textfiles/magazines/HOE/hoe-0949.txt

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	"Last night, the old guy that comes through the drive-thru all the
        time came up last night and didn't have the money for his food.  He
        said that some of the other managers let him pay the next time he
        comes through.  I explained to him that this wasn't our policy and
        not all managers are comfortable with this, and I hope that anyone
        else who does this realizes it's not our policy, either."

			--excerpt from Wendy's manager log


        I've never been more irritated in my LIFE than when I read that entry
 in the manager's log at work... so much that it was the first SERIOUS step
 that led me to want to quit my job.  Firstly, because I don't like veiled
 accusations and reprimands; if someone has a problem with me, I prefer one-
 on-one confrontations.  Secondly, I was appalled that, in the stupid
 business of pleasing people that I am in, someone would blatantly tell me to
 be rude to someone who has been a customer for a long, long time.  There's a
 certain respect that one earns when they contribute to your paycheck on a
 regular basis and are nothing but utterly and completely courteous each and
 every time you see them.  And being that this is the shitty fast food
 business, it's those kind of people that make everything bearable.

	The old guy has a name, by the way.  His name is Ray.  He's old.
 He's slow as hell.  He's wonderful.  In my first days as a drive-thru
 lackey, he irritated me because he slowed down the line and nobody could
 ever hear him at the speaker.  Did I mention he was slow?  It always took a
 good four minutes to collect his money and give him his food.  Maybe it's
 because of his bunk arm, maybe it's because of the handicapped thing in his
 car window, maybe it's his age.  Who knows.  But as time went on, he'd talk
 and talk as he slowly found his wallet and would pull out the bills and
 change.  And, as my time there continued, he would seek me out for being
 nice and patient with him.

	I eventually got promoted to management and shared the news with Ray.
 And for the next few months, he always asked me how my new responsibilities
 were going.  He'd sit around after getting his food and talk to me about
 work, about how nutritionally bad the food was, about how I was doing, about
 how much he hates McDonald's, about anything and everything.  I'd joke with
 my co-workers and call him my sugar daddy, and he called me Red.  Everyone
 there knew to come grab me when Ray came through, because he was just going
 to ask for me, anyway.


        One day, he forgot his wallet at home and asked if there was any way
 he could come through the next night and pay for it.  Sure, I told him,
 because he was always there at least three times a week, and I was going to
 be there, too.  And sure enough, the next night, he took care of it.  And it
 happened again a few months later, and this time, I told him I was going to
 take care of his bill.  He told me he owed me dinner, and if he was a little
 younger, he'd ask me out.  I was about four seconds from asking him to adopt
 me.

	So when that note appeared in the log when a different manager was
 working the evening shift and encountered Ray, I was annoyed.  Okay, I
 understand it's not our policy.  That's plainly obvious.  But everyone there
 has heard tales of Ray, everyone has met Ray, and I had thought that
 everyone gave him the same respect that I did.  One of the other managers
 who was promoted just a short time before I was talked to me and let me know
 she had done the same for Ray on one other occasion and it wasn't a problem.
 However, when the Eskimos higher on the totem pole came across the same
 situation, apparently they had a different idea of how to handle business.

	All this would have gone right over my head if it weren't for
 Thanksgiving.  I was in the car with my family going to one of my
 grand parent's houses for lunch.  My brother, who works with me, pointed out
 the window as we drove through downtown Dubuque and asked, "Hey, isn't that
 Ray?"  I looked, and there he was, walking very slowly with a big open box
 in his arms.  I asked aloud, "What on earth is he doing walking around
 downtown on Thanksgiving?"  My mom replied, "It looks like he's handing out
 lunches."

	Thoughts of that note in the log came rushing back, and I was fired
 up all over again, ten times worse.  Not only is this guy a longtime and
 devout customer, but he's also half crippled and handing out lunches to the
 poor people on Thanksgiving?  FUCK THEM ALL IN THE ASS, I thought to myself.
 FROM NOW ON, THIS GUY EATS FREE WHEN I'M WORKING.

	Fuck them all, fuck all this corporate money-leeching bullshit.  Fuck
 this job, I'm getting out as soon as I find something remotely decent.  Fuck
 the almighty dollar mentality, fuck everything I've been raised to want in
 my life.  There's a fucking 80 year old guy out there who is getting anally
 raped by some fucking ignorant FAST FOOD RESTAURANT of all things, and I'm
 working for them.  I can't stand myself.  I can't stand these people, I
 can't stand this fucking world.

	Just the other day at work, there was a restaurant business magazine
 sitting on the desk.  The cover was a picture of a flower pot where all the
 flowers inside were made of dollar bills, and the centers of the flowers had
 children's faces inside.  The headline was, "MARKETING FOR THE CUSTOMERS OF
 TOMORROW".  They're not kids anymore, they're future customers.  Future
 money makers and money spenders.  Future people to grow up in this lifeless,
 heartless world that understands nothing but ensuring that their $1.89 is in
 the register on the same night as the food was ordered.

	You can find me playing in some dirt and listening to Country Joe
 McDonald if you need me.

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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!          HOE #949, BY PHAIRGIRL - 12/08/99 ]