Anne

Words come to mind:
Feisty. Irreverent. Determined. Caring.

About:
Part British, part Cherokee, part Mormon (Don't piss off my Indian half, damn it.), 67 years old, working her butt off waiting tables, cleaning rooms, keeping us all in line. We were a bad influence on Anne, taking her across the street for drinks or bringing her a big salty dog when she was (finally) done with her shift. Anne was the only employee who could get away with mouthing off to our boss. (He won't yell at me or I'll walk right down this mountain.) Anne had the best stories, the most amazing life, and we loved hanging out with her. Anne was the only Pine Valley resident who went for a motorcycle ride with us. She was a natural on the back of a bike, leaning with the driver in the corners, sitting still but not stiff, making no sudden moves that would disrupt the ride. When it started sprinkling she just laughed at the weather, and when we got back to the Resort, she laughed at all the other employees who were horrified that she'd dare to ride on the back of the bike. At her age. Really. That big old motorcycle.

The scene:
Anne is amazing with customers when she waits tables. She's friendly, chatty, or flirtatious and always seems to know what to do to get the tips. She doesn't always get along with the grumpy cook, probably because she can do his job almost as well as him, and also because she wouldn't take shit from the Great Spirit itself. I need another side of Ranch Dressing, she tells Grumpy Ass, this time in a soup cup or something. Grumpy Ass is notorious for putting a tiny smear of condiments in a tiny little container. On purpose. Mormons eat Ranch dressing on everything, GA says, slamming the dressing into the pick-up window. Anne glares at him. This is his warning. She is lapsed and irreverent, but Latter Day Saints is part of her spiritual make-up. Recently, one of the LDS programs helped her get back on her feet after being sick and laid off from her job. They eat it on fries, on burgers, on eggs, with tortilla chips. I like to call this stuff Mormon Ketchup. Anne slams the flat of her palm into the window so hard the little container of dressing jumps to attention. Stick it up you ass, she says.

Past experiences:
Kept by the Hells Angels. Former call-girl. Rescuer of Fundamental Mormon girls. Cattle-driver. Mining-town restaurateur.

What we learned from Anne:
We're not so weird that someone won't love us, appreciate us, and even understand us.

What you should learn from Anne:
If you're feeling demeaned, belittled, or desperately unappreciated, quit your job. It's just a job. It's not worth your unhappiness.

 


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