Saltines.

I was working drive-thru as usual.

This guy comes through, and he ordered a salad.

I handed him all of his junk, but before I could slam the window on him, he inquires

"Do you have any crackers?"

I glanced away, wondering if he was serious.
He was.

"No, sir, we don't have any crackers."

He looked at me as if I was lying to him.

"Are you sure you don't have any?" He asked again.

I rolled my eyes slightly as I replied,

"Sir, the only cracker in here is me."

Needless to say, he stared at me blankly for a second before muttering a half-hearted "Thanks." And driving away.

Sausage Biscuits and Cups O'Water.

I really can't understand why people make such a BIG GODDAMN DEAL out of something so incredibly miniscule.

You know how that can be so aggravating, right?

The one thing that pisses me off more than anything about people, is how they manage to be so ridiculously hung up on things that are so unimportant. I'm talking about the stupid dip-shits that come into my store every morning, when I work--and BITCH.

Last time I checked, you're not a Ugandan orphan.

Last time I checked, you have enough money in your pocket to go to the grocery store and spend it on substantial food--instead of standing here, spending it at this place.

Perhaps even more infuriating is the cheap-asses.

You come in the drive thru expecting for me to stick two butters, four grape jellies, a knife, and extra napkins in your bag.

OH--AND you want a "cup o'water".

You want a cup of water because you're a cheap mother fucker who doesn't want to pay for an actual drink. If you're coming to an establishment like this, you're asking to pay for something. I think we should start charging a dollar for every cup of water--they'd literally be paying for the cup, and not what's in it.

I mean...I'm standing here, and I'm being nice to you despite the fact that I want to smack you in the face...

The very least you could do is be nice to me in return.

Oh, but NO...we'll have attitudes. We'll not be decent.

WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!

I have never been treated so vilely at any other job I've ever worked at...and that's saying a lot, because I've almost constantly worked with the public.

In case you're wondering:

I'm NOT a single mother.
I'm NOT on social assistance.
I'm NOT trying to jip you.

I'm just a college student trying to work her way through school payments...and the LEAST of my worries is making sure your BISCUIT is the right temperature.

Bitches.

The Conveniently Attractive Assistant Manager

He is entirely intolerable.

His manners are temperamental, and prone to outbursts that are not altogether sound. He is somewhat laughable when provoked, amusing when angry, and when he is feeling most proud--this is when he is most pliable.

He is perhaps more senile than any older gentleman I've encountered.

He is charmed easily, and falls victim to a flattering comment or a delicious excuse for humor.

I wished him naked only to point and mock.

His body is proportioned, and masculine--all, save his ass.
His ass is heaven, and belongs on a Playmate.

It's ironic his best physical feature is oddly feminine in nature.

When his fancy is tickled, an uncommonly charming smirk forms in the corner of his mouth.
In the event that he is reading this now, he is most likely wearing it.

He is attracted to vice. He is never quite willing to bend backwards, however he is quick to be helpful when it suits him.

I worked with him for six and a half months, and I don't believe I ever told him how incredibly inspiring he was. Most of his jokes were critical of others, and obnoxiously rude...but for some very strange reason, I related with him more than anyone else in the place.

I was very sad when he left.

His uncanny ability to piss me off and elate me in the same instance is entirely missed.

The Entitlement of the Morbidly Obese.

As you can very well imagine, working in this industry affords me to run into people of unconventional size...

Frankly, I would be willing to confess that <30% of people who come through the drive thru fall into the physical category of "obese"...and <100% of these people are likely to piss me off.

Why? Well...I'll tell you why...

It's because most of these people feel the need to demand ridiculously, make seemingly laughable requests, and usually just act plain rude.

I'm incredibly sorry, madame wearing a muumuu with arms that are the circumference of a WHOLE fucking HAM, but do I happen to be wearing a name tag that says "Your Bitch"?
I don't believe so.

I suppose one of the best examples of why my rage is so manic occurred the other morning--a woman, who occupied the entire front seats of her car, came through the drive thru around 7:15am. She ordered a large coffee.
I fixed her the coffee, not realizing that it was the same coffee from the day before, and therefore cold.
She left, and thirty minutes later, came BACK around to inform me that her coffee didn't meet her standard of correct temperature.
As I was brewing another pot, I told her it would take a minute...to which she replied "if I drive around to the parking lot, will you bring it out to me?"
I must confess, I looked at her as if she was indeed stupid.

