Man Up! (7 page)

I
entered the work force when I was thirteen years old. I was inspired by my brother Eric who, after only six months of employment at the Royal Fork Buffet, had worked his way up from lowly dishwasher to assistant to the assistant head cook—a meteoric rise I had only witnessed, up until that point, in the Melanie Griffith–Harrison Ford classic,
Working Girl
.

The Royal Fork (which my dad lovingly referred to as “the Royal Fuck”) afforded my brother a lavish lifestyle of which I couldn’t have been more jealous. His new paycheck was elevating everything about him. Suddenly he had gorgeous orange highlights in his hair, he started wearing No Fear T-shirts like those fancy kids who lived in two-story houses, he smelled better (Drakkar Noir will
always
be his signature scent) and, most important, he no longer had to choke down store-brand cheese doodle snacks from the day-old bin at the grocery store like everyone else in our family. No ma’am, he indulged his maturing palate with real-deal, highfalutin name-brand Cheetos along with his school lunches. He was becoming so sophisticated, in fact, that he opted for the delicate puffed variety as opposed to the simple crunchy version the rest of us Mathews—and other “salt of the earth” types—shamelessly scarfed down on a regular basis.

A-hole. It wasn’t fair. I wanted a better life (and better snacks), too. And thus began my impressively varied string of childhood jobs. Seriously, as a kid, I had just about every job you can imagine short of making knockoff Gucci wallets in a run-down factory.

After dabbling briefly in the cutthroat spinach business in a nearby field (as discussed ad nauseam in chapter 1), I then signed on to spend my summer vacation working the conveyor belt at a local tulip and daffodil farm, separating the flower bulbs from dirt clods for eight hours a day. I was literally doing the dirty work.

There wasn’t a ton of socializing going on, mostly because we were all rendered temporarily deaf due to the loud roar of the equipment, but also because 90 percent of my fellow coworkers didn’t speak English. (Education tip from Uncle Ross: take Spanish or Japanese—a language you can actually
use
—maybe even French, if you plan on being a chef or a sexy maid. I took Latin, which, with apologies to my high school Latin teacher, turned out to be as useless as a thesaurus on the set of
Jersey Shore
.)

I spent most of my workday nodding my head in agreement to whatever my coworkers were saying (those exotic rolled Rs can be surprisingly persuasive) and pretending I was anywhere other than where I was. This sure as hell was no Royal Fork Buffet. This was a royal forking pain in my ass.

That’s the thing about truly shitty jobs—they teach you precisely what you never,
ever
want to do again. Sorting filthy flower bulbs proved to be mind-numbingly boring manual labor that left my hands super-rough and über-dry if I didn’t wear the company-issued, industry-standard yellow rubber gloves (
so
not my color!). This was a no-win situation, however, because my hands got all pruney and sweaty and gross if I wore the gloves for too long. So I kept alternating every fifteen minutes or so: gloves on, gloves off, gloves on, gloves off. That maddening on/off routine was torture to maintain, and occasionally I would be distracted by my actual job duties, making the tragic mistake of accidentally leaving the gloves on for too long. This resulted in both my wrinkled hands and my soggy gloves smelling exactly like boiled hot dogs. No joke:
exactly
.

It was revolting, but for some reason I couldn’t stop smelling them. Despite my utter revulsion and against my better judgment, I would hold my hands and gloves up to my face and huff them. I was like a wholesome sitcom version of those poor dazed souls on
Intervention
who compulsively inhale magic marker, spray paint, or gasoline fumes.

Puh-lease, keep your judgment to yourself. I know I’m not the only person who sometimes finds sick pleasure in horrible smells. Don’t for one minute pretend you haven’t delighted in the disgust of a dirty sock, long-expired dairy product, or your own funky BO. Don’t you dare turn your nose up at my courageous admission when you know your nose has done the exact same thing.

It quickly became obvious to everyone at the plant that bulb farming just wasn’t for me. Eventually my supervisor, Marta, staged an intervention of her own. She gently pulled me away from the conveyor belt, looked deep into my eyes while shaking her head and said, “Ross, honey, we all like you here, but you’re spending too much time smelling your gloves. This is your third warning and I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”

Fair enough. She had a point. Thank God she said something. Sometimes you need a push. To this day, I can’t smell a hot dog without thinking of dear Marta.

