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So I haven't worked fast food in over three years, but every time I look back on it I get depressed, angry, or ill, so ever since then I've been extremely nice to every fast food worker (and practically every service worker) I've ever met, to the point of a couple actually saying to me, "Wow, you must have worked in service before."
So really, the only way to keep my sanity at the job was to write satire, and most of this was written back in the day. It has a little bit of embellishment from experiences I've had since then, but probably 95% of it actually happened at this one job, albeit at different times.
It’s a normal day/evening in a nationally-located faux-Mexican fast food “restaurant.” People seat around the store eating, not sure that a conglomeration of many stupid customers I’ve served is about to make its appearance.
A customer walks in, talking to a BlueToooth-enabled cell phone, since they’re obviously that important. Even though they’re so important that they can’t talk on the phone without both hands free, they advance to the front of the register—you know, the way people who are ready to order usually do.
“Hi, how can I help you?” I say, wondering if the customer would notice if I said “fuck off” instead.
“Yeah. No. Yeah that’s totally stupid. Ok. I’m at the place now. Call you later.” The phone turns off and the customer glances at me. “Pretty good, you?”
Obviously, my idle wonderings were correct.
“Give me a… beef big been combo… uh…speshul.”
“A what?”
“You know… that thing,” customer points.
“You mean a big beef combo burrito?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Wait, instead of that, I want a, uh, ba-jja chapolla kwes-dilla.”
In my mind, I go over my basic Spanish pronunciation. It’s not hard for anyone who cares. Or anyone who can read. Or speak.
“Do you mean a ba-ha chicken chalupa or a chicken case-a-di-ya?”
“Uh. Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Nevermind. Give me a half bean pound uh…speshul.”
“Ok, one half pound bean burrito eh-spe-see-yal.”
“Yes.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“That’ll be $1.07.”
“But the sign says 99 cents!”
“There’s tax, too.”
“Well why don’t you have the tax on the sign?”
“No one puts the tax on the sign, because it’s likely to change.”
“Well that’s just stupid.”
“Ok.”
“Uh, wait. And a large drink.”
“Alright, that’ll be $2.58.”
“What?! I thought you said it was $1.07!”
“That was before the drink.”
“But, the burrito is…99 cents… and the drink is… 99 cents…”
“No, the burrito is 99 cents, and the drink is $1.39. Plus tax is $2.58.”
“Fine!” customer, angry at math, puts a large sum of money on the counter and shoves it at me.
“For here or to go?”
“To go!” That’s too bad, I was hoping you’d stay.
“Stupid white people, this is my land, you’re from England, don’t call me not an American, I’m more American than you,” the customer mutters under his breath.
“Sir, I never said anything about you being American, and you’re as white as I am.”
“Oh yeah. Well it’s those damn illegal Mexicans, taking American jobs, they should all just go back to Mexico.”
“Sir, you’re in a Mexican food restaurants, and unless you’re in construction, landscaping, or farming—which I can tell you’re not, from your suit—there are no illegal immigrants out to take your job.”
So I lied a little about the last four sentences; while I have heard things like that said by customers to me before, I’ve only said things back to people like that when I wasn’t working.
Meanwhile, I turn around to try to get some work done, like restocking the cups or something.
“Say, why did you guys demolish the old building and build this one? It would have been cheaper if you’d just remodeled it.”
“It was remodeled. This is the same building.”
“But… it would have been cheaper to remodel instead of knocking the old on down and building this one.”
“It sure was.”
“We did.”
Some seconds pass; I guess the customer is thinking of more ways to annoy me.
“Hey, where are the drinks?”
“Behind you to your right. You passed them when you walked in.”
More seconds pass.
“Hey, what’s the big deal, the people in the drive-thru already have their food and I got here before them!”
“The drive-thru always gets their food quickest because it’s the drive-thru.”
“But I was here first!”
“Well, if you want your food quicker next time, go to the drive-thru.” Mind you, maybe only forty seconds have passed since the customer paid, but it was at least two minutes ago that the customer opened his pie-hole and let words come out.
