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The flowerbox

Nijmegen, The Netherlands, September 2003 —

I just decided not to go in to Olympia Grieks Restaurant. I couldn't make myself go. I went to put my shoes on, running a bit late and slow still too. Really depressed and oppressed by the idea of going in and working under mevrouw again. And I mean under. She's nice enough, but then she talks down to me.

She panics when she doesn't like my work. It's just a washup job, and potato-peeling. I don't think it's worth going in tonight, and so I'm not going.

I don't feel great about leaving her like that; but then again, it's a Monday night. She almost practically stepped in and did my work anyhow. Most of the effort I made was peeling and cutting potatoes. I did that, for two evenings in a row, and she had almost two full buckets after last night. I think she'll be okay.

She'll be right about now realizing that maybe I'm not coming in. ... She seems to think of that possibility quickly. Others find her difficult, too, I guess.

She's the lord of that kitchen, and should be. But that doesn't mean that she has to treat employees as peasants. That's no way to get cooperation, when you have little real power.

It's true, that all of this is the same everywhere. It's also true that it's not necessary. I can't tolerate it. I don't normally like to pull a real no-show; that's pretty shitty. All the same, the realization made, there's no time to waste on trying to make it work. The faster out, the better, I think.

It's true, too, that I need to make money.

The rain is falling like a motherf***er. The flowerbox tray is filling with water. One of the plants is in a woven basket, and may need lifting out of the standing water.

—28 September, 2003

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