Bic Mac Heartbreak
My feet hurt from standing for 6 hours in mandatory all-black Payless sneakers. On a night like this, most grill guys would flip a trash can upside down and use it as a stool to rest their feet, but Judy was the manager that night, and everyone knew Judy was a hardass.
It was 11pm on a Monday in a small town McDonald’s. I was wiping down the stainless steel countertops for the 4th time to stave off boredom, staring at the silver grooves and scratches left by years of use. I’d restocked the food I’d need for the rest of the shift, mopped the floors, done some dishes and scraped down the grill. I’d even cleaned the grease trays, which is exactly as gross as it sounds, though “trough” is probably a more apt description than “tray”. It was quiet. The lobby closed before the drive through and none of the coworkers I liked shared this shift with me.
The silence was split by an electronic ding. I instinctually looked at the small screen above me where new orders would appear in neon green and purple. This order: a single Big Mac.
I grabbed a sesame seed bun from its plastic bag to toss in the toaster, but noticed a small tear in the “crown” (that’s the top bun, for you uninitiated). It normally wouldn’t be enough to fuss over, and I’d proceed as normal.
But for some reason, tonight was different.
I’d grown accustomed to lunch rushes where I could whip together a two-cheeseburger meal in 12 seconds. With this being the only order in the queue, I felt like I had all the time in the world… time that I would spend making this mystery customer the greatest Big Mac they had ever had the pleasure of ordering.
A tear in the crown was unbefitting of the masterpiece I was about to create.
I replaced the damaged bun with a new one, starting the toasting process and sliding down the aisle to check on the available ingredients. A couple of patties I’d grilled earlier that night sat in a plastic, paper-lined yellow tray in a heated cabinet designed to keep food ready to serve. They looked dry, shriveled and sad - unacceptable. I laid out two frozen patties on the freshly cleaned grill and started assembling the rest of my ingredients as I heard sizzling begin behind me. Rather than use the lukewarm greens that had been sitting out most of the night, I ran to the walk-in freezer for crisp lettuce. I hand-picked the crunchiest pickles from the bin. I started building my gift to this customer, making sure there were appealing distributions of each ingredient. The special sauce and onions were evenly spread, the lettuce and cheese were squared in the center of the bun. I looked proudly at my creation, twirling the secret sauce gun like Doc Holliday.
This Big Mac looked like the commercials. It wasn’t just a burger- it was art.
I gently closed the box of my masterpiece, careful to make sure its contents wouldn’t shift during hand-off. I left it on the front counter, where the drive-through shift would bag it with an order of fries and the customer’s chosen beverage.
I leaned back with a soft smile on my face, peeling off my latex gloves. It was good to have fun at your job every once and a while, and I was proud of how hard I’d worked that night.
Disaster struck as I heard a hushed F-bomb from my coworker’s lips.
I looked up and watched in horrifying slow motion as my hard work was destroyed. “Drive-through guy” was filling a large Diet Coke when they turned sharply and knocked the bag with the customer’s order off the counter. Fries and shredded lettuce spilled onto the burgundy tiled floor as I heard the Big Mac’s cardboard box pop open and the picturesque burger I’d created become a smushed mess.
My coworker hurriedly scooped up the bag with a few more choice curses and served it out the window without a second thought.
That mystery customer had an average late night fast food experience. They’ll never know that some 16 year old kid had put his heart and soul between those toasted buns.
