Daily Ritual

It's been a while between drinks, hasn't it? Sorry. My personal life is slightly more psychotic than usual, and I've found myself grievously afflicted by writer's block. Hopefully I'll be back to my usual, semi-regular posts soon.

There are far too many people in the world who--lucky bastards--having never had to work in the fast food industry. The consequence of this is that there are a lot of customers who either treat servers at fast food restaurants like shit, or otherwise inadvertently make things difficult for us.

Now one day I may actually write up a post detailing fast food etiquette or something, but for now, here is an example of your average, ten-hour weekend day shift. I worked lots of these during my school terms. Night shifts? Oh, that was just a whole new realm of purgatory.

On your average day, I'd start work at about eight in the morning. For me, and for many of my coworkers, getting to work entailed a twenty-minute bus or car ride to the nearest train station, then anywhere between ten and forty minutes on a train to get to the station in which our restaurant was located--which means leaving the house by seven. For me to get myself and my parents out of bed took at least two hours, so I was getting up at five in the morning so I could serve people their first dose of junk food.

Now, because we worked in a station, we had a fairly predictable ebb and flow of clientele based on the trains coming and going. There were six platforms, and we had lulls of about ten minutes twice an hour, in which we did all those little tasks no one ever thinks of until they're left undone--refilling straw and napkin dispensers and the drink machines, cleaning off tables in the dining room, sweeping and mopping the floors, emptying the bins, wiping down the counters, getting more chips and burger meat out of the freezers. Any customer who hasn't been there will bitch and moan when they can't get a straw right that second, or when their order takes a little longer because we have to restock the fries.

Anyway, the point is, I get in there just before eight o'clock, and rush into the broom closet that passes as a staff room to stash my bag (containing: wallet, hairbrush, extra hair ties, face wipes, coat and civilian clothes--we're not allowed to arrive, leave, or purchase food in uniform, and it is greasy in there) and put on my uncomfortably tight pants, shapeless sack of a shirt, and the ugliest hat in the world. Then I take several deep breaths, (usually) manage to resist the urge to run all the way home screaming, clock on, and march to the front counter with all the joy of your average funeral procession.

A harried-looking manager opens a new register for me and fills the draw with cash, then runs off to deal with whatever crisis has just come up--someone calling in sick, an unhappy customer, the other manager forgetting to order a shipment of bacon. I wave goodbye to the person I'm replacing (who has been on since ten o'clock last night, most of the time,) say hi to the other teenagers on the register, then wait resignedly for my first customer.

They don't waste time--junkies come in thick and fast for their first fat-and-salt fix of the day. We're on breakfast menu, and it sucks--until we switch over to lunch menu, every third or fourth person will want fries, which we're not making yet, or a cheeseburger, which we're not making yet. Breakfast is at least usually slightly quieter than the rest of the day; most people are too busy running to work or wherever to stop and pick up an order.

Either way, we're still run very slightly off our feet. In an hour, I'll fill between twenty and sixty orders. Just to run that past you--that kitchen, behind me? Walking within two metres of it causes you to instantly become coated with a layer of hot oil. Leaning over the chip machine has much the same effect. There's no chance to wipe it off or avoid it. If you've ever wondered why all fast food servers are pimply and gross, this is why.

Now, I make a round trip of about ten metres per order, let's say--that would be about average, given the number of times I have to walk to the freezers or store rooms out back to get something silly as well as the times I have to walk a five metre round trip to get a cup of coke. In reality it's probably slightly more than that, but never mind. Now, after the fifth hour of my shift, I get a half hour-ish break to choke down some food and scull a bottle of water, and I spend probably at least an hour and a half cleaning the dining room or mopping floors. Take out those two hours, and I end up walking about four kilometres per shift. I'm not sure how much distance I cover while cleaning or jogging down to the sandwich shop and back to get something actually edible, but I'd guess it's a fair amount.

Also: I have never once sat down while on shift. Even on the occasions there was free space in the employee closet, I didn't sit down. Most of us don't, simply because we know that if we sit down five hours into a ten hour shift, we will not be able to get back up again.

After the breakfast menu is finished, until at the very least noon, we will get people asking for stuff off of it. For the record: almost every fast food joint finishes it's breakfast menu at about 10:30AM. If you arrive within ten minutes of that time, you might be lucky, but otherwise, we will treat you with derision and scorn until you learn to check your damn watch.

The end of my ten hour shift is the worst part, because I have to somehow gracefully excuse myself with forty customers standing in front of me ready to lynch me if I do not serve them within the next five minutes. I usually end up being at least half an hour late to finish. Just so you know, fast food workers do not get overtime pay--if we stay past our shift, we are not going to be happy about it. We get paid eight bucks an hour and often less, and we're not going to stay on our feet any longer than we have to.

I make the hour-long trip home, eat something--if I can bring myself to after a day of swimming in oil--and collapse into bed. And then I get up the next day and do it again. And I don't even get to spit in the burgers.

I am always polite to those who serve me my fast food. For the love of god, do the same--not everyone is as scrupulous as we are about the cleanliness of your food.