Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 64929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64929 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
These were the same people who ate out — and not in the fun way — at least three times a week, going through the drive-through while on their cell phones without ever casting a glance at the cashier. They bitched out the poor people at the register for a signage issue outside, they complained that it couldn’t possibly be fast food if it took that long, and honestly, they made me question my faith in humanity sometimes.
Yet I still asked if they’d like fries with that with the brightest, most oblivious smile I could possibly feign every fucking day. The people who tried to blame a late night or a hangover for poor performance usually had to deal with all sorts of grief about it not being a good enough excuse. I probably shouldn’t have felt proud of the fact that I was the example of “leaving it at the front door,” but damn it, I worked fucking hard.
Today, though, I was somewhere between cloud fucking nine and hell. For the first time, I felt myself faltering. It was noticeable enough to where Monique pulled me to the side, giving me that side-eyed manager look that had rarely been directed at me.
“What’s going on?” she asked, closing the door to her office. I opened my mouth to speak, but even though she’d just asked me a question, she raised a hand before I could. I shut up, slouching into the chair in the tiny office we were sitting in.
“I’ve seen you drunk, just rolled out of bed, hungover, and there was the time where you hadn’t slept in two days and were surviving on Red Bull,” she remarked. “And fries,” I interjected, flashing her my best impression of a smile. “You make the best fries.” She didn’t look impressed, but she rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know how to pour frozen fries into a fryer when you people aren’t pulling your weight.” There was another of those pointed looks.
Damn, I didn’t think I could handle those on a regular basis. I liked being the teacher’s pet, so to speak, and being grilled was not my idea of a good time. “Hey, some of those idiots come in here like that every day,” I defended myself. “I’m entitled to an off day here and there.” “Not when you’re being considered for assistant manager,” she told me. I blinked at her. “Seriously?”
Monique nodded. “Steve’s quitting, and we want someone solid. You’ve never called out, you have a great record, you’re good at herding those spoiled cats…” She paused, then added, “We’d still be able to work around your school schedule. I printed out a few things on the company’s college reimbursement program, too.”
I stared at her for so long that she crumpled up a piece of paper and threw it at my head. She sighed, leaning back. She obviously took my lack of response as a refusal because she went on, “I know a career in fast food isn’t really what people think about. It’s a shitty first job that’s almost a rite of passage. It sucks to be out there on the line a lot of times, and customers can be thankless assholes. But there are perks for sticking around, too. That business degree,” she handed me a neatly stapled bundle of papers, “could be covered. Requires a commitment for a couple years after, but the advancement prospects are pretty good.”
I eyed her. “Don’t tell me you’re moving on without me.” Monique flashed me a grin as I took the papers. “Not yet, but I’m thinking about applying for district manager when it opens up. This doesn’t have to be a half-assed high school job. Someone has to have their head on straight.”
“You know I’m not straight, right?” I asked her, deadpan.
“You know I don’t care which team you play on, right?” she retorted. “You know what I mean.” I did, but I wasn’t sure what to make of this. The idea of being able to graduate without so many student loans was unbelievably tempting, but it meant having to stay in this industry for at least another couple of years — which also meant another couple of years of people silently or not-so-silently judging me.
It bothered me that people thought you had to be a social reject to want to work at a place like this, especially because it was hilariously untrue. Social reject? No, you had to have people skills if you didn’t want to lose your goddamn mind ten minutes into day one.
Those very people skills were what kept me from throttling the folks who snidely told me that the only career I’d have with my tattoos would be in the hospitality industry — like it was an insult. The words weren’t.
The knowledge that they were trying to rip me down so they could build themselves up was. All I could do was remind myself that they were lying to themselves about the importance of their jobs shredding paper.