He had ambitions of speed walking in the Olympics for Hungary. My interviewer asks me personal questions and reveals some things about himself. He tells a customer to move seats and interviews me on a sticky table. He is of average height. He wears a suit and has two children. He tells me how to pronounce his name, I repeat mine.
Imagine McDonalds in Coventry. I cross the road, I’m in my head. I look for traces of mascara on my eyelids and under. I want to look immaculate so when people disrespect me I have something to live for. My dramatic eyeliner was the last shred of pride I held onto.
People are hungry, they’re tired. They want to eat me. On our break we trade stories of unwanted advances from customers. One girl says a middle aged woman found her on Facebook and sent her paragraphs declaring her love for her. “I’ve been watching you, you’re always so nice, I can tell you’re curious about this. There’s something there.” Apparently here’s your diet coke means I have latent homosexual tendencies. My message on Grindr isn’t so dramatic. But he recognised me and sent me a few dick pics I didn’t ask for. I didn’t mind. I kept the screenshots, though. Here’s your receipt.
After a few shifts I get into my customer service persona. I’m cheerful, I grin and I say bear with. I’m getting good at this everybody loves a tranny. Ok not everyone, but that’s ok boo.
Oh and this girl counted her fries. I mean this in the literal sense; she must have held each fry in the air. She tells me there aren’t enough. Her mouth is lazy, she’s unfazed. I know she’s done this before. Like the two boy’s who order one meal and complain that they didn’t receive their order. I respect her hustle, but she counted her fires.
And the security guard makes all the female employees uncomfortable. He follows around school girls and finds reasons to bother them. The top manager’s a man, so he doesn’t care. I’m going to be a shit feminist for a moment but why is no one sexually harassing me? A saucy little bombshell like me. The manager takes me aside every other shift to tell me that there is a rule against excessive make up. The manager that hates me, makes me remove my lipstick in front of everyone. I didn’t go back the next shift.
It’s the Sunday before I get my student finance loan and I quit. He say’s so you’re coming in. I tell him I’m not coming in. No resignation letter, no notice. I’m not coming back in. At least I called boo.
Not much happened in that month. Nobody died, nobody even got fired. But the daily grind was brutal enough. I worked at McDonalds in Coventry and it was shite. I thought you should know.