A shitload of pickles

This weather is starting to do weird things to my brain. The snow was so bad this morning that I had to carry my son to the car. They had not shoveled at all and the guy who plows here was just getting started so there wasn’t even a pathway to walk. The snow was up to the lower level of my thighs and I almost fell going down the front steps, which would have really produced a William H. Macy-style snow tantrum ala Fargo/ice scraper. It took me so long to get the car cleaned off I knew we were going to be late even though we left earlier than normal. Almost got stuck, saw several accidents, blah blah etc. ad nauseum which we’ve all been saying, experiencing, posting. I finally gave up fighting in trying to get back north and just came home and am working from here. If they don’t like it, they can fire me, seriously, because I’m not killing myself in this shit.

So then, all the coffee, and then some more coffee and oh noes because this pot is the last of the coffee at home, so hopefully the news of the warmer weather coming in is true. And finally some kind of breakfast. I’m in the middle of proofing several different things so it had to be something I could put together rapidly, and also my blood sugar was getting low, so it had to be substantial. I decided on a veggie burger, because why not, and also Amy’s Texas burger is actually quite delicious. Every rare once and awhile growing up, my Mom would fix us cheeseburgers for breakfast. I always thought it was the best thing ever. So I’m chopping up pickles to put on the burger and prepping the bun. I have never made a burger in my life and not thought back to my days in high school where I worked at Wendy’s. I still, in fact, use a spoon to put on the mayo, just like they taught me there, instead of a knife, which seems to work better to me. But I always think of Wendy’s when I’m making a burger. The time I was so, so hungover and was working the sandwich station, with all those rows and rows of little metal pans with various condiments, and the sickly wet warmth of the overhead bun warmer, and right next to the hot, hot grill and the gross bucket of congealing “chili meat” that was piling up. I had a vision of puking all over all those trays and finally got my manager to let me leave, after I had run to the bathroom to puke three times. I was maybe 15 or 16. It was a bit of a rough place to work, as my hometown was kind of rough. One time a guy was super high and went through the drive through and ordered a couple of cheeseburgers. This was the old days and the drive-through speaker played overhead in the kitchen, not into a little headset, and if you were busy and working the window, you had to have it turned up really loud so you wouldn’t miss anything. “And I want extra pickles on both,” the guy said. “Ok,” said the girl working drive-through, “Two cheeseburgers, extra pickles. Anything else?” “I mean a lot of pickles, you dig?” He said, “I mean a SHITLOAD OF PICKLES!” the guy yelled. Everyone in the dining room looked up at us and we all just cracked up. I remember having to borrow the manager’s car to drive to another Wendy’s to get something we were out of, I don’t remember what, and not knowing how to drive his car because it was an automatic, and I’d only ever driven my Mom’s car, which was a stick. P, N, 1, 2, what the hell did all that mean?

Another time, I had just gone home and apparently right after I left, some guy with a gun came in the back door, which was always unlocked because we were cleaning up and taking the trash out or whatever. Rich, the guy who was working back there, was mopping, and apparently he beat this fucking potential thief with the mop until the guy gave up and ran out the back. Mansfield. You gotta be tough. There are a lot of stories about my time working there; the drugs we did in the bathroom, the day my friend Rhonda came in after she had an abortion before work. I asked her if she wasn’t supposed to be at home resting and she said, “Why? Ain’t nothing hurt but your cunt.” The times my boyfriend, who worked the grill, abused me physically while we were working. Standing in the walk-in cramming down a really hot piece of chicken because there was no time for a break, steam coming from everywhere and your mouth burning while your hands were freezing.

The jobs I’ve had as an adult have largely just not been this entertaining. I can’t decide whether that’s too bad or really a good thing. Probably a little of both.

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