I am young and able, but this doesn't mean I serve those who have allowed themselves to become so large as to be COMPLETELY FUCKING IMMOBILE.

I don't understand...yes, you may not be able to get out of your car anyway in order to come inside and sit down and wait for your coffee, but perhaps this ought to tell you something about yourself?

Does one need an intervention? Jenny Craig?

I don't care about what issues you have with yourself, everyone struggles with their weight but only a few certain people allow it to get to out of hand. Just because you're enormous does not mean I owe you any kind of special treatment. I get it, you're semi-disabled, but does it really look like I'm in the mood to indulge you when you're already huge and sitting in the window of a fast food joint?

Are you really trying to help yourself?
Do you WANT me to open my mouth and be rude--because trust me, standing there looking at you, it's taking so much dignity out of me to smile and be polite.

I think what pisses me off he most is when enormous people come in with their kids...their LITTLE kids. And they're feeding them fries...and nuggets...and being picky and choosy about toys...

Do you realize what you're teaching your young child?

Do you know how many health issues this kid will be able to attribute directly to you?

Do you know what when you order everything large, that this kid is looking up at you and wanting to do what you do...so eventually they'll want to start ordering everything large as well, simply to mimic your behavior?

Bottom line is, I'm tired of dickish obese people.
I refuse to walk on water for you just because you're enormous.


Stop being dicks.
Switch to Subway.

You Will Never Know...

Oh, you who read this...

You probably have no idea what goes through the mind of a fast-food worker when you order everything ass-backwards...or when you modify something twenty times...or when you change your mind at the last minute...

Plainly, you're a fucking annoying asshole the second you come through the drive-thru, or even inside the door. We've already profiled you as the type of person who can't go to the market and get your own food to prepare. And, despite how many times we (the workers) have been guilty of the fast-food craving...we still think you're awful people.

We frankly CANNOT STAND YOU.

We speak cheerfully when you order, when you change things, when you want onion rings instead of fries...we ring up your total without a glitch...or so you think.

Really, we're just standing there praying you shut the hell up and make it as short and sweet as possible.

The difference between an "asshole" customer, and an "easy" customer can be exemplified thus:


An "Easy" customer, will order this way:

WHOPPER JR.
LARGE FRIES
LARGE COKE


An "Asshole" customer, will order this way:

WHOPPER JR.
NO PICKLES
EXTRA LETTUCE
LIGHT ON THE MUSTARD
OFF THE BROILER CUT IN HALF
MEDIUM (VOID) LARGE FRIES
NO SALT
OFF THE FRYER
LARGE COKE
LITE ICE


Do you now see?

Do you now understand how absolutely ridiculous it is for me to try to explain?

I never really realized what it was like to be standing there, witnessing a rapid decline in culinary culture and the raise of industrial commercialism. I mean, these things really start to sink in when you see obese parents on the daily coming in and ordering eight piece chicken nuggets and fries for their small children...
Little do their pea-brains comprehend that they are feeding a constantly growing monster of an instant-gratification society.

I know I'm getting a little deep with this, but hear me out:

My own habits have began to change because of my involvement in this business.
I find myself not buying fast food, on the grounds of sensibility.
I realize now that there is a plethora of possibilities waiting for me in my own kitchen cupboard, and all I need do is think a little of how to put them all together, and I have a wonderfully new dish with which to satisfy myself.

The next time you think about ordering fast food, imagine what else you could be doing instead...

maybe then, you'd be making my job a little easier.

"Bright Kidz" and "Baby Daddys".

I am not African-American.
This is obvious.

Whilst working, I usually take the fact that I'm "different" with humorous gravity.
By "different", I mean Caucasian.

While other races have had the opportunity to call themselves the fateful minority...I have been dwelling in the sanctum of oblivion. I can only imagine that my ignorance has stemmed from years of convincing myself that there is no such thing as "color".

