For those of you who don’t know, McDonald’s Express were these McDonald’s that only allowed drive-thru and eat-outside table service (I think you would call the latter service Al-Fresco—but come on, it’s fucking McDonald’s here). I was fucking one of the chicks that managed the place and she got me a job working the drive-thru.
It wasn’t meant to be.
My friend Ray told me that there was no way in hell I could work a detail that was misspelled (the through in drive-thru
for those of you that are slower than me), and he turned out to be right. And now he’s dead (long story), so I’m giving him the satisfaction of letting him know that he was right. I’m a savior like that.
"Boys at McDonald's were jealous that I skipped right ahead to the register"
Anyway, my 13 minutes of fast food fame….I went through an hour of training, which consisted of a video and me getting a shirt and hat, which I instantly hated. I had other income, and I didn’t need this shit, but I thought I’d give it a try, you know, just to see if I had what it takes to sling fried food.
After my training, which I completed with flying colors (or as flying as any McDonald’s employee’s colors could be) I got a shift assignment. Because then-girlfriend gave me an in, I did not have to work the fryers, which was good. I was on the register from the start.
Just to let you know how pathetic the McDonald’s setup is, boys there were jealous that I skipped right ahead to the register. Christ on a pogo-stick jumping through Candy Land.
Anyway, my ninth customer came to the speaker. She sounded old. She ordered a number one with a Coke. Being as ingeniously well-trained as I was capable, I pushed the button marked #1, then pushed the button marked Coke. The register came up with the total: $3.17.
“Three seventeen,” I said into my headset. “Please drive through with a gh.”
“Three seventeen?” shouted the old woman back to me. “Why, it was just three fifteen yesterday.”
I had no answer for this as it was my first day on the job.
“Please drive through,” I said again.
When the old lady got to the window (and she had to be at least 80), she yelled at me: “Why are you raising your prices?”
I decided to use diplomacy.
“Ma’am,” I said, “this is my first day here. I have no idea why the price is different. I just pushed number 1 and then Coke. This is the result.”
“Well,” she said, “that is unacceptable.”
“Look Lady,” I said, “if it’s that big a deal to you, I’ll throw in the fucking two cents.”
Three minutes later I was fired from McDonald’s for cursing out an old lady.
And after all was said and done (read: I turned in my shirt and hat) the Big Clown sent me a check for $1.98 for all my hard work.
I guess some of us just aren’t McDonald’s material. And I guess I’ll have to live with that for the rest of my life.
Sad, ain’t it?