“Here’s your food.”
“Ok. Where are the sauces?”
“Behind you to your left. You also passed those when you walked in.”
“This isn’t what I ordered. Where’s my cup?”
“In your left hand.”
“This isn’t what I ordered!”
“How do you know, you haven’t even looked in the bag yet.”
Customer opens the bag and unwraps the burrito, which they will never be able to re-wrap. Shitty customers, for some reason, never can.
“This isn’t what I ordered!”
“What do you think you ordered?”
“A, uh, bean pound half uhhh..spe..shull burrito.”
“That’s what you have.”
“But that doesn’t look like the picture!”
“Of course it doesn’t.”
“But the picture shows the stuff almost coming out!”
“Of course it does, the picture is just supposed to show what’s in it.”
“But that doesn’t look like the picture!!!”
“If it looked exactly the way it looked in the picture, all of the stuff would come out,” and probably onto your chin, chest, and lap, because you’re probably that dumb.
“This isn’t the burrito I ordered.”
“Yes it is. Look at your receipt, you paid for it.”
“NO I DIDN’T!”
I love pulling that one—getting all the customers who want to get angry and argue for no good reason to say they didn’t pay for anything.
“Yes you did.”
The customer, knowing they’re an idiot, turns to leave.
“I wanted this to go!”
“It is to go.”
The customer begins to leave, but stops to throw their straw wrapper away.
As they leave, I imagine shooting them in the spine and seeing the bloody mass of bullet, blood, and body spewing out their front. I imagine injecting distilled water into their veins and watching their body killing itself because their blood can no longer transport oxygen. I wonder why I began working here in the first place, with the crappy customers, the angry facial hair I grew, the clowing smell of bean lard that now infects my clothes and my hair—and the damn talking trash cans. Yes, they say thank you. Yes, they warn customers when they’re compacting. And, yes, Virginia, they are still fucking trash cans, and, yes, after ten months of working here, I know they talk.
“HEY! The trash cans talk! Did you know that?”
So really, the only way to keep my sanity at the job was to write satire, and most of this was written back in the day. It has a little bit of embellishment from experiences I've had since then, but probably 95% of it actually happened at this one job, albeit at different times.
It’s a normal day/evening in a nationally-located faux-Mexican fast food “restaurant.” People seat around the store eating, not sure that a conglomeration of many stupid customers I’ve served is about to make its appearance.
A customer walks in, talking to a BlueToooth-enabled cell phone, since they’re obviously that important. Even though they’re so important that they can’t talk on the phone without both hands free, they advance to the front of the register—you know, the way people who are ready to order usually do.
“Hi, how can I help you?” I say, wondering if the customer would notice if I said “fuck off” instead.
“Yeah. No. Yeah that’s totally stupid. Ok. I’m at the place now. Call you later.” The phone turns off and the customer glances at me. “Pretty good, you?”
Obviously, my idle wonderings were correct.
“Give me a… beef big been combo… uh…speshul.”
“A what?”
“You know… that thing,” customer points.
“You mean a big beef combo burrito?”
“Yeah.”
“Anything else?”
“No. Wait, instead of that, I want a, uh, ba-jja chapolla kwes-dilla.”
In my mind, I go over my basic Spanish pronunciation. It’s not hard for anyone who cares. Or anyone who can read. Or speak.
“Do you mean a ba-ha chicken chalupa or a chicken case-a-di-ya?”
“Uh. Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Nevermind. Give me a half bean pound uh…speshul.”
“Ok, one half pound bean burrito eh-spe-see-yal.”
“Yes.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“That’ll be $1.07.”
“But the sign says 99 cents!”
“There’s tax, too.”
“Well why don’t you have the tax on the sign?”
“No one puts the tax on the sign, because it’s likely to change.”
“Well that’s just stupid.”
“Ok.”
“Uh, wait. And a large drink.”