For years I have been telling myself there is no such thing as a "white" culture, and there is no such thing as a "black" culture--we're all just a bunch of aimless wax crayons looking for a cozy box--apparently, most of the people I work with would disagree.

The way it all came about, was when I heard some of my coworkers discussing another fellow coworker (who, of course, wasn't present at the time) named Ty.

Ty apparently has a child with one woman, and a child on the way with another.

He was being aptly referred to as a "baby daddy".

A girl named Britney had become especially excited about the revelation of Ty's escapades, and insisted that he was trying to "start something" with her, because he "kept texting me all day callin me his bae"...to which she replied "nigga, i ain't yo bae".

About a half an hour later, I was helping Britney with an order, and she appeared to still be charred about the revelations of earlier.

"I don't want a man to come into my life and then the second I get pregnant with his child, he'll up and leave." She stated frankly, shoving the bag of burgers out the drive-thru window.

"It's about finding the right kind of guy." I replied, trying to soothe her.

"That's just what most black men do."

"Huh?"

"That's just not how it is."

I didn't understand.

I was pondering this all day, wondering if most black women think the same way. I like to have an open mind about things. I'd like to think that if the circumstances led me to fall in love with a black man, he wouldn't fall into the same frame of mind as the men Britney was speaking of.

Another thing occurred when I was hanging out with Britney, Ty, and one of my co-managers, Danielle. The three of them are black, differing in color, and were making jokes about "bright" and "dark".

When I inquired about "bright" and "dark", I was looked at as if I was retarded, and an attempt at an in-depth explanation ensued. Still not fully understanding, I compared everyone's skin, and concluded innocently that Ty was the "darkest".

I tried to make a joke, saying I was "the brightest of them all".

This was met with nervous laughter, and Britney's loud chortle of "DIS WHITE GUH CRAZY!"

F***k.

I probably could've been fired for this one, if the wrong person happened to be around at the wrong time.

My friend Mason is a twenty-something, whose training to become an assistant manager. We happened to be working the second window at the same time, and we were having one of those odd heart-to-hearts that coworkers tend to have when things are slow.

Mason is extremely suppressed and lethargic.

I'm always curious, and of course I wanted to get to the bottom of his seemingly emotionless attitudes.

Of course, it had to do with a woman.

Particularly, his girlfriend of five years. According to Mason, in the time they've been dating, she's managed to lose an engagement ring, cheat excessively, and turn him from a fun-loving individual into a completely stoic shell.

Bravo, Mason.

Of course as he's telling me all this, I'm feeling sympathy for the kid. We're also preparing an order that I don't happen to realize is a 4 piece kid's chicken nugget.

Just as a very snooty looking bitch in a suburban drives up to the second window (which Mason naturally has forgotten to close) I say in a very loud, forceful voice

"You have to stand up for yourself, man! She's a fucking bitch, forget her!"

As I turn around with a triumphant nod of my head, I don't notice Mason's awkward reaction. I also don't notice Mason's awkward reaction is a direct result of the snooty bitch in the suburban's mortified expression. The five year old in her passenger's seat is giggling.

Of course she asks to speak to the manager.

Lucky for me, the manager that day happened to be the relatively jovial Danielle. Danielle and I are on very good terms, thanks to her being one of the very first veterans who took me under her wing in the beginning.

I didn't find out my situation until I returned to the front, and found myself confronted by a surprisingly nervous Mason, who told me he'd "stick up for me" if shit went array.

Danielle is laughing.

She tells me the lady was "extremely pissed" at the "unprofessional attitude of the staff", before driving off in a flurry of dust and gravel.

Danielle, still laughing, guffaws to us both--"I wanted to tell her, 'LADY, this ain't da HOTEL RITZ naw.' "

She patted me on the back, and told me I was safe. Though my cheeks were red and gave away my true feelings on the matter, I smiled cockily and replied with something characteristically snarky.


Phew.
Close call.

Muy Loca.

Since I've started working in fast-food, my mind has been thoroughly boggled at the number of Hispanics I've managed to come into contact with.

I suppose it doesn't help that I've never felt a significant fondness for the Spanish language, or anything related. I tend to think the only good thing to come out of the Spanish culture as a whole is Charo.

Anyway...

