I’ve worked multiple jobs through my life. None of which were the best nor worst thing I ever did. Sure, they were frustrating, but I did have more fun than I didn’t during my time at these jobs. These jobs were: McDonald’s and a Cinemark.
Both of which I had a few stories to tell.
The first story was my first taste of workplace embarrassment. This was back in McDonald’s, roughly two or three months into my time at the restaurant. At the time, there was this new girl; I think she was the GM’s niece or something. She was a sweet girl, and we were decent friends by the time she left.
Though a small part of me never forgave her for this.
See, on the day this story takes place, one of the other McDonald’s stores needed a single unit of our regular meat. Now, keep this in mind: the regular meat (what you’ll find on the regular cheeseburgers and all the small stuff) are kept in a big box that weighs about ten pounds. So when the other store’s manager showed up to pick it up, my manager sent me to go get it and place it in her car.
On my way out, I notice that the new girl is mopping the floor in the lobby. She hadn’t put down the wet floor sign, but I’m not an idiot; I knew that the floor was wet. Still, I had confidence that I wouldn’t fall on my ass.
My confidence was misplaced.
Almost immediately after steeling my resolve and confidence, my right leg slipped forward, then slipped back the other way as my left leg joined the fray. The two traded places a few times, sliding back and forth, before they performed a semi-split and I caught myself on a corner. At this point, I think I’m fine and that I’m in the clear. To respond, my legs slowly slid down and I fell flat on my face.
With a ten pound box of frozen beef crushing my arms.
Aching and annoyed, I picked myself up, limped over to the wet floor sign, and slammed it onto the ground, simply stating “This. Use it.” before picking up the box and resuming my duty.
I’m willing to bet that she thought I was an asshole for a long time.
The worst part of this disaster wasn’t even the fall itself: it was the fallout. See, when I came back, my boss asked me if I was okay. I nodded and went back to it, as I was eager to pass the remainder of the time left in my shift. Then, as I’m going to clock out, I see everyone crowded around the manager’s computer.
Watching the footage of me falling on my ass. The same footage that my boss would then upload to her Facebook page.
Thanks C (I’ll just call her C) I appreciate your concern.
I got no end to shit for that for the next two weeks. Thanks everyone, I love you. It was a good time.
The best thing is; that wasn’t even the worst injury I ever received while working there. A few months later, in early June or late May, while I was cleaning the grill, I had a little accident. See, the grills at McDonald’s (and most fast-food places, I imagine) are these big metal beasts that open and close like a super hot book, with a set of these heat resistant sheets (I always fucking forget what they were called) locked on the top. These were several hundred degrees hot at all times, even during the cleaning process.
This was operated by two simple buttons: a black button to close, and a red button to open. Remember these: they’ll be important.
During the cleaning process, the cleaner (which was me most days) needed to remove the sheets on the top, carry them over to the sink, and spray them clean. This took the bulk of the time, as scrubbing and spraying down the grill was comparatively a lot less time consuming. Still, with both of these processes combined, it takes about an hour to get the whole thing done.
This time, it took three.
When I was reattaching these sheets (which is always nerve-wracking as you have to get all up in the grill to do it) I bumped the black button with my knee. So, seemingly out of nowhere, as I’m reattaching these thingamabobs, the grill descended upon my arms. I managed to pull out in time to avoid any sever damage, but not in time to avoid getting a nasty burn on my left arm. A burn that would leave the single largest scar on my body to date.
I call it Grill, in honor of the device that gave it to me in the first place.
All things considered, I probably should’ve gone home. While I was treating it (with a little help from my boss, who we shall call R) everyone one of my coworkers came back to see the damages. None of them enjoyed what they saw.
Although none of them had it as bad of my coworker, who we shall call Johnny, who was watching the accident happen from the other end of the kitchen. He later told me that, from his angle, he thought that I had gotten both arms stuck in the grill.
I can still recall the horror on his face as he told me that story.
Huh. It’s only now, two stories later, that I realize that both of these stories involve me severely injuring myself. I guess those are just the moments I remember the most from my time at McDonald’s.
And I haven’t even mentioned the strawberry pie that gave me a set of burn scars on my hand. But that’s a story for another day.
I’ve got plenty of other stories to tell, but I think I’ll save those for another day. If I were to tell all of them here, this post would be the longest I’ve ever written, and it’s already getting up there in length.
Don’t worry though: I’ll be sure to come back to that strawberry cream pie of death soon enough. That story is just too good to not tell.
Honestly, no matter how bad the job was, I always enjoyed working at these places for the sole reason of having some fun stories to tell. No matter how miserable it was, you can always find something to laugh about later in life.
And in the end, isn’t that all you need?