R Taylor Grow
It started the same way that everything seems to start for me: I was waiting in line at a McDonald’s. I had ordered French fries and two apple pies; my companion had requested a Big Mac meal; and a distant acquaintance, coincidentally present, was waiting for three McChickens. My years of McExperience told me it should take mere minutes to complete the orders. But it was midnight, the drive-thru was full, there were perhaps six other customers in the lobby and there were only two individuals preparing the food in the grill. So my companion and I leaned against the wall and small-talked for the next 10 minutes.
Anytime I force one of my friends to accompany me to McDonald’s past midnight, I try to make it a point to explain in what way the crew is at a disadvantage; to explain to what extent they deserve our patience; to demand that we continue our delightful small-talk as long as we must; and to promise that we will have a real conversation once we enter the privacy of the booth. There are roughly four to five crew members during third-shift carrying out the same operations that a crew of 12 to 15 maintain during the daylight hours, I explain. Arguably fewer individuals are visiting McDonald’s between 2 a.m. and 5 a.m. than 2 p.m. and 5 p.m., but the work is the same (if only at a slower pace) and when a rush ensues three to five people must do almost exactly what 12 to 15 have done 12 hours earlier.
But to return to the present scene. My order was easy to fill; because I ordered nothing that could be made in the grill, the cashier could bag the fries and pies while waiting for the grill to produce the cheeseburgers and Egg McMuffins for both drive-thru and the lobby. I danced in the victorious manner hungry twenty-somethings dance when they have received McDonald’s French fries and waited with my companion until his Big Mac was available. But as we waited, something happened. The third cast member of this particular rendition of McReflections looked at his phone for perhaps the third time since I had arrived, walked to the front of the counter and demanded: “I ordered three McChickens. Where are they?”
His tone of voice was not as sharp as I have had to endure behind the McCounter; his body language not nearly as aggressive as my more memorable encounters; and, admittedly, his frustration with waiting not even that outrageous considering the time he had spent loitering in the lobby. However, this acquaintance and I had previously worked together at a fast food establishment, and I could not help but think that he knew better; that he had violated an unspoken, sympathetic agreement; that he had denied the professional friendship that should inevitably form among those with a shared working experience. And I, the simple observer, felt heartbroken.
The cashier did not seem particularly affected by the interaction, but that did not stop my pensive mind from wandering into self-interrogating territory. I had learned at age 16, when I first began my employment with the McDonald’s corporation, that working fast food was transformative — it somehow molded rude young customers into respectful chaps with an ability to engage with the employee-consciousness at any time. However, watching my distant acquaintance shatter my image of the reformed hooligan with his sledgehammer demand, I realized that my illusion was simply that.
I believe a significant part of the collegiate experience is opening people’s eyes, to remove them from the sheltered land of illusion in which they have grown accustomed in the first eighteen or so years of their life. As disheartening as it was, watching this distant acquaintance did so: for the first time, I watched a past fast-food employee abuse a current fast-food employee. Though I whispered my incredulity to my companion, I simply put a bandage on my heart and told myself that this fracture will heal eventually. It is a necessary wound.