Meat

 I don't make a secret out of the fact that I once worked at an Arby's. There are moments when I wear it like a badge of honor, not unlike the  name tag I wore on my polyester beef-serving tunic. It was a time in my life when I discovered that there were alternatives to college. Working in fast food gave me a window unto the world of work. Real work. Real greasy work that became the ladder upon which I climbed. All the way to the closing manager position. I did math. I carried a clipboard. Still wore a name tag. 

Which is why I have such a hard time getting upset with service employees in general. These are not the ones making the decisions about how the food they are about to consume got there. They are merely the conduit through which the grease was passing. These are the ones that took the job because, not unlike myself, it was an entry level position. They are not the ones who decided it would be a good idea for a roast beef restaurant to introduce a chicken sandwich, for example. 

Instead, these are the people who came to work one day and found that the comfortable existence they hand led with seven featured sandwiches, five beef a turkey and a ham and cheese that was cleverly renamed Hamchy, was suddenly made infinitely more difficult with the addition of NEW menu items. I was happy that I worked at a location that didn't have a fryer. No french fries. Everything went through the three ovens in the back: beef, potato cakes and turnovers. Then one day, the national office decided to roll out their version of sub sandwiches. Not only did they require a whole new set of buns, but the three varieties promoted by the corporation needed portions sliced and arranged ahead of time, including new and exotic salami and pepperoni, and their construction was more of a horizontal endeavor rather than the vertical stack to which I had become so accustomed. 

Then, shortly before my time adjacent to that big brown cowboy hat ended, the guys who owned our franchise brought in two plug-in fryers. This would be the chicken station that I had been hearing about. Hot oil was not introduced to the terrors of the workplace that had previously been limited to the razor sharp blade used to slice beef. Customer service remained mostly unchanged, but pity the poor sandwich maker and the now seemingly endless combinations of tasks involved in filling just one order. All of it made to order. Extra cheese? No problem. Horsey Sauce instead of Super Sauce? No worries. Double toast that bun? Why not?

So I fled. I left that world behind, but the memories/scars are always just below the surface. A few years back when I started hearing Ving Rhames announce that Arby's has the meats, it made me sad for all those folks who had just received their name tags and were thrust into a job where there were now dozens of menu selections, all of which could be specialized at the point of purchase. And only recently, the place that used to proudly announce itself as an alternative to the hamburger has now enthusiastically joined the ground beef ranks. Now Ving is shilling Waygu Steakhouse burgers. 

And I suspect that a whole new group of name tags were just turned in, leaving to find a job that didn't require so much thought. Like teaching.