Memory Monday

Since my last post was about past jobs, I thought I would share some horror stories from my very first job. Enjoy.


My first job ever was at a KFC/A&W, but, let’s face it, no one in their right mind actually likes A&W, so it was really just a KFC with really good root beer in frosty glasses. It was a good way to make my start. I learned a lot about customer service, minor labor laws, and that intoxicated people really like chicken. My uniform was an extra large jersey polo, which was so long I would wear it around the house as a dress. In order to tuck it in properly, I had to wrap the extra fabric around my legs like a diaper. Moreover, because of this job, I saw some pretty horrific things. There are people in this world who ritualistically go to KFC every Sunday to eat a twelve piece bucket of chicken by themselves. Once, a man who was high tried to crawl over the counter between us, so that he could “fix my nametag.” Said nametag just happened to be centered on my adolescent breast. I’m sure it was just a coincidence. Another time, a middle-aged man and his elderly mother approached the register to order. The mother ordered first, and then asked her son what he wanted. He looked me in the eye and asked, “By chance would you be able to sell me a gallon of gravy?” I explained that the only thing I could serve him a gallon of was root beer. “Damn!” he barked. His mother attempted to console him by saying that he wouldn’t want to eat a gallon of gravy anyway, because it would make him fat. However, to the shock of all of us, he said, “I wouldn’t get fat, because I would be on the toilet shitting it out all night.” It took every ounce of my fifteen-year-old willpower to suppress every urge to laugh or even smile in that very moment.

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