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I only lasted 3 or 4 months as a cashier, because it was a nightmare for me to work there. I really wanted to cook on the line in the back. I learned to cook as a child, and I loved making food. It would've suited me better as a shy kid, but as a beautiful girl I stood out, so they put me up front where people could see me. The heavyset woman who worked as a day manager immediately noticed me. She looked right at me, then pointed me out in front of a group of other new employees during orientation, "You're working the counter." It didn't take long for grown men to start slipping me their phone numbers on napkins from the self-serve stations.
Periodically, the networks would shut down from power outages and computer blips, so I did the math for orders on those same napkins while a line stretched out the door. The "managers" were skinny pimply teens barely in their 20's, some as young as 18 or 19, who used their petty power-trips over employees as an excuse to abuse them, creating the same working class dynamic we grew up with at home at work.
But, I got a paycheck and leftover food when I worked the evening shift after school. Any food left on the line at closing time was either thrown out or taken home by employees. I suggested donating the leftovers to a local homeless shelter one night because the waste sickened me, and I got a vague "Yeah, that's a good idea" answer by the same female manager who assigned me to the counter on my first day. She'd been forced to work that night after working a day shift, because she kept repeating it to us so she could play the victim to the hilt. She was so dysfunctional and stressed out that actual compassion and awareness from a small skinny teenager with big eyes and a soft voice must've shocked her. She gave me a hard look, which told me I was already on her radar for abuse.
The more targeted abuse quickly began. This ugly blond kid thought it was funny to watch me struggle with garbage bags that had to be tossed over a tall fence around the dumpsters, so he routinely assigned me to cleaning the floor. I heard him laughing in the back room, telling another manager that he sent "the human mop" to mop up the floor. His crony joked, "Oh yeah? What does that kid weigh? Like a 100 lbs. soaking wet? Can she even lift those bags?" The manager snickered, "I know, I know, isn't' it great? Wait, wait, she's gotta throw them over the wall. I told her she 'had to' do it." I became their entertainment for the night. He scared me because he was a psycho, but I was already used to fake "tough" guys. As heavy as the bags were, I did it until every one of them went over, even though it took me several tries, with trash spilling onto me from the bags that didn't make it over the first few times. When I finished, he was actually impressed, though not to my face. "Yeah, she did it! That skinny 'mop' did it! She's a lot stronger than she looks." Right, punk.
My mom had to pick me up at night, because I was too young to drive. She ordered tea and laughed at me while I worked, relishing that I had to serve her as she mocked me. "Haha! I can't 'get you' to clean at home and now you have to do it here! So ironic." She would smugly sit at a table as I ended my shift, making a show out of sipping her tea while I busted my ass at a horrible job after a full day of school. "Uh, Marie. You missed a spot," she tapped her fingertip repeatedly on the table, "here, where I spilled sugar. Don't you 'have to' wipe it up? I'll complain to your manager, if you don't clean it up." Like most working class families, our "joking around" was a release valve that had real menace underneath it, because the stakes were always that high.
My mom still has the same compulsive disorder, so seeing this dynamic played out elsewhere must have been proof to her that her behavior was "normal". It was certainly socially acceptable. After all, this was a world-famous "restaurant". If I had problems here, then it must be me. It couldn't possibly be a company as "successful" as this chain, right? But that was part of it, too, and I knew it. Then (as now), if I serve as the voice of reason in my family, they run for cover. Hiding behind a corporation making billions of dollars is a great tactic for covering up a lot of bad.
Still, I love burgers and sometimes I get a craving for them. Occasionally, I'll go to a fast food joint for their shakes or fries 'cause it just hits that sweet spot, ya feel me? Since I'm still working on my own now (as then), every penny counts, and cooking meals at home is not only healthier, it's cheaper, too. There's a best-selling series of books that show you how to re-create favorite fast foods at home, so one day when I had the fixins', I looked up a recipe and did it. The result? Glory in a sandwich. We don't need huge conglomerates that don't have always our best interests at heart, because we have each other, my friends. So, here's a link to a site with a recipe that gives you the "know-how". Now you know, too, on the house. Enjoy :)
