Dear fast food employees of the world,
First of all, just know that I am so sorry. I’ve been in your non-slip shoes, if only for a summer, but I feel your pain. The awkward hours, the screaming customers, the incessant fry beeping, the infinite number of trays to sanitize--trust me, I know what you’re going through.
The fast food restaurants are the crutches, the wheels, and the hover boards of this nation. One restaurant serves hundreds, if not thousands of people a day, and despite the terror of near-constant rush hours (with the perpetual inconvenience of being understaffed), you just aren’t acknowledged as a hard worker by the vast majority of society. There are times that you may be doing the work of two, maybe three people, and there will still be someone screaming at you because you don’t serve pork chops at McDonald’s and the straws ran out in the lobby. I’m here to tell you that first of all, it’s not your fault there are no pork chops, and second of all, your job really can get better.
The glory of fast food is that the angry customers aren’t the regulars; they’re just a daily inconvenience to disrupt the otherwise indifferent crowd. Most people you see will be for the first and last time. They might be grumpy, happy, sad or mad, but they are all there for one reason: food. It’s your job to get it to them and let them move on. As much as you might be tempted otherwise, don’t let one negative customer ruin your interactions with dozens of pleasant ones.
You see, the trick to surviving a job in fast food is to assume the personality of a warrior and attack the day’s invaders with kindness, helpfulness, and the most authentic smile you can muster. If you pretend your job is the best, most fascinating thing that ever happened--and you do it convincingly--the customers suddenly become a little more friendly, a little more understanding and significantly less impactful on your self esteem. (Heck, maybe you’ll even be discovered by a Hollywood big wig and replace Leonardo DiCaprio for your stellar acting skills.)
Fast food isn’t glamorous. You come home smelling like ice cream, french fries, bread, and ketchup. Your knees ache from standing on a tile floor for seven and a half hours and you can’t take your hat off for fear of exposing your Grand Canyon-esque hair dent. However, you do get the occasional hug from a kid for whom you found the perfect toy. You are the recipient of a thankful glance as you carry a plate of food to a new mother with her hands full. You get to pet someone’s Pomeranian as they are stuck in the drive through. You are a brilliant human being who just made dozens of people’s lives a little better, and you should be proud of yourself. Other people may not always appreciate your work just because you’re “Mr. McBurger-Flipper,” but I know you’re more than that. Someday, the rest of the world will catch up too.
In the meantime, I hope that your headset never runs out of batteries, you don’t get an order of 26 kids meals through the drive through, your ice cream machine is always working and you never slip in another puddle of fryer oil.
I promise--with the right attitude, it does get better.
(And if you've ever ran out of a semi-popular menu item, take pride in the fact that you now know the nation would probably fall apart without you.)
Sending sympathy as your friend from afar,
Lynsey
