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A tale of sweat, stealing, saliva and the supreme beings who ordered the coolest item on the menu
Years ago your narrator had a McJob.
That’s right, dear reader, before I was signed by Medium with the brief to become their 2023 equivalent of Hunter S Thompson, albeit with class A drugs replaced by red wine and golf, but nevertheless with the challenge to write the longest, most clause-packed sentences on both the platform and in the realm of modern journalism, I was a Burger Flipper.
Burger Flipper, by the way, is a misnomer. Nobody who works at McDonald’s (or, presumably, Burger King et al) actually flips burgers. What you do is you take the anaemic-looking frozen light pink disk of meat and slap it on the grill, close the lid, wait 80 seconds and then you’ve got a perfectly-cooked piece of prime beef just waiting to have something which tastes of something (a sugar and chemical-packed sauce being the typical option) thrown onto it before it is launched into the mouth of a customer.
This was a suburban McDonald’s in a provincial English town in the mid-1990s. It was basically a re-enactment of Lord of The Flies.
Every single member of the ‘crew’ was aged between 17 and 19. All of the managers were aged between 19 and 23. Misbehaviour was rampant.