After that, I became much more picky when it came to my professional life. I wanted to identify exactly what I was looking for in a job. I knew for certain that I no longer wanted to work outdoors, so a temperature-controlled environment was a
must
. I also wished for a job that connected me with the people. You know, like really up close and personal? Finally, it was imperative that I work in an industry that really ignited a passion within me. The answer was clear: I needed a McJob.

The McDonald’s in my hometown got a makeover in about 1992, so it was pretty freakin’ cool. The interior color scheme was ultra modern—gray, black, and yellow. They had removed what used to be the kiddie section called Old McDonald’s Barn (where, by the way, I celebrated my seventh birthday) and replaced it with an entire wall of TV screens that played McDonald’s-sponsored cartoons and music videos on a continuous loop all day long. Awesome.

This was exactly the kind of place that could take my career to the next level. I remember being incredibly nervous when I brought in my application, completed with the lucky pen I was awarded for perfect attendance at my eighth-grade graduation.

Before I handed in my paperwork, I bought a supersized Number One (Big Mac, fries, and a drink), settled into a corner booth, and ate slowly while scoping out the joint. Field research is essential, so I began taking copious notes on a napkin:

As I savored my last remaining french fry, I felt ready. This was the right place for me. After I topped off my Diet Coke (hello, free refills), I marched up to the head guy with the big arms in the too-small shirt and attempted my most professionally cheery greeting. “Excuse me, sir? First off, I
love
your mustache. Second, I was wondering if you were hiring.”

Without looking up from the fry machine he snapped, “Fill out an application and bring it back.”

“One step ahead of you,” I snapped back while whipping out my application with a dramatic flourish and setting it down on the counter.

I don’t know if it was my excellent penmanship or the mustache comment, but he hired me immediately. I was in! I was now a proud member of the McDonald’s family! Sure, I was thrilled to simply have a job indoors, but it got even better—the perks were beyond my wildest fantasies!

Mr. Mustache told me that I would be starting at
five
dollars an hour (a full fifty cents more than I was making at the ol’ bulb farm) and—get this—I was allowed two free items every break, not counting sodas. Because child labor laws were so strict in Washington State (holla!), I got two fifteen-minute breaks and a thirty-minute lunch for every shift I worked. Do the math, people. That translated into how many delicious McDonald’s menu items per day? Six. Yep, six whole items. Are you kidding me? I was in hamburger heaven!

Free food is an incredible motivator. I never once dreaded heading in to work because I knew an entire kitchen full of possibilities awaited me, and just about every single one of them could be dipped in BBQ sauce. It was all so fantastically simple. When my break came, I just asked the guy behind the grill for whatever I wanted and he gave it to me like a magic, wish-granting genie.

“I think I’ll start with a…yes. Bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit, please. But can you add just a whisper of extra cheese? Thanks. So, that’s
one
item. I think I’ll wash that down with…Yes, a hash brown.
No!
An apple pie—fruit is healthier.”

Breakfast? Check.

Then I worked for about one and a half hours, spending the whole time daydreaming about my next meal.

“Nuggets please. Six of ’em. Throw in a few BBQs and a couple Sweet and Sours. I’m feelin’ saucy. Get it? And, umm…are those fries fresh? They are? Okay, then give me a small, no, supersized fry. Thanks!”

Lunch? Check.

Keep in mind, also, that sodas didn’t count as one of my allotted items, so by lunch I had consumed enough Diet Coke to fill a kiddie pool.

I was usually rotated to the drive-through position by the latter part of my shift, giving me not only a beautiful view of the parking lot (shared with Shakey’s Pizza—yum! Mojo Potatoes, anyone?), but also some privacy to focus on my next break.

“God, I thought my break would never come. Um, let me see…. You know what sounds positively delish? A Filet-O-Fish. But I don’t want any cheese on it, please. Just extra tartar sauce. And maybe I’ll try one of those hot fudge sundaes for dessert? Hold the nuts, they’re kinda fattening, you know? If you spilled a little caramel sauce on it too, I wouldn’t be mad at you. Thanks!”