“Alright, that’ll be $2.58.”
“What?! I thought you said it was $1.07!”
“That was before the drink.”
“But, the burrito is…99 cents… and the drink is… 99 cents…”
“No, the burrito is 99 cents, and the drink is $1.39. Plus tax is $2.58.”
“Fine!” customer, angry at math, puts a large sum of money on the counter and shoves it at me.
“For here or to go?”
“To go!” That’s too bad, I was hoping you’d stay.
“Stupid white people, this is my land, you’re from England, don’t call me not an American, I’m more American than you,” the customer mutters under his breath.
“Sir, I never said anything about you being American, and you’re as white as I am.”
“Oh yeah. Well it’s those damn illegal Mexicans, taking American jobs, they should all just go back to Mexico.”
“Sir, you’re in a Mexican food restaurants, and unless you’re in construction, landscaping, or farming—which I can tell you’re not, from your suit—there are no illegal immigrants out to take your job.”
So I lied a little about the last four sentences; while I have heard things like that said by customers to me before, I’ve only said things back to people like that when I wasn’t working.
Meanwhile, I turn around to try to get some work done, like restocking the cups or something.
“Say, why did you guys demolish the old building and build this one? It would have been cheaper if you’d just remodeled it.”
“It was remodeled. This is the same building.”
“But… it would have been cheaper to remodel instead of knocking the old on down and building this one.”
“It sure was.”
“We did.”
Some seconds pass; I guess the customer is thinking of more ways to annoy me.
“Hey, where are the drinks?”
“Behind you to your right. You passed them when you walked in.”
More seconds pass.
“Hey, what’s the big deal, the people in the drive-thru already have their food and I got here before them!”
“The drive-thru always gets their food quickest because it’s the drive-thru.”
“But I was here first!”
“Well, if you want your food quicker next time, go to the drive-thru.” Mind you, maybe only forty seconds have passed since the customer paid, but it was at least two minutes ago that the customer opened his pie-hole and let words come out.
“Here’s your food.”
“Ok. Where are the sauces?”
“Behind you to your left. You also passed those when you walked in.”
“This isn’t what I ordered. Where’s my cup?”
“In your left hand.”
“This isn’t what I ordered!”
“How do you know, you haven’t even looked in the bag yet.”
Customer opens the bag and unwraps the burrito, which they will never be able to re-wrap. Shitty customers, for some reason, never can.
“This isn’t what I ordered!”
“What do you think you ordered?”
“A, uh, bean pound half uhhh..spe..shull burrito.”
“That’s what you have.”
“But that doesn’t look like the picture!”
“Of course it doesn’t.”
“But the picture shows the stuff almost coming out!”
“Of course it does, the picture is just supposed to show what’s in it.”
“But that doesn’t look like the picture!!!”
“If it looked exactly the way it looked in the picture, all of the stuff would come out,” and probably onto your chin, chest, and lap, because you’re probably that dumb.
“This isn’t the burrito I ordered.”
“Yes it is. Look at your receipt, you paid for it.”
“NO I DIDN’T!”
I love pulling that one—getting all the customers who want to get angry and argue for no good reason to say they didn’t pay for anything.
“Yes you did.”
The customer, knowing they’re an idiot, turns to leave.
“I wanted this to go!”
“It is to go.”
The customer begins to leave, but stops to throw their straw wrapper away.
As they leave, I imagine shooting them in the spine and seeing the bloody mass of bullet, blood, and body spewing out their front. I imagine injecting distilled water into their veins and watching their body killing itself because their blood can no longer transport oxygen. I wonder why I began working here in the first place, with the crappy customers, the angry facial hair I grew, the clowing smell of bean lard that now infects my clothes and my hair—and the damn talking trash cans. Yes, they say thank you. Yes, they warn customers when they’re compacting. And, yes, Virginia, they are still fucking trash cans, and, yes, after ten months of working here, I know they talk.
“HEY! The trash cans talk! Did you know that?”
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