The Task To Become A Man

FRIDAY
I can't believe they're bringing Bob back. The worst manager in Steak and Bake history has been brought out of retirement because Sam "wasn't cutting it." All too soon, I am going to cross this parking lot, walk into this shithole restaurant, change in our vermin-infested locker room and walk out to see that balding buffoon that doesn't deserve the title of "Restaurant Manager" (and that's not really saying much). I decided to sit out here and savor my last few moments of freedom. The dashboard clock read 8:47. I flipped open my lighter and grabbed a cigarette, preparing to suck ash.
 
And just as the warm embrace of nicotine tucked me into the bed I slept as a child, I was awakened by a terrible noise. Bob's '87 Toyota Camery's chainsaw motor came screeching into earshot. I looked up to the heavens and prayed for an accident. My wish was not granted.
 
In his two months off, Bob had not taken up regular use of Rogaine. He also had not improved his posture as he crocheted to the front door in his lower case r style. I was the only car in the lot besides his. He didn't even bother to look at me though. As if I didn't exist. As if "Customer Relations Associate" meant nothing. And even though you and I both know it doesn't, it's his job to pretend that it does. And as soon as he got done hocking a loogie onto the sidewalk (which he did every day before opening Steak and Bake) I would walk out of this car and pretend to wish him a good morning.
 
I tapped my cigarette on the tip of my open window and gritted my teeth, feeling the gray hair tickle my gums.
 
"Good morning, Bob!" I greeted. "Good morning Peter." He said quietly, as a formality. He had his face practically smashed against the clipboard he was reading. I grabbed walkie-talkie (which we never used) and barrel out of there before I had to listen to him any longer.
 
As I walked out of the break-room, I saw Sam arrive. The time was 8:55 AM. As the store owner, this was unbecoming of him. He usually got here at 8:50 sharp every day. Something was up.
 
"Sam, what's going on? Why is he here again?" I asked, forgetting to greet him.
"Good morning to you too, Peter." Sam said, offering a weak smile. He looked dejected. Weak. I couldn't believe that corporate decided to fire Sam an dbring back the same guy that they had gotten rid of just months prior.
"Well, Peter... I guess I just can't do it all." He sighed, "I wanted to run the place and manage... you know, balance this bureaucratic bullshit with some real human-to-human interaction... but it looks like I'm stuck here."
I sighed, "Sam, why did they hire Bob again?"
"Bob got results. They know that he was a pain to work with for the crew, but sales numbers matter more than morale. They didn't want to take a risk hiring anyone new or promoting someone else. They wanted a sure thing."
 
"Wait... who were they thinking of promoting?" I asked, more anxious than curious.
"I really shouldn't say..."
"Was it someone who's been working here for 8 years?"
"Peter..."
"Someone who has never left this company no matter how many permanent grease burns I've suffered... someone who chose meager compensation over a steady sex life?"
"Look Peter... yes, your name did come up." Said Sam.
 
"Whoo!" I cheered triumphantly, forgetting that I would not get the job.
"Don't tell them I told you this, okay? Look, they told me that they were considering you but that they needed proof that you would lead the other workers in both a positive and effective way. I didn't have any proof of that, so we had no choice but to go with Bob's more effective style. Besides, they couldn't being in someone unexperienced to handle Staek Saturday..."
 
Steak Sunday, by the way is what I think Hell feels like. It's hot enough, loud enough and smelly enough that I actually begin to believe that I have died and am serving an eternity-long sentence with the troublemaker downstairs. Anyways, back to Steak Sunday... SnB has a little shindig every 2nd Saturday of the month where you buy two steaks and you get one free. It's two impending  heart-failures for the price of one.
 
I scratched the back of my head, letting all this information Sam drilled into me sink into my skull. I don't remember the rest of that conversation, but it doesn't matter. Nothing else that happened that day mattered except for the moment when I hatched an idea. A terrible idea. A terribly, terribly brilliant idea.
 
SATURDAY
"Welcome back, Bob!" I cheered at my self-arranged "Welcome Back, Bob Party." You might be wondering why I threw this party for someone I clearly despise.
 
"Gee, thanks everyone," Bob muttered, not wanting to be there anymore than any of us. Clearly he still resented all of us for reporting him to corporate so much.
 
"Now since it's the end of your shift, we thought we'd give you a little gift to officially welcome you back!" I announced, peppering this statement with the occasional obnoxious, teethy grin. I set a box with blue dinosaur themed wrapping paper on the table. Under that wrapping paper was Bob's favorite cereal "Wheaties" with an extra helping of some sprinkles of Hepicap and Night-Time Tylenol.

SUNDAY
“Guys, it's 9AM where the Hell is Bob?!” Sam shouted to a crew of about 15 or so assembled, pasty, zitty teens (this did not include me, of course. I have the complexion of a twelve year old Hawaiian and have impeccable hyigene). We open at 11AM on Sundays to accommodate the churchgoing sect of our “client-base” (as they called it on our first day) but we had to spend two hours making sure the store is ready for the rampaging crowd of ungrateful, hungry customers that would be heading our way soon.

“Oh man, oh man...” Sam muttered as he paced the hallways back and forth, back and forth. He had the rhythm of a grand-daddy clock. Everyone else was frantic and confused in their own quiet, timid way... that is, except for me. Today was gonna be my day to shine and earn that seal of approval from corporate. The seal that read "Management Material."