The Job

Bloody lazy workers.

Bits of cabbage strewn on the floor in a trail. Tomato slices lining the table. Ketchup staining the metal surfaces. Oil dripping from the sides of the fryer. Squeeze bottles with sauce all over its neck, and bits of cucumber left on the grill until they've charred into a black lump of ash.

Timers are beeping in all directions. Every damn thing is calling out to you. Take me out of the oil. Steam the buns. Take me out of the toaster. The eggs are cooked so put down the patties. Take me out of the steamer. Top up the shake mix. Fill up the ice bucket. I've been hearing the beeps in my sleep lately. They haunt me.

Seventy two beef burgers churned out in thirty minutes. Both of my hands are working now, balancing between putting enough of onions and cheese to flipping the bloody burger patties that don't seem to be cooking. Its rush hour now and the bloody fat customers at the counter are angry; they're waiting for more fat to stuff down their trunk-sized necks.

That's why I've been hired. I make the world a fatter place.

Hot steam spraying in my face. 90-degree water to wash the metal utensils, burning my hands in the process. The caustic chemicals that I use to get rid of the grease eat away into my nails. They've been peeling and chipping so badly that I've had to cut my nails every two days. I'll never get have pretty nails like Paris Hilton if I keep up at this pace.

Wipe the floor. Make that sandwich. Put down some patties. Wash that pile of trays. Wipe of the grease on the cupboard surface. Evil voices speaking to me. The fuckwit is doing it again, bossing me around. I only have two hands, thank you, and they refuse to do whatever you tell me. Now you can go pull your hair and jump around in funny circles because I'm just going to ignore you and give you the I-am-busy-so-piss-off look.

Scooping up the dirt from the dirt trap in the sink, I spot a few disgusting objects in the mess of rotting potato chips and old veggies. I don't even want to play guess-what-the-stinky-blob-is. It smells rancid, like something that died down there.

Freshly fried nuggets flying across the floor. Tempers are flaring across the kitchen. Someone's having her period today. Spare the chicken patties please, they're innocent.

Chicken patties flying across the floor.

~

Robbie's on shift today. He walks past me and I get a whiff of his aftershave; it smells cheap and full of alcohol. He must have bought it off a shelf in 7-Eleven. I, in comparison, smell of grease and dirt so who am I to judge.

His hair is dirty-hazel and he has eyes the colour of Blu-tack. Sharp chin and nose, with a well defined forehead. I've seen him undress in the locker room before, and he definitely has some good stuff under that uniform. Downside: He speaks with such a heavy accent that I am certain I only understand half of what he is really saying.

I thought he was a very shy guy until he started talking to me. After that short conversation that lasted for not more than five minutes, I now think he's an asshole.

Then again like all lollies, they're much better to look at then to eat.

~

I can see a huge gash on my manager's leg. He's hopping in pain now, apparently he rammed his leg into a stack of crates that were sticking out in a walkway and hurt himself. That must have been me; I was taking crates out from the corner.

He's cursing now, screaming at the wall. I can hear F*** words being flung into every direction.

What he doesn't know, he doesn't need to know. Serves the bastard right.

~

Clock off. We're running like little kids to the locker room to get changed. Everyone's happy except Mr. Manager who hasn't finished his job counting the stock because he spent one hour nagging about his stupid leg, so he'll have to stay back and finish the job while we make a dash for the doors. I can't feel my fingers; they are numb and wrinkly from all the water that they've been in contact with for the past three hours. I smell of cow-fat and I have a drop of mustard sauce on my shoe. Robbie's undressing next to me so nonchalantly. I wonder what he'd say if he knew what I was thinking.

Then again, most guys probably won't care if I think they have cheap underwear and they look fat in purple.

I'm gulping down apple pies that were given to me for free because they couldn't sell. They taste very sweet, and I burn my tongue biting off the tip of the bloody pie.

I should probably get another job.