Dinner? Check.

Have you seen the blockbuster documentary
Super Size Me
? Well, I was basically living the plotline. The only good to come out of all the McDonald’s food I was consuming on a daily basis was that every couple of months I had to get a brand-spanking-new uniform. The old one must’ve shrunk or something. Just kidding—I was getting fatter. It was no wonder, considering I was eating enough deep-fried food to feed everyone at a Midwestern county fair. Eventually one of my favorite coworkers, Veronica—a sassy, tell-it-like-it-is Chola mom of cinco—told me one day, “You face is good. But why you so fat for?”

Yes, I was gaining weight, but I was also gaining a much larger friend base. Quick tip? If you work at McDonald’s and the most popular girl in school comes in to order, you are the most powerful person in the world. “No, Courtney, this is on me. I insist. It’s, like, no biggie. I’ll just mark down that you had a coupon. See you at school tomorrow? Maybe we can sit next to each other at lunch?”

Also, I was now getting invited more than ever to hang out and watch TV with friends. I would arrive at their houses right after work, just in time for
Real World: Miami
. Still in my uniform and reeking of saturated fats, I would bring the ultimate hostess gift: two huge bags of whatever was left over when we had closed the restaurant. It’s true, the way to someone’s heart is indeed through their stomach. And my heaping bags of greasy cheesy treats congealed right around their li’l hearts. I was a
hit
 ! The BMOC: Big Mac On Campus!

All in all, I was a good employee. I was reliable and courteous, and my McRib-making skills were second to none. I did, though, have an issue with one detail in particular: the uniform rules required that I had to wear a baseball cap instead of a visor. Apparently visors were for the girls only? Umm…this just wasn’t right. It was a major
Norma Rae
–style workplace injustice. These were the nineties, for God’s sake—’N Sync’s Chris Kirkpatrick was a poster boy for the male visor, breaking gender barriers for all of us. It was a brave new world, but my jerky manager, Dwayne (not to be confused with big-armed Mr. Mustache), just didn’t get it.

At the time, I had a head full of short, glorious curls (a la early Justin Timberlake, another groundbreaking ’N Sync influence) made perfect by L.A. Looks Firm Hold Gel. There’s no way that a ball cap was going to suppress my spirit, or the volume of my hair. Out of the freaking question.

Finally, after much nagging and going above Dwayne’s head (can you say “regional manager”?), Dwayne caved in, and I wore my visor proudly alongside the unflinchingly honest Veronica.

“Why you wear girl hat for?”

“Because, Veronica, this is America and, male or female, hat hair doesn’t discriminate.”

Revolutionary change may sometimes take a while to get used to, but it’s possible. You may call me a trailblazer. Okay, I’m fine with that. And I carry that title proudly. If you ever happen to see a male McDonald’s employee wearing a visor, tell him I said, “Hello…And you’re welcome.”

It was a great time for me, and my superiors took notice of my moxie. I was thrilled when I was promoted and transferred to the McDonald’s Express in the nearby Cascade Mall, thinking I was being rewarded for my hard work. But little did I know that my quick climb up the fast-food ladder would lead to the downward spiral of my McCareer.

Although I appreciated the convenience of working in the mall, being both retail adjacent and surrounded by countless cuisines (my counter was positioned between a Footlocker and a Sbarro’s), it quickly became obvious that, in the eyes of others who worked in the mall, I was food court scum. I was a lowlife. At my old McDonald’s, I was a king—the guy who went face to face with stubborn ol’ Dwayne over VisorGate and lived to tell about it. But in the mall world, I was at the bottom of the food chain.

They never said it out loud, but I knew. When Brett from Brookstone ordered an All-American Cheeseburger Meal on his lunch break, his voice dripped with disdain. When Suzanne from Sears picked up her daily medium Dr. Pepper, no ice, she barely even acknowledged me. Screw you, Suzie. I knew you in kindergarten. You couldn’t finger-paint then and you can’t throw attitude now.