Sunday, May 30, 2010

The Fries And The Fury part twelve

Price Breaks and Heartaches
a journal of retail and failed romance
Chapter Two
The Fries And The Fury
Part Twelve

The ‘Freezer Incident’, as it later came to be called, might have gotten me fired if not for the sudden change in management staff. Our long time manager Mr. Prowse was tapped to work higher up in the company as the assistant to the new Quality Control Supervisor. Oddly enough the new Quality Control Supervisor was Ranya.

We all assumed that Ms. Colley would become the new manager but they gave the position to Skippy Vanderhausen instead; apparently Empire Burger didn’t value dedication and grit as much as they valued someone having no life or soul whatsoever.

His first act was to fire Stuart and Cyril on the suspicion they were coming in to cover each others’ shifts. I was pretty shocked at the accusation; I mean everyone else knew they were doing it. Things pretty much went downhill from there;


Skippy was in my face, I could see his mustache clearly for the first time; it looked like an emaciated cheese doodle garnished with sesame seeds.

See? Those damn things get everywhere.

“Now see here Bruno.” He said, “We need increase the profits here.”

I nodded and backed up towards the drive through window, “So I guess you need me to ask folks to super size their meals?”

“No!” He sputtered, “From now on instead of asking the customers if they want their meals ‘For here or to go?’ you are going to ask them ‘will you be dining in?”

“You know we work at a fast food restaurant right?” I asked, “I mean you must have noticed our milkshakes are Kaopectate with food coloring right?”

Skippy glowered, well I assumed he meant to glower but he looked like a Muppet having a seizure, “If you don’t want to do your job there are plenty of mentally challenged folks out there clamoring for it.”

“And what does that say about us exactly?”

He poked me with his finger, “Look just do what I say or I’ll have you out of that uniform so fast your head will spin.”

“That is without a doubt the least erotic thing anyone ever said to me.”

“Get to work!” He squeaked.

Grumbling I got to the register and started taking orders.

As soon as the first customer heard me ask “Will you be dining in?” he started mocking me, the second customer did the same and by the third I was cursing the universe itself. By the tenth customer my will broke and I just asked, “Will that be for here or to go?”

And suddenly Skippy was right there like a willowy ninja, “Didn’t you hear what I said?”

“Look. Skippy.” I tried to sound reasonable, “If I wanted to be made fun of for eight hours a day I would have just stayed in high school.”

“Do. The. Closing.” He growled before heading into the back to make one of the new hires cry.

And so it went.

“Will you be dining in?”

“Haw haw what do you think this is a French restaurant?”

“Will you be dining in?”

“What the Hell are you talking about? I want my order to go.”

“Will you be dining in?”

“Vat iz dis dining in? Ve do not dine in placez zuch az ziz. Ve just vant coffee. In Luxembourg ze reztarantz do not zmell of urine.”

A little more than an hour of this and I just stopped asking how people wanted their meals, I just randomly decided who would get a bag and who would get a tray.


That idea didn’t go over too well with Skippy either so he started setting up punishment duties for anyone that disobeyed him. At first I was just cleaning the restrooms with almost health code mandated regularity. Then he had me clean up all the fallen leaves in the parking lot. But the pièce de résistance was when he told me to climb up onto the top of the dumpster and stomp down on the accumulated refuse so he could do a bi-weekly instead of a weekly pickup for the trash.

At first the garbage seemed a solid enough surface but as soon as I started tromping around I found myself starting to sink. The garbage was clammy and wet. Every time I tried to move the soft, squelching sea of paper cups, rotting meat and assorted vermin swallowed me up just a little more. I thought of using my belt to fashion a crude rope and pull myself to safety but that would leave me with the risk of my pants falling down. I didn’t want to think of what all that unprocessed shake mix might do to my exposed thighs.

So instead I swam, I swam through a sea of garbage. I’m sure that on some level it was all an Upton Sinclair-esque metaphor for the plight of wage slaves in America but I was too busy trying not to die from inhaling burnt fries to really appreciate the notion.

I vowed to myself that if I got out of that dumpster alive I would quit this job and find a new job. A better job, maybe even at the mall.

And when I escaped from the dumpster I did just that, and spent the next few working in ladies’ clothing.

And no, not in that way. I didn’t have the figure for it.

1 comment:

  1. HA! I am so in love with this series! You make me chuckle, every single time. Great writing!