One of the most irksome things that always occurs when I come into contact with an Espangol, is their insistence upon being understood in a predominantly English-speaking country--regardless of if they have learned a word of English or not. And, when one fails to understand them clearly on first try, they tend to become extremely annoyed.

For instance...

"Can I take your order?"

"I...want...nooombur dos."

"Sir?"

"NOOOOOOMBUR DOS!"

Sigh.

I want to reply "Monsieur, vous ne valez pas mon temps."
But I digress.

However, out of all the seemingly crazy instances that have happened when I encounter one of these folks...today has to take the cake.

This Hispanic woman comes to the drive-thru. My friend Rae was taking her order, since I had been designated to collect money at the famed "first window". I had an earpiece, so I could hear everything that was going on.

Rae eagerly chirps "Can I take your order?"

In extremely broken English, the woman manages to mention something about "Cola...large" and "Chicken...20 pieces...".

Experienced Rae takes this for face value, and as she asks "Would you like anything else to go with that?" The woman nonchalantly drives around in her large obnoxious car--passing me at the "first window"--and meeting Rae at the second.

Rae, who hadn't put the order through to everyone else in the kitchen, is staring at her--without food and without a clue as to what to do with this situation.

Meanwhile, everyone in the kitchen is going absolutely nuts.

Little do people know, there is a time limit on how long it takes to make the food, to the instant the person at the window receives their order. This time is supposed to be under three minutes.

Rae hastily puts the order in, as the erratic Hispanic woman begins yelling at her.

We're constantly told that "the customer is always right", but in a situation like this, I would have to say something along the lines of "Fuck this stupid shit."

Between the craziness, the woman manages to hand over her $5.66 for the 20 piece chicken nugget and the large Coke.

"Usted no me puede entender?!?!" The woman cries in frustration.

"Ma'am, your food is coming right up." Rae soothes her. "Please drive into the parking lot, and we'll bring out your food."

All we hear is VVRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM and the seething Latina speeds out of the fast-food parking lot.

Everyone is absolutely livid.

Not only did this woman manage to fuck the line-up of everyone else's orders, but her 20 piece chicken nuggets and large Coke were chilling without a home on Rae's counter.

Rae almost went in the bathroom and cried from pure annoyance.

Everyone eventually calmed down, and things got straightened out. There was finally peace in the kitchen, and I settled back into my money-collecting routine.


Twenty minutes later, Loca showed up for her 20 piece and large Coke.
Seriously?

It's Britney, Bitch.

My manager and I were discussing Britney Spears as a part of a once-again early shift routine.

There was no one in the dining room, the sun hadn't even come up yet, and I was washing trays.

We happened to be talking about that period in Ms. Spears' life when she happened to be going through a divorce, and quintessentially "fell off the deep end"--much to the concern of gay men everywhere.

I commented that Ms. Spears surely must have been on "something" the night she shaved her head and went completely postal...implying that it was a simple drug-induced stupor--an unintentional flight of fancy.

My manager eagerly quips: "NUH GUH SHE KNEW WHAT SHE WAS DOIN, HER! She was usin crack and dey was takin her to court the next day and she didn't want them chillins taken away from her, so she shaved her head so dey wouldn't find that crack in her system!"

With wide eyes, and a near whisper, I reply: "...they can do that?"

"YEAH, GUH! If dey test your pee dey can only see if you did crack in the past 24 hours, but if they test your HAIRS...they can see ERRRRYTHANG."

I stare at her for what could have been a good three minutes. My mind was completely blown.

I had no idea how my pregnant manager knew anything about follicle testing but...

...I guess you learn something new every day.

The Drunk at 7am.

The token drunk.

I'm pretty sure every fast food place has that one person you're not looking forward to seeing every day...

Mine just happens to be a disheveled woman--perhaps in her mid to late fifties--who shows up intoxicated every day. That is, promptly every day, at 7am.

Though I do not work every morning, I have reason to believe she shows up every morning like clockwork. This is because every morning that I've worked the 6-1pm shift--sporadically--she happens to come in.

The possibility of her knowing my schedule is nearly inconceivable. Therefore, I can only guess that she comes in every damn day.

