The Disappointment
"Sorry man, I must have got my weeks mixed up. I didn't think I was rostered for today." you fib with practiced ease.
"Haha, yeah, it's definitely week A this week. And I reminded you yesterday too, buddy." You can basically see Morgan's fake smile over the phone.
"Yep, my bad, man. I'll be right there." You hang up the phone. "Arsehole."
You pull your work uniform out of the cupboard. The checked shirt and apron stink of chicken grease. You used to love the smell, but working at Red Rooster for a year has put you off fried chicken for life. Which is a shame, because you only got the job for the free chicken.
You grab another beer for the road before setting out to work on foot. Red Rooster is only a twenty minute walk from your house, but while your hungover it feels like an eternity. The summer sun beams down on you, causing last nights booze to leak through your pours. You never got a chance to shower before you left, so the smell of fresh B.O, dry puke and cigarette smoke makes everyone you pass on the footpath gag.
By the time you enter the fast food restaurant, your shirt is soaked with sweat. Morgan pops out from behind the counter to greet you. "Hey buddy, glad you're here. We've been absolutely smashed this morning, and we're almost at the lunch rush..." He stops short and looks you up and down. "You feeling alright today, buddy?"
You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the store window. Bloodshot eyes. Oily, messed-up hair A scraggly, three-day-growth. Your breath reeks of beer and stale vomit.
"Just perfect." you force a smile. "Let me sign in, and I'll jump on a till." Morgan is too much of a push-over to ever tell you off. Heck, you still count on your fingers, and he still hired you.
Three hours into your shift, and things are not going well. The buzz you got from the breakfast beers quickly wore off, and was immediately replaced by a severe migraine. And the beer isn't sitting pretty in your stomach either: as soon as the headache set in, your belly started bubbling like a faulty spa bath. You start making stupid mistakes on the cash register, give customers the wrong change and screw up almost every order.
"I want to speak to your manager!" screeches a middle-aged woman with bleached blonde hair, who's pushed her way to the front of the queue. "What's the problem?" you mumble, trying to ignore the spots in your vision. The woman reaches into a brown paper bag and pulls out a half-eaten burger. "I said no fucking mayo! No fucking mayo! I said it six times when I ordered!" She peels back the layers of the burger and basically shoves it in your face. "Do you see fucking mayo on that burger, you dumb shit?"
The smell and sight of the burger finally pushes you over the edge, and you immediately projectile vomit all over the burger, the woman, and the cash register. The furious woman starts screaming and gagging, and makes a mad dash for the bathrooms. You turn around and cover your mouth, but another spray of puke shoots out from between your fingers, splattering all over the freshly wrapped chicken burgers.
Morgan comes running over, almost slipping in a puddle of sick. "What the hell is going on?" he gasps, his face turning pale. You can't respond. You're doubled over, dry-retching and spitting onto the freshly-mopped tiled floor. Morgan furrows his brow. "You've been drinking, haven't you? I could smell it on you when you walked in!"
You respond with a meek shrug. You don't have the energy to come up with an excuse.
"Go clean yourself up and go home!" Morgan snaps. "Forget about next week's shifts."
As you wipe yourself down with moist towelettes in the staff bathroom, you wonder how you're going to explain this to your parents. Maybe you should sign up for unemployment benefits on your way home...
"Haha, yeah, it's definitely week A this week. And I reminded you yesterday too, buddy." You can basically see Morgan's fake smile over the phone.
"Yep, my bad, man. I'll be right there." You hang up the phone. "Arsehole."
You pull your work uniform out of the cupboard. The checked shirt and apron stink of chicken grease. You used to love the smell, but working at Red Rooster for a year has put you off fried chicken for life. Which is a shame, because you only got the job for the free chicken.
You grab another beer for the road before setting out to work on foot. Red Rooster is only a twenty minute walk from your house, but while your hungover it feels like an eternity. The summer sun beams down on you, causing last nights booze to leak through your pours. You never got a chance to shower before you left, so the smell of fresh B.O, dry puke and cigarette smoke makes everyone you pass on the footpath gag.
By the time you enter the fast food restaurant, your shirt is soaked with sweat. Morgan pops out from behind the counter to greet you. "Hey buddy, glad you're here. We've been absolutely smashed this morning, and we're almost at the lunch rush..." He stops short and looks you up and down. "You feeling alright today, buddy?"
You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the store window. Bloodshot eyes. Oily, messed-up hair A scraggly, three-day-growth. Your breath reeks of beer and stale vomit.
"Just perfect." you force a smile. "Let me sign in, and I'll jump on a till." Morgan is too much of a push-over to ever tell you off. Heck, you still count on your fingers, and he still hired you.
Three hours into your shift, and things are not going well. The buzz you got from the breakfast beers quickly wore off, and was immediately replaced by a severe migraine. And the beer isn't sitting pretty in your stomach either: as soon as the headache set in, your belly started bubbling like a faulty spa bath. You start making stupid mistakes on the cash register, give customers the wrong change and screw up almost every order.
"I want to speak to your manager!" screeches a middle-aged woman with bleached blonde hair, who's pushed her way to the front of the queue. "What's the problem?" you mumble, trying to ignore the spots in your vision. The woman reaches into a brown paper bag and pulls out a half-eaten burger. "I said no fucking mayo! No fucking mayo! I said it six times when I ordered!" She peels back the layers of the burger and basically shoves it in your face. "Do you see fucking mayo on that burger, you dumb shit?"
The smell and sight of the burger finally pushes you over the edge, and you immediately projectile vomit all over the burger, the woman, and the cash register. The furious woman starts screaming and gagging, and makes a mad dash for the bathrooms. You turn around and cover your mouth, but another spray of puke shoots out from between your fingers, splattering all over the freshly wrapped chicken burgers.
Morgan comes running over, almost slipping in a puddle of sick. "What the hell is going on?" he gasps, his face turning pale. You can't respond. You're doubled over, dry-retching and spitting onto the freshly-mopped tiled floor. Morgan furrows his brow. "You've been drinking, haven't you? I could smell it on you when you walked in!"
You respond with a meek shrug. You don't have the energy to come up with an excuse.
"Go clean yourself up and go home!" Morgan snaps. "Forget about next week's shifts."
As you wipe yourself down with moist towelettes in the staff bathroom, you wonder how you're going to explain this to your parents. Maybe you should sign up for unemployment benefits on your way home...
