avec toi, putain?”
In contrast to Kayla, DeeDee doesn’t show any qualms over tossing out half the expletives in the French Canadian dialect before asking me the equivalent of, ‘What’s up, you whore?’
In fact, nearly everything about DeeDee is a direct contrast to Kayla. The term ‘shame’ is a foreign concept to her; the only thing about DeeDee that’s ever turned pink is the current bubblegum shade of her hair. She’s the kind of person who’d show up at a funeral with a case of vodka coolers and a piñata in an effort to ‘liven things up.’ While she’s not the friend who’ll sit and cry with you over your ex, sheisthe friend who’ll pull your head out of your bag of Cheetos, make you put something pretty on, and whisk you away to the kind of night where you’re eating pancakes at 3AM and at least one of you has lost a shoe somewhere.
If Kayla has a sunny disposition, then DeeDee is goddamned solar flare.
She’s also an excellent bartender and professional party starter, but not even her spontaneous dance routines on the bar have been enough to up our income lately.
“I just let Kayla go,” I announce.
