Work Isn’t Terminal
By H. Russell Smith
Original Copyright 1991
Revised 2003
Work. Work is not anyone’s favorite thing. In fact, many people attempt to avoid it as frequently as they can—often disregarding the cost. Work is very simply slaving away for a minimal amount of payment. One is not going to get rich working, especially with most available jobs. Isn’t it ironic? In order to become rich, one must work. Yet many rich folks don’t work at all. If one doesn’t have employment with a high-paying party, one cannot get rich. It is an endless circle of bad logic.
I had a job once. At 15, I applied at a fast-food restaurant. Luckily, or maybe not-so-luckily, I was hired. . I couldn’t afford a car, so I would walk, proudly displaying my out-of-style goofy uniform, as the store was located nearby. It was summer, and I was there almost every day.
It appeared a great opportunity to meet exciting new people and renew old friendships. Some of the new folks eventually were to be my closest friends, including an old acquaintance who started the same day. We hadn’t seen each other in over ten years. Because of my tender age, I had a certain set of restrictions to follow. I worked really hard for the first months there, and those immediately following my 16th birthday. After a brief period, I received my first raise. It was only a nickel per hour, but it made me feel important—needed, valued, loved. Thus having learned the system well, I energetically performed my shift’s duties.
I worked mostly afternoons and evenings. With the eminent onset of the scholastic year, many of the college summer break crew left for their respective institutions. A giant, sucking black-hole void surfaced in morning shift—pulling me to its event-horizon. Eventually, it dragged me in over the edge. It was final. I had been enlisted in the ranks of the weekend morning force. Every weekend. No more staying out late on Friday night. Recalling this now, I wish I would have burned my fry-cook draft card.
After nearly mastering the universe of breakfast activities, another old acquaintance trained me on the final post: the most honorable biscuit chef. He would begin the opening shift and I would take the torch a few hours later, when I managed to stumble out of bed. It was fun for the first few episodes, but the plot never improved. Nonetheless, I was one of the few, the proud, the biscuit makers.
Immediately following his dismissal—the result of a one-sided punching game which the wall lost-- I became the head biscuit chef. My field promotion was decreed while management patched a fist-sized gaping hole that swallowed his fast-food career.
With privilege of title, comes ultimate sacrifice. My opening shift started at five in the morning. It didn’t take long to become disinterested in this arrangement. The boredom soon give messy birth to creative, fun, performances. Covered with flour and dried biscuit dough, I reveled in cleaning the dining room. Nothing could make me smile faster than placing empty Styrofoam food containers in the heated food bin. As breaks from conformity were under a strict moratorium, I excelled in my performance, with a cardboard overcoat, sideways hat, and a twinkle in the eye. Of course, the wonderful warmth from the small fire in the walk-in freezer was welcomed by many.
A dear friend once commented about some of our antics:” What can one expect from a bunch of hormone-brimming teenagers in a food factory.” I think we just about covered the gamut:
It was against regulation to change into or from work uniforms in the employee break-room. Recalling vividly the numerous individuals performing such infractions, with or without an audience, tele-transports me to another , simpler, yet more daring existence. I had a friend, standing in his underwear who just smiled and waved at a female manager’s shocking discovery. “Hi ma’am!”, he spoke cheerily. She was utterly appalled. So would have been her father if he only knew—he owned the local franchise.
We, the lowly employees, didn’t have any real benefits, so we established them ourselves. My friends and I would do “Houdini tricks”. If I didn’t want to deal with a certain manager or perform a dispised task, I would simply vanish. No poof loud bang, no flashing lights—just perhaps a poof of flour and a tiny trail of dried dough. Upon discovery, it was most interesting that I would always be doing SOMETHING that appeared to be needed. This worked well for a long, long time.
The second , and perhaps most valued company perk involved a modified five-finger discount. Its roots were in the snatching of “old” (longer than 10 minutes since cooked) food, and those special little nuggets of processed chicken parts, which, of course, is a crime that held penalties worse than death (getting fired).. With a little refinement and ingenuity, it became a “combo deal”. Close calls with the managers were daily dangers. One would have a mouth full of chicken parts, when an errant manager would stroll through the place to locate a missing employee. He or she would then have to react quickly and close the gaping, shock-actuated feed hole, and submit to interrogation by answering only with nods or shakes of the head. Lesser willed captives would drop their mouths in utter surprise, exposing the now super-ultra-processed poultry product.
Initially, there was no real punishment for these petty offenses, Later, however, it evolved into a scene from a war film. The managers grew less trusting and almost paranoid, going to the extremes of placing little bathroom-sized waste baskets by the nugget cabinet. These were to contain an entire day’s worth of wasted breaded fowl guts. But this served a dual purpose for the crew: if we didn’t have enough nuggets for a given order, some hardened veteran with no conscience would make up the difference with the hours old specimens. This generally happened to the visiting football team who beat our high school.
As does everything neat and wonderful as witnessed through the eyes of inexperience, this job found itself morphed into something very ugly and unrecognizable. So, some two-and-a-half years later, I chose to end my promising and stellar career with the fast food company. Too much had changed all too quickly: changes in management, and almost weekly modifications of policies and procedures. Employees came and went like electrons through the wires of that science-class light-bulb circuit. New products in, new people in. It was a dangerous existence; an entirely different, and strange face for a familiar environment. People were getting fired for the same stunts we pulled. I had too much inertia, and could handle the constant change. I just wasn’t an active part of it anymore; I had lost my faith. But, at least to me, the place was never the same after we passed through.
Returning for a visit just the other day, I could not help but notice there was not a single face I recognized, much less a familiar name or voice. At that very moment, I suddenly came to a realization: a bumper sticker I once read was totally correct. It stated in nice, easy to read printed English: Fast Food Is Neither.