A/N: Five years later, and I've got nothing better to do. Part two.
Training Nick Wilde was, to put it simply, an experience. Unfortunately for me, to "put it simply" would serve as a disservice to that experience. That guy was a laugh and a half, smart as a whip, and probably the smarmiest guy I've ever had the pleasure of idolizing. He had a few years on me, and a lot more experience out of the nest; half of the time I felt like he was the one training me rather than the other way around. Although in hindsight, judging by how quickly he picked up the whole process, Nick probably had experience in the industry that he'd neglected to share with me. I first discovered that he'd joined the staff on his third day, so unfortunately I don't have the pleasure of retelling what I'm sure was an onslaught of clever remarks at the expense of our other coworkers upon their introductions to my fellow vulpine. However, thanks to the boss' insistence upon a minimum of three days of training, I did manage a single shift to harness his powers for my own personal gain.
In the world of serving- at least, where I'm from- the establishment doesn't have to pay their servers any sort of minimum wage. Rather, they're given a much lower flat rate, and expected to make more than the minimum through tips. If the employee doesn't meet minimum wage with their tips and base pay combined, the employer has to pay out the difference. It sucks, it's unfair, other parts of the world do it WAY better, but we play the cards we're dealt. And as a fox in a prey animal's world, I wouldn't say I'm sitting on a full house. So where an equine animal (or most hooved folk, for what it's worth) makes easy money in a place like Romano's, I sort of struggled. On that fateful Friday afternoon, though? I made bank. Far and away, the best part of training a new server is the pay structure. While training, an employee is guaranteed minimum wage. Therefore, any tips they earn go to the trainer instead, to make sure their numbers are high enough to avoid compensation from the employer. With all of that exposition out of the way, allow me to relay the astonishing story of how Nick made four times what I usually made by the power of his charm alone.
"Well slap my ass and call me Sally, long time no see!" Normally I hid my teeth while at work; seeing another fox on the roster brought out the pearls. I practically skipped my way up to Nick and offered a paw, which he met with the quick slap-bump combo that everyone working at Romano's used. "I see that you've already acclimated to the culture."
"I like to keep up with the times," came his reply as he returned my smile with a close-lipped version of his own. Though I had reasoned already that he'd picked up a job at the restaurant, as I glanced downward in an attempt to rectify my teeth-showing slip I took note of his plantar paws. Specifically, the lack of any sort of pawear. "The boss didn't have any wraps in my size. Apparently some other fox got the only pair." My russet counterpart must have taken note of my lingering gaze. "Can you imagine that, these wonderful animals not having proper accommodations for a second fox?"
"Eh, we're both foxes with gigs at a prey restaurant. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth," I slid back. One of my favorite phrases to use while at work, for sure. "Haven't had a chance to get your own yet? The boss doesn't usually supply anyone with that sort of thing." I can only assume he had some sort of quip for me, but at that moment the big boss himself made our appearance. Antonio Romano, a towering black draft horse with a low tolerance for tomfoolery, loomed high above from the other side of the bar. He informed me that I would be training Nick for his third day, and to give him the reigns over my work to ensure that he was ready for solo duty. Also, I was late (again). After acknowledging my task and saluting the boss with a "Yes, captain," I excused myself and poked over to one of the computer terminals used for sending orders, managing timecards, or whatever other task to officially declare my presence. I donned the belt of pockets that served as my excuse for an apron and gestured for Nick to join me in the small mammal section.
The two of us bantered back and forth for a while. Though Fridays usually meant a busy shift, Romano's status as an equine-run establishment often left the smaller mammal section less populated than the rest of the store. I got Nick to pose for a Snap with me, as I just had to tell Carra that I had a new fox friend at my work. She didn't respond until much later that night, though, something of which I thought very little at the time. I was much too busy cracking wise with Wilde about the inspiration with which the Romano family named their kids. Four horses and one donkey named Antonio, two more horses named Gregorio, and supposedly several more repeats at the sister location downtown. Nick was halfway through telling a story about mixing up the names of two girls he was seeing when our first table arrived, a party of twelve lemmings.