In odd paradox to her appearance, her behavior is always very consistent.

She walks in smelling like strong liquor, muttering about how she "recently lost her daughter", and complaining about our coffee...

"Your coffee is the fuckin WORST coffee I've EVER had in my fuckin LIFE."

She stumbles over to the register, and then proceeds to order a medium coffee to go.

I would call this pitiful were she not so entirely ridiculous.

In the perhaps certain truth that she did "lose her daughter"--is her absolutely necessary morning process to come in a fast food place at 7am just to insult instant coffee?
Does she expect it to be gourmet? Does she lead a rich fantasy life?
I don't know.

And if in fact she hasn't "lost her daughter", and is only putting on a show--why waste my time?

It's 7 o'clock in the fucking morning, lady.

Take a bath.
Go to church.
Watch Sex and the City reruns, I don't know...mourn like my mother.

Goddamn.

An Employment Filled With Lulz.

When I began working in the fast food industry, I didn't know what to expect...

After all, I'd come straight from a cushy work-study...where the most that was expected of me was to run the mail and fix myself hot coffee whilst lingering over a pile of documents to archive.

I literally had it made.

I would get bothered when I was forced to get up from my comfy nook to answer the office phone on the opposite side of the room.

I would use informal lingo with my colleagues, and even my boss--hearing intimate details on everyone's personal lives, their opinions on their superiors, and all while being very leisurely.

I must say I loved my job, and when it came to an end I was somewhat devastated. I had grown accustomed to what I needed to do, I knew my limits, and it was an all-around comfortable situation for me. The very idea of being thrown into the seemingly limitless job market again scared the hell out of me.

But, as expected, I needed an income.

I applied everywhere under the sun...and to my extreme annoyance--being as I consider myself a very qualified person--a month passed with absolutely no call backs. I was livid. They tell you not to take it personally when your application isn't looked at in detail, but I sure as hell took it as personally as I could.

I even had my graphic-designer boyfriend create a special template for my resume.
I couldn't understand what was not to love about me.

...I know that sounds extreme egocentric, but I couldn't help but wonder why the more important places I applied weren't taking me seriously.

I chalked it down to my relatively young age and relatively green experience.

Various people began to hint to me that perhaps applying at a more...run-of-the-mill...place would give me a better opportunity to find work. I was totally annoyed by this idea, but decided to accept it nonetheless--after all, bills were adding up, and I still had yet to find a stable means of income.

That's when I decided to tuck away the resume, and turn to filling out applications anywhere I could.

This was my first encounter with applying at a fast food restaurant.
I found the application online, and managed to fill it out over a bowl of cereal one morning while still in my pajamas. I was feeling very depressed, and the idea that I was about to sell my artistic, history-loving, intellectual soul for the prospect of easy cash was a dismal thought.

A week or two went by, and I was still as disoriented as ever.

That's when I got the call.

It was a very professional-sounding man, who said he wanted to interview me for a position at this fast food place.

"No one else has called me back..." I said to myself with a sigh, as he shuffled through papers to find an appropriate time for the interview. "I might as well. Fuck it."

The process was somewhat quick, and occurred over the span of a week.
I was interviewed, hired, and trained.
I acted impressed when the head manager (and guy who interviewed me) told me I was going to be the first trainee to receive a shirt and name tag.

For someone whose never had much experience working in crowded areas, or being forced to do several things in a concentrated time span, the first few days were extremely hectic.
I felt like I was thrown in the deep end of the pool, having never taken a single swimming lesson in my life.

I picked up quickly before long, and even managed to learn the likes and dislikes of familiar customers.

I realized there was a lot more into the job than I had initially thought--being as I was always the served and never the server.

I also realized that there was a great deal of odd racial tension now that I was a part of a team that was predominantly black. I had never been one to notice or care about another person's race, but I suddenly found myself being looked at funny because I was literally pointed out as the token "white girl".

However, this turned out to work in my favor, as you will see.

I find myself embraced more than dismissed for my simple honesty in situations of discomfort...

Some days I think the nine hour shifts on my feet, racing around to get this or that, taking orders, shoving-out orders, taking orders, are going to kill me.

Some days I think this is one of the best things that's ever happened to me.