The Saturday Night Massacre Walkout
Gordy, the head busboy at Locante’s, was furious at the restaurant manager one night. I don’t even remember what his grievance was all about. Whatever it was, it didn’t really affect me. But, we’d become friends, so I heard him out.
Gordy was really fuming and ready to walk right off the job. Tony came into the kitchen, heard him venting to me and one of the waitresses, asked what was up, and Gordy laid it all out to Tony . He asked Gordy, “So, what are you going to do about it, Gordo?”
“I’m done with this goddamn place, and that Frank (the manager)! I’m leaving. They can take this job and…” as he flung his busboy jacket in the hamper in disgust.
Tony said, “Now, hold on there, Gordo — let’s think about this. Why leave now? It’s a Thursday night, not too busy out there. Leaving now won’t have any impact on them. None at all. You want to make them hurt a little more? Leave in the middle of the dinner rush on Saturday night. That’ll really make them feel the pain!” he laughed.
The hint of a smile started cracking Gordy’s angry face, then grew into a broad grin, which fired up a glint in his eyes. He liked that idea, alright — in fact, he quickly decided to take it a step further and organize a mass Saturday Night walkout.
He looked over at me — oh, no, not me — I ain’t doing anything that crazy! I like this job. “Come on, Pete, what are you — a pussy, or a man?” I was a young man employed, and wanted to stay that way!
Tony decided he was tired of working there — he’d been there for 4 years, since he was 15, like me. Then, Juanita, one of the top waitresses, decided to join the planned “walkout” — then, Jake, the bartender, got on board. Kent, another busboy, said he was done with this place, too. All the people I most respected and looked up to in the joint were talking about joining Gordy in a “Saturday Night Massacre Walkout”. It took on legendary proportions, long before it even happened.
Before I knew it, I was swept up in an excitement beyond words that kept brewing to a fever pitch, as everyone spoke about it in hushed conspiratorial whispers all around the kitchen and the dining room the rest of that night, and Friday night all through the dinner rush.
I felt torn between my loyalty to the restaurant, for providing me employment when no one else would, giving me a job I loved and that gave me sustenance, and my friends. I, of course, would make the easy, but wrong, decision on which course of action to take. Typical of me, then.
I was scheduled to work Saturday night, and started to feel like staying and working would almost be like crossing a picket line. Gordy told me his mom worked at the Red Bull Inn over in Dormont, and she was going to get them to hire him on, there. “If you want to walk with us, I’ll see if she can get them to hire you, as well. They’re a much larger, classier restaurant, and need a lot more busboys than this little hole-in-the-wall dump does. Come on, Pete — why don’t you come with us? It’ll be fun, man!”
I was still reluctant to do it. Why should I walk? With Tony, Gordy and Kent all leaving, I might even get promoted to head busboy if I stayed. On the other hand, I didn’t much feel like being the one left behind to clean the whole shootin’ mess up after they flew the coop in their planned coup. A part of me wondered if this wasn’t all just a bunch of phony drama, and when push came to shove on Saturday night, they all wouldn’t wind up staying.
I was hoping against hope that would be the case. It was busier than the usual Saturday night dinner rush. The place was packed, and there was a line out the door. “They’re not going to do it, no way”, I thought.
Then, somebody did or said something to really piss Gordy off, and he stormed into the kitchen saying, “That’s it — I’m done! Who’s with me? Tony? Pete? Kent? Let’s go!” And, without another thought, I decided then and there to go with them. There were six of us in total who actually did it, us four busboys, Juanita the waitress and Jake the bartender.
We all walked in a single file out to the bar, which curved around towards the manager’s office, where Frank the manager was sitting, working on the books in there. My heart was beating like crazy, my excitement level off the charts. I couldn’t believe I was really doing this— but, there was no backing out now! One by one, we walked into his office, took off our jackets, and said, “Frank — I quit”, handing Frank Locante our busboy jackets. It was wildly exhilarating!
We all drove out to the bowling alley by South Hills Village and went bowling, shot some pool, drank a lot of beer, and had a glorious night, talking and laughing about the look on Frank’s face when each of us handed him our jackets and told him we quit. We had a grand celebration, as we all got shit-faced, in all our rebellious glory.
The next day, I found myself right back where I’d been before I’d gotten that job. No income, no money to spend, wondering what the hell I’d been thinking the night before! It goes without saying that Dad was beside himself over my complete lunacy, but then, he never had a good thing to say when I did anything right, so I stopped giving a rat’s ass what he thought or had to say about how I was living my life. If I was going to be a f***up, at least I was going to have fun while I was at it. My motto became, “F*** him if he can’t take a joke”!
Of course, the job at the Red Bull Inn never panned out. Gordy’s mom got him in, but they didn’t need any more busboys at the time, so I was shit out of luck. I was screwed!
After a couple of weeks wallowing in my newfound poverty, I even sucked up my pride and went back down to Frank Locante to beg his forgiveness, and my job back. Talk about humiliation! I had heard that they took Kent back. I didn’t have any personal beefs with Frank or his management style, I’d just stupidly gotten swept up in Gordy’s moment of rage.
Frank just glared at me, and quietly said, “Get the hell out of my restaurant! I gave you a good job, and THIS is how you repaid me. See that door? Don’t let it hit you on your way out! I’m really disappointed in you, Pete.” Gone was the wild exhilaration of the night of the walkout. I got to see the impact of my actions on the person they were perpetrated against, and I didn’t like what I saw. How stupid could I have been?
After moping around for about a month, my brother Brian, who also must have thought I’d been a complete lunatic to do what I did, took pity and helped me get a job at the Big Boy Eat’N’Park in Dormont, where he had worked for a long time, and where his girl friend still did. They hired me on as a grill cook. I was back in business!
Originally published at cowbird.com.
