Monday, February 28, 2005
Grimace's Appropriate Name
My phone shift the next morning was frenzied, right from the 6am starting gun. I soothed restaurant managers, quashed the bugs in their rebellious machines, and assuaged their panicky stuttered ramblings.
They imagine they have a new friend in me.
I understand what it's like to have technology revolt when a line of seven AARP members are staring at me, desperate for their senior discount coffees and Saturday Sun-Times. I understand what it's like to have high school age employees turning the fryers up too high, resulting in hot dirty oil splashing out and scalding the Mexican mopping boy, who is now balled up in fetal position in the corner of the women's washroom, crying and muttering about the "pince cucarachas." I understand the frustrated embarrassment when the drink dispenser starts spraying my crotch with Orange Pizzazz.
Wrong. I have no sympathy. I am not your friend. We will not meet up after you count down your drawers and dismiss your apathetic mcnugget pushers. We will not hold hands, skip to the corner store, and share a basket of mozzarella sticks. We will not share a glass of diet soda from the fountain, one straw for each of us.
It is normal for a fast food employee to daydream. Healthy, even. Unfortunately, right now is the wrong time.
So let's stop getting friendly. Let's can the small talk. It isn't working for me. I don't want to hear your idiotic suppositions about the mustachioed woman that drops the fry baskets. I don't care why she won't shave, or that St. Gustavao is the patron saint of female facial hair. I am not impressed that your top perk of employment is the ability to triple your tartar without paying the extra sauce fee.
I want you to do exactly what I ask. No editorializing or guesswork. That just makes this harder. If you shut your dribbling trap and listen, we can fix the goddamn registers. Then you can fuck off back to Ronald and I can fuck off back to sleep.
Okay? 9:55 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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