Lemmings, of all things, for our first opportunity together. At the time I still had limited experience with the species; they spoke very quickly, looked identical from my perspective, and didn't seem to emote much at all. On that day I couldn't have told you if they were there for a funeral or a bachelor party. Twelve black suited mammals, all chittering at once. Before I even had the chance to tell Nick that he might want to let me take the lead, he'd already begun a speech that sounded oddly familiar. "Goooood afternoon," he began, "and welcome to Romano's! How are we doing today, folks?" I was sort of stunned by the amount of presence his voice carried. All twelve of them looked over at once and, to my further surprise, didn't seem to recoil at all when they saw that their server was the modern equivalent of a prehistoric Grim Reaper. And as their conversation carried on, I began to realize why.
For starters, it's worth mentioning that I had quite a few inches on Nick in height. I had always been taller than most foxes I knew, but it was in that moment when I noticed his posture- slightly hunched, but more so into his own shoulders than forward. He stood a whole pace or so farther from the table than I normally would, held his notepad in both paws in front of him and below his waist, and though I couldn't really see his face I could tell that none of his teeth were showing at all despite perfect enunciation. And to top things off, both literally and figuratively, his ears were turned down farther than I'd ever made my own. He had managed to angle them very far outward, the tips actually tilting below his eyes. He almost looked like a cute little bunny or something. I was so fascinated by the whole package that I nearly missed his introduction of me to the table. I just gave my usual tight-lipped grin and nodded toward them and, as usual, the change in their mood was immediate once they'd noticed me. I think of that first experience as comparable to someone being excited when opening their fridge, only to find that someone else ate all of the cake.
"Oh, don't worry about him," Nick offered, "he's here to help me keep the menu straight. Now who's hungry!?" With that he actually sidestepped just a bit to partially obstruct my view of the table. Once again, my fellow fox was a step ahead. I kept silent while he took their drink order and noticed with some small satisfaction that he had hastily scrawled down a list. I made sure to start walking a step ahead, so as not to intrude on his rapport. We were hardly out of earshot when I asked him,
"What sort of server experience do you have? That was pretty damn solid for two days worth of training."
"Eh," he shrugged as we approached the point-of-sale system, "I've been around. Lemmings are easy, anyway." I could barely hear them from where I was standing, so I could hardly corroborate as Nick began the process of getting the order in. He asked me a few questions about where different drink options could be found but stopped me as I began to explain the rest of the system. "I got it, actually." Apparently Nick had been paying close attention when whomever had trained him before had used the system because he flew through the process with ease.
"If you say so, I guess." I figured that if he wanted to run before he walked, I wouldn't try to stop him. "How many soft drinks do you need? I can go get them for you." A quick confirmation and subsequent trip to the soda jerk later, we rendezvoused at the bar with a slew of beverages in tow. Mister hotshot had already balanced four short bar glasses on one paw and held out his hand for my tray.
"Gimme gimme," he commanded, and I complied without a second thought. The tray might as well have still been in the air with how quickly Nick moved from his spot to the table. Clearly, he knew what he was doing, and my job for the evening was going to consist of watching him and taking his money at the end of the night. And that's exactly what happened, down to a tee. Just like how red cars always go faster, I seriously considered dying my fur a sick ass crimson while watching him work. Slick may as well have been speed hacking for all I knew. From a table to the bar to the kitchen (the son of a bitch had already mastered carrying multiple plates at once, much to my chagrin) to another table to the bar to me for a quick jab at some sheep family's wool back to the bar. The student had clearly surpassed the master in this case. And yet, somehow, my less temperately inclined cousin managed to have a joke for everyone. Every table, that same meek expression. Every customer, a fun quip. Every time Antonio- the boss not the busser or other server or cook- even thought about looking our way, a salute and howdy-doo from the new guy. He even managed to make Carmella laugh, a feat I had yet to accomplish. To this day, I've never seen a more impressive performance in that restaurant.
Time ticked on. The rush got bigger and I sort of just gave up on following Nick around. Not because I was incapable, but because he clearly didn't need my help and two of my regulars arrived. I spent the better part of three hours just chatting with them and occasionally snagging a drink order for the other small mammal server on staff, a miniature pony also named Antonio. He spoke mostly Istallion, so I hardly knew him. Easiest shift of my life and I may or may not have snuck a few shots of something or other with my regs. Most surprising of all, though? Long after the dinner rush had ended, our section still had no open seats. A measly four tables, sure, but by eight thirty or so Nick had started really laying it on thick with the buddy-buddy routine. Everyone was drunk, everyone was happy, the Sahara Square baseball team was up five to one, and everything had gone just about as perfectly as possible for the two of us. One of our coworkers wasn't so lucky, though.