Fast Food Karma

I understand, accept, that not all of us are cut from the same cloth. Not all of us are destined for greatness. I accept that if a society is to function well there must be someone to do every job. I know this.

I just worry.

I worry that those whose elevators don’t go all the way to the top floor are preparing my food when I grab a quick bite at lunch time. I really stress about this. It might become an obsession, a well justified obsession.

Recently, I went to a local Subway to get a sub for my partner, John. He wanted a large Italian, no black olives, no tomatoes. It seemed simple. My daughter Jamie, her son Ryan, and I entered the shop. I walked to the counter and placed my order, “I’d like a large Italian, no olives, no tomatoes, please.” I even said please.

“Yes, what would you like?”

I glanced toward Jamie and repeated my request loudly, thinking that perhaps, the gentleman was hard of hearing, “A large Italian, no olives, no tomatoes, please.” I spoke slowly and tried to enunciate as clearly as possible. I thought maybe English was not his first language, he looked to be of Indian, perhaps Pakistani, descent. I smiled graciously.

“Yes, what kind of sub?”

Ryan, who at 11 isn’t as subtle as the adults he is surrounded by, laughed and walked away. He began investigating the soda fountain machine. I stopped smiling. There was clearly a communication barrier here, and I don’t think it had to do with hearing or language.

“Italian. Large. No olives. No tomatoes.” No please.

The man looked sincerely puzzled, but he was hesitant to repeat his question again. “Bread?” was all he said.

“White.”

“Good. Now what kind of sandwich?”

Jamie lost her composure. I was looking for the candid camera. How did this man keep his job? This was a fast food place. It wasn’t fast, and I was beginning to wonder if I would ever get the promised food.

“Italian. No olives. No tomatoes.”

“What do you want on it?”

“Lettuce, peppers, onions…” Finally, we were getting somewhere.

“No, no what meat?”

Jamie had to walk outside.

“Italian cold cuts.” I replied, it was my turn to be reluctant, I mean, he was the expert, right? Maybe that’s not what they called them anymore? I read the menu on the wall behind the cash register, and indeed Italian was a choice. I read to him from the menu, “Salami, provolone, you know, Italian.”

“Oh, why didn’t you say so?”

Ryan followed his mother out unable to contain his hysterical laughter any longer. I counted exact change to pay him with and left the shop more than a little mystified. How did he get this job? How did he keep this job? Who was his boss? He was behind the counter alone. I decided to cross this shop off my places-to-go list.

If this was the only instance, I would think that perhaps it was just an anomaly. But it’s not, and this phenomenon of less than brilliant people can be seen, at least in my life, in many fast food establishments. I know that likely sounds elitist, but it’s true. The phenomenon isn’t in any way connected to race or gender. Just fast food restaurants.

A trip to the local ice cream shop produced a similar situation for me. A young man at the drive through didn’t take my order. He insisted I drive around. I was a little skeptical; he took the order from the car ahead of me, but did what I was told. He took the order from the car behind me and I began to worry.

When it was finally my turn at the window he said, “That’ll be $14.”

“Excuse me, but I haven’t ordered anything. You told me to drive around. I would like…”

“No, you ordered two sundaes and a chocolate cone.” He was a clean-cut WASPy looking child of about seventeen. It was a deceptive look, in retrospect, almost Eddie Haskell-ish.

“Really, I didn’t. And I think I know what I ordered. I have ordered nothing, yet.” Ryan and Ian shrank into their seats as the two young men in behind the window went away to discuss what they were going to do with what they now perceived to be extra ice cream. I had leapt to the concl usionthat it belonged to the family in the car behind me. But that was too much of a leap for the fast-food-geniuses. I looked to Ian, “See, this is exactly why you should go to college. You must grow up to get a good job – or people like this could be your boss.”

The young man returned to the window, “So, what’d ya say you wanted?”

Hmm. I glanced at Ian and said one word before I ordered my two cones, “College.”

And then today, I called the little sub shop next door to order a sandwich. A BLT: bacon, lettuce and tomato.

“What would you like on it?” asked the young woman who answered the phone.

“Just mayo, salt, and pepper.” Simplicity is a two dollar lunch.

“Ok, and? Do you want bacon, lettuce, and tomato?”

“Um, yes, I do, thus BLT.”

Preparing fast food isn’t rocket science – how are they making it so complicated? And do I really want these people preparing food for me? I think I have perhaps incurred some sort of bad-food-service karma. I think I will just pack my food from now on, but you should be very careful out there.

Tags: The Satan Series