When I was 16 I worked at McDonald's.
It was right in downtown Stockholm by the mushroom on Stureplan. The first McDonald's in Sweden and there were pictures on the wall from when it was opened and the king was there to cut the ribbon.
I used to work four times a week and I remember how strict everything was. One of my coworkers once took a cup of boiling water (without the tea-bag) during a night-shift and my boss found out and yelled at him like there was no tomorrow.
The hierarchy was ridiculous. Our franchise manager would come by sometimes and whenever my boss saw him he'd become so stiff. We all sucked his ass, and our boss sucked his boss' ass and so on and so forth. If any of the higher-ups were in the kitchen you knew things were serious and that there was no more fooling around. Everyone would get nervous around them, and they wore blue shirts instead of our black polos to show their superiority. It worked real well because I remember looking up to all the higher-ups because they were like machines and could make big macs and cheeseburgers faster than anyone else.
The process of making burgers was planned to a t. First you put the meat on the grill and then you turn around to warm up the bread. While the bread is in the toaster you prepare the paper that goes around the burger later. Then the bread is done and you click the ketchup once, mustard. Onions, two slices of pickles. You had to be real careful not to put three slices of pickle on the cheeseburgers because if there was a secret checkup and someone found out you'd be in trouble. Two slices of pickle.
If done correctly, at this point everything should be ready so that as soon as the meat-timer goes off you'll be there to put the meat on the prepared bread.
As for the mcflurry's there was a scale that we were supposed to use to weigh them to make sure we didn't go over whatever 214 grams was supposed to constitute a mcflurry. Luckily even the bosses understood that that was over the top and we never used it.
The worst part of the job was during lunch on weekends when I had to walk around and give balloons to the kids. I was huge back then from all the weightlifting I did and had a backslick and wore braces. I'd walk around awkwardly with my too-tight McDonald's logoed polo and ask the kids if they wanted a balloon and I'd always blush because I thought it was really embarrassing and I didn't know how to act around children.
There was one 30-something who would come in every Tuesday evening sometime between 10 and 11 to order an oreo mcflurry and a glass of hot water. He always paid the exact amount in coins and looked kind of like a tweaker. He wore a top-hat like Slash, a thin black coat, one black-leather glove on his left hand and a white one on his right.
We didn't speak much but had an unspoken-of understanding that we appreciated each other and I was always extra nice to him. He was the only customer I had whose order was always the same so I could prepare his mcflurry and hot water before he had even reached the cashier.
His clothes were always a bit raggedy and I used to wonder where he slept and came from. I couldn't make out where in Sweden he was from from his accent, and he was always giggling.
I was working four times a week after school and on weekends, and during the cold winter months it would be dead except for Fridays and Saturdays when all the drunk people from the clubs nearby would come in for a latenight bigmac.
One weekday evening in November of 2017 I was working and it was practically empty except for the regular drunkard sitting by the window with his quarter pounder reeking of vomit and alcohol.
I was happy to see a put-together man in a blue suit and gray hair walk in and welcomed him. He wanted a double quarter pounder and a large coke and large fries. Yes sir!
It was odd seeing him binge eating a box of fancy chocolates but he offered me one, that I had to decline. We weren't allowed to accept anything from a customer, no matter who or what it was, and I was scared of being found out.
A coworker was making the double quarter pounder in the kitchen so I went to get his coke, but when I turned around again he had broken down crying and his face and fingers were covered in chocolate.
I asked him if he was ok. He asked me how old I was and I could tell from his slurred speech and bloodshot eyes that we was pretty drunk.
- 16.
- You won't understand. You're too young.
He went on, and told me that he'd been out all day drinking, smoking and eating fast-food. I haven't done this in thirty years, he said.
I asked him why today,
- I found out that my wife of 30 years has been cheating on me for the past 10, with her personal tennis-trainer in Sundsvall.
Whatever I do, I won't be enough. I was paying for the personal trainer. I've done everything, worked hard, quit smoking and drinking, we live in a 10 room apartment by Karlaplan and have a private swimming pool. Our kids are grown up and we traveled the world. And now this, she betrayed me and there’s no coming back. What am I to do with my life?
His pain was really saddening and I didn't know what to say so I tried to just listen. But he was too sad to speak. We shared a moment of silence until there were new customers coming in and I had to leave him. I told him I hope it works out and he shrugged his shoulders, stumbling away crying with his greasy food in his hand.