I’d do it.
You couldn’t stop me.
If you knew what I knew.  Saw the shit I saw.
You’d do it too.

I wouldn’t be a manager.
I wouldn’t consider being an assistant either.
Or anything, any other position that might require responsibility or the opportunity for me to be left alone.
Unsupervised.  Incharge.

Burger King was my favourite, the best, job I’ve ever worked in this universe.

I bought infinity pairs of Rebook Hi-Tops.
I invested in a rainbow of Ralph Lauren.
I wore penny loafers to change fryer oil.
I replaced them whenever they smelled like french fries.
Regularly.
That shit didn’t matter.

Before I could get the job my mom had to help with some ‘creative’.
She could probably tell you, at least this is how she justified it, that I was the MOST incredibly talented 13 y/o she had and that she only wanted to see me spread my corporate wings.
And buy my own shit.

It was a push that almost left me but a splatter, Mr THE Man said no.  He said son, you need to be 15 to could ‘get’ a Social Insurance number.
Interestingly enough (no doubt a result of the Keiller versus Thebitchassgovernment) TODAYS youth can get their SI at 12.

My first card.  A genuine piece of awesome.
Almost as empowering as finding that first hair or hoisting my first dual deck ghetto blaster with flashing lights to indicate LOUD!

ID that said I was something.  Even if it was what I wasn’t.  I knew then, it wouldn’t be the last time.

That said, this victory was almost overturned after I marched into the BK that afternoon (BK, that’s what we called it) and demanded to see the manager.
Ken was olde.
Ken was the manager.
He was tall so he was wise.  Ken (the then Mr THE King) said I needed to be 15 going on 16

I was deflated.  That was the day when my very own intuitive skills sprouted.

“Obviously Ken, that requirement is fucking stupid, I HAVE an SI card…SOOOO, being that I am 15, 16 is what comes next”.

Sold.
Ken took me under his wing, immediately he approved of my skills.
Because in those days you started the very day you applied.  Sometimes (like that time at the Comic Den – I was 11 and worked for anything in cellophane) your bike gets stolen in all the excitement.

Not long after Ken was fired.
Or promoted.
Either way he was dead to me.

I worked with Fred.
Fred was awesome at baseball.
Baseball pretty much sucks more than everything, so it didn’t really matter.

To his credit, he did make a wicked SWAMP.  *No sense looking up SWAMP POP in google.  That isn’t what it was.

Aside: I did start making SWAMP cereal for #3 recently.

Fred and I made a good team.  I was attractive and smart, he did what he was told.
He doesn’t anymore and people no longer laugh at him.
We’ve sorta grown apart.

Fred and I filled the drive thru box with strawberry shake, rigged a shopping cart to act as a drive-thru actuator (to simulate traffic, sending the headsets a blaze), we traffic’ed hundreds of those tiny sugary breakfast drinks to our 13 y/o friends, we hid in the freezer (many times a day) to eat a gross of chicken nuggets or attempt the UNPOSSIBLE quadruple Whopper, Fred worked up to consuming three packets of ketchup PER onion ring, a record that might still stand.  We locked our (female) night manager in the dumpster and stirred the rats with a deluge of snow balls…she was possibly bitten but no one believed her.  Why would they, telling stories like that.  She was also lonely.  So, we made up an admirer that called from the donut store, left notes on the counter.  She quit.  Possibly to be with him, in France.  One night Renee melted his face with fryer oil and ruined ANOTHER pair of my penny loafers.   One day Mr Lee kicked a ceiling tile (at the front cash, in front of girls) to tell me he was very angry.  And that he was flexible.  It was like seventy feet in the air.  But I wasn’t gay then either.

One day I went to work, it was fun.
But.

I mean, so, I quit.

I had recently turned 15 and done EVERYTHING.
Nothing that Fred and I had done, none of our accomplishments had brought the fame and notoriety we had anticipated.
But I was wrong.  I thought I was the funniest thing on the planet.

THAT mattered.  I should probably still be there.

Today I saw this video on The Awesomer, I laughed.
It left me feeling empty.

Then I ate a Big Mac.
Cursed the wretched sauce and passed out at my desk.

So this is what you get.

Comments
  • big ring

    maybe Ken got fired for “taking you under his wing”?!?!??
    - did you spend an obscene amount of time in the walk-in freezer with Ken looking for special sauce? perhaps . . . .

    i too had a lovely job in the fast food industry: the golden boobs. working for Ronald McDonald was the best. all the chicken mcnuggets that you could eat from the chicken mcnugget warming drawers, wrapped in cheese, sprinkled with reconstituted onions, dipped in the very ketchup dispenser (with my greasy pudgy 17 year old hands that I probably popped zits on my chin during my break) used to put onto your 1/4 pounder with cheese. yummy.

    i still have my McDonalds apron and name tag – true

    this might be one of your better recent posts . . .

  • Grant

    Genius! I laughed, I cried, I found myself with the uncomfortable realization that it’s really not YOUR fault. I blame Ken, I blame your mother, I blame the King.

    God Speed Petuh…God Speed.

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