Higher Ups

Customer service is not the only hassle being dealt with on a daily basis in an apron-wearing environment -- as I've said in the past, pretty much any job that involves an apron also involves manual labor. There are, however, other factors to consider.

The Powers That Be, to be precise.

Every job (whether it involve an apron or not) has its Head Honchos. There is always someone to answer to.

My last position, i.e. Sandwich Artist at Substandard, was not your typical customer service job. Yes, I made sandwiches for the public, but I did not work for a franchise store. The store for which I worked was family owned, and by family I mean a husband and wife. Because I worked there for more years than I care to admit, I was often asked if I was their son. "Hell no," was often my how-dare-you-even-assume-that answer.

Wife, a tall and intimidating woman with tightly coiffed hair and a scowl that could singe your flesh, was too involved in paying attention to small details than paying attention to the bigger, more important ones. For example, she might tuck the tag of my shirt back in its collar but completely miss the fact that my collar was becoming tattered (a far more unsightly image than a rebellious collar tag, but new work shirts meant she'd have to spend money on something other than hair appointments and kitchy knick-knacks).

On more than one occasion Wife asked me why I was growing a beard. "It doesn't look very neat," she'd say officiously, but would try to not sound officious, which made it all the worse.

After a number of years I learned to agree with her. It didn't matter that I could point out her husband, not five feet away from us, had a beard and a blossoming mullet. Talk about unsightly. "He's different," she'd probably say. What that would translate to was "You're my employee, not my husband."

Wife was always particular about the aprons. Always. They were flap aprons, the basic type, the kind that tied around the waist and hung in front of your delicates. Shirts had to be tucked in and the aprons had to be clearly displayed. The name of the business, afterall, was jauntily embroidered on the bottom right hand corner of each.

"Your apron is on backwards," Wife said to me one day when I arrived for work. I hadn't even clocked in yet. Heck, I hadn't even blinked.

I looked down at it. My emerald-green apron was, in fact, inside out. "Oh well," I said and breezed past her.

"Aren't you going to fix it?" she said. This was not really a question, but rather an thinly disguised demand, a talent Wife had carefully honed over the years.

"What's the big deal?" I said. "It's just going to get dirty anyway."

"Customers can't see our business name," she said.

"You mean the same business name that's right here on my shirt? The one on the front door? The one on the sneeze guard? The one on all the take-out menus?"

Wife said, "It's my business, and my apron, and if I want customers to see it then I should have that right."

Good God. I should have known better; sometimes I forgot the soapbox she carried around could be unfolded in a heartbeat.

I could have just agreed (as I've said, I learned to do that early), but I didn't see the problem. It's not like I had my underwear on the outside of my pants. "No one will notice."

"Please just fix it," she said. "It just doens't look good."

It just doesn't look good, she says. This from a woman who once taught me to, "put the good avocado over the old avocado, that way the customer won't see it and I'm not forced to throw away product."

I sighed, undid my apron, and fixed it. "Thank you," Wife said, proud of herself.

I suppose, in the end, Wife was right in her convictions; an hour into the lunch rush, when Wife was busying herself about the register, an observant customer said to her, quite pointedly, "Your apron is on inside out."

If there were a name for the color of red she suddenly turned, I couldn't tell you what it is. Shameful Scarlet? Eat-Crow Crimson?

"Hmph," I said a moment later, "you were right, Wife. I guess customers do notice. How about that."