How to Quit Your Job Like a B̷o̷s̷s̷ Delinquent
One sunlit morning in the summer of 1984, I buttoned up my blue and white pin-striped shirt and put on a pair of mustard-stained navy blue slacks. "Don't forget your hat," shouted my mother as I ran out the front door. It would be the last time she'd have to remind me.
Being a head cashier at one of the most prestigious fast-food chains in the 80s was the equivalent of being a head cheerleader in high school. Everyone wanted my job, especially the girls assigned to clean tables. "Single cheese everything, no pickle, no onion, large fry, small Frosty," I instructed over the microphone.
Big Mike was the newest addition to the crew. He was moody and high-strung, presumably addicted to speed, though some suspected something far more sinister. He'd only been a manager at our location for a few months, and none of us could stand him.
"You need to slow down when calling out orders," he squealed. "No one can understand a word you’re saying."
His lecture troubled me initially, but we had developed a semi-decent faux friendship. So, instead of slowing down, I sped up. "Single cheese everything, no onion, no tomato, extra pickle, chicken sandwich mayonnaise tomato lettuce, two large fries, large coke, small diet coke."
It was nearing the end of my shift when Big Mike began to unravel. Peering through a thick fog of smoke, his tiny hair hat shook as he screamed at the grill guy. "What the hell is wrong with you? Did you not smell the fries burning?"
It was precisely 2:54 when I slid my timecard into the machine. "Dude, you're gonna have a heart attack," I warned, reaching for my purse. Unamused, Big Mike jumped out of his chair and pointed to the clock. "Your shift doesn't end until 3:00," he scolded, his red face turning purple. "Did you clean the trays? Come with me."
He walked through the open doorway leading into the back and grabbed one of the wet trays from the drying rack. Picking off a tiny crumb from what appeared to be nothing, he shouted, "You call this clean? You can go home after you're done re-washing all these trays."
At that moment, I thought of my mother. She told me you should only quit a job if you have a new one lined up, and with nothing in the foreseeable future, my first tough decision had been made. I bit my tongue, laid my purse on the floor, and grabbed the handle on the sprayer.
Setting the water to full blast, I pulled the hose back as far as it would go, popped the trigger, and soaked the entire front end of the restaurant. *screams* *laughter* "Sorry!" I mouthed to my friend Sheila, who got caught mid-stream on her way to the drive-thru. "It's okay," she mouthed back, pointing towards the office with big eyes. "M-i-k-e!"
His splattered paw prints echoed as he rounded the corner. “Oh, hey Mike,” I cheered. “What are you doing here?” We locked eyes. 'Put that thing down," he demanded. "No way," I giggled, targeting his employee badge. "You asked me to do something, and I’m about to exceed your expectations." I pulled the trigger, dropped the hose on the floor, and assured him his trays were clean. "You can't get fired if you quit first," I smiled, wiping my hands on my legs. “Don’t worry about overtime. It’s on the house.”
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