As my seemingly fruitless quest for a career moves along at a snail’s pace, I often worry that my best working days are behind me. Sure, it’s a pessimistic mindset to embrace, but at least it’s grounded in reality.
It’s hard out there for a pimp; it’s even harder for a comedy writer, and still hardest for pimps who moonlight as improv performers. With my collegiate clock ticking away and a payday nowhere in site, I take solace in remembering the best job I’ve ever had.
I was a mix-master at Cold Stone Creamery.
The gig itself wasn’t enough to be worthy of the “best” title, but late in my junior year of high school, the stars aligned. Cold Stone franchises were popping up left and right, and when one opened near my town, my three best friends and I jumped on the opportunity to work together.
Soon after we were hired, the owner of our store found himself tied up in a messy divorce, which kept him from being in tune with day-to-day happenings. We took full advantage. It also didn’t hurt that our shift manager was the most incompetent 30-year-old man I have ever met.
When he wasn’t accidentally shaking his dandruff into the ice cream, he was on the phone with his girlfriend, whom he’d met in an online poker game and had yet to see in person.
To his credit, he was on the brink of landing a major promotion as the night shift manager at a Taco Bell. Needless to say, he had little control over us.
While I have countless stories from my tenure at the ‘Stone, there is one that by far and away trumps anything else that has ever happened at any Cold Stone location in the history of the ice cream chain.
It was a Saturday morning in late May. My buddies and I were prepping for some girl’s seventh birthday party. Her parents rented out the joint and they were expecting a crowd of about 25 friends and family members. The shindig was set to begin at 1 p.m., so at noon we definitely didn’t lock the doors and didn’t smoke a joint in the freezer.
Everything was going smoothly. The birthday girl was happy, her parents were nice enough and we were raking in some pretty solid tips. Then, our manager showed up, having just received word that he got the position at Taco Bell, and he was ecstatic.
He whipped out his laptop, plugged it into the house speakers and starting blasting Meatloaf’s “Bat Out of Hell” in celebration. An odd choice for a 7-year-old girl’s birthday party, but hey, he was the boss.
The birthday girl was just about to start opening presents when out of nowhere, Meatloaf cut out and Window’s Media Player cued up a video, home to an exchange that went something like this:
“Hey, you must be the plumber.”
“Yeah, want me to show you my pipe?”
I looked up at the patron I was serving. Then, in front of almost two dozen 7-year-olds, the audio from a hardcore porno started blasting, “Oh yeah! Harder! Put it in my ass!”
Like a bat out of hell, our manager came running from his back office, slammed his laptop shut and stared in total shock at the birthday girl’s parents, who were on the verge of tears.
I turned back to my customer and asked, “You said ‘Love It,’ right?”