"Welcome to McDonald's, how may I help you?"

The monotony of this job was enough to drive any person insane. Hearing the same fryers beeping on and off every five minutes. Seeing the same prices pop up on the screen for the three popular menu items we had. Swinging the window open with the same speed and velocity for every customer. Becoming an overly chipper robot everytime a car pulled up saying, “Welcome to McDonald’s, how may I help you?” Counting and counting and counting pocket change for every soccer mom nursing a hangover in their minivan and every rotten teenager in their new car that their parents definitely bought for them.

Every 8-hour shift was the same except for that one asshole that would pull up to the speaker and say something like, “Penis!” and skid away cackling or the even more rare person who would try to hand us a few bucks as a “tip”. All of this while working minimum wage with no benefits. Unless you count sneaking a free Big Mac every now and then a benefit.

I’ve always said I absolutely hate monotony. Part of the reason I hate going to school so much. Routines bore me. Yet somehow I’m here serving the same customers the same goddamn trans fats everyday. I sometimes wondered how bad life had to get to be here long enough to attain the position of manager. I would flat out deny the position if offered. Once you become a manager at a fast food restaurant odds are you were staying in that business. At the end of the day I can hold more self respect knowing that I’m just a part timer at a McDonald’s who has a chance to get out and become something later.

The packed convoy next to me finally starts to crawl. The typical Tuesday afternoon rush we always got. A silver BMW convertible pulls up to the window. A man with slicked back hair and sunglasses sticks his arm out with his card. I put on my customer service face.

“Hi, you had the two cheeseburger meal with a large Coke?”

“That’s me,” the man says with a smile. He was an older guy. Kind of gave off a Pierce Brosnan vibe.

“Alright, that’s gonna be $5.55,” I say as I take his card.

“Sounds good to me.” He had one of the heavy cards made out of metal. As if the BMW wasn’t enough to pinpoint this guy’s social standing. His card is accepted instantaneously and the receipt rolls out of the printer. I tear it off and fold it under his card.

“Alright, here you go and you have a great rest of your day,” I say with my insincere smile. He speeds away to the next window now that the line has cleared up. I take the next few orders and cash them out.

ONE

“Hi, Big Mac meal with a large Sprite? That’ll be $7.58.”

TWO

“Hi, 10 piece nuggets with a medium Powerade? $6.32.”

THREE

“Hi, Quarter Pounder with Cheese meal with no pickles and large Diet Coke? It’s gonna be $8.76.”

The line reaches a stand still again. At this point I’ve noticed that the man in the BMW had parked to eat his food. He sits there unwrapping the burgers from their pastel yellow wraps. I wonder why someone like that wouldn’t have a butler in house cooking him whatever the hell he wants. I mean I don’t even know just how rich he is, he could possibly be able to afford his own McDonald’s in his mansion he most definitely lives in. While he begins to scarf down the cholesterol suicide bombers I notice a man in a hoodie walking past the parking lot. He kind of looked lost. Either that or he just didn’t know where he was going and was fine with it. His head was on a swivel looking around everywhere. It wasn’t until I saw his hand in his pocket that I realized this man had some serious thoughts swirling in his mind. He stopped at the BMW and pulled a 9mm pistol out of his hoodie pocket and pointed at the man mid pickle crunch.

“Leave your wallet in the cupholder and get out of the car old man!” he shouted.

The man dropped the burger and stuck his hands up and to my surprise gave a response.

“Ok. Ok. Let me just grab it from my back pocket. Nobody has to get hurt. I’ll even take off my wedding ring and leave it for you too.” The man slowly reaches his hand down below mine and the crook’s eyesight.

“Hurry it up!” the crook shouts. The man then swiftly pulls out a much larger .45 and has no hesitation in firing three rounds into the crook.

ONE

TWO

THREE

The crook falls to the ground and the man in the BMW drives away. I guess sometimes monotony is a good thing.