Workin' at KFC

Turning 16 meant I could get a work permit, and get a fast food job. It turned out to be harder than I thought. So many other pimple faced kids wanting the same dignity destroying, minimum wage paying job I was after.

I went from fast food joint to fast food joint. At one grease pit I actually made it past the application stage. They invited me to come back on Thursday at 2pm when they did interviews. I got there and took a seat along side a half dozen other hopefuls. A plain looking woman wearing the dress shirt that separates the lifers from the polo shirt wearing hopefuls introduced herself and sat down to talk with the first person in line. I listened in, hoping to get a few tips and heard the obese applicant explaining that she'd just gotten out a recovery home and was trying to start a new life. Dress shirt lady asked if she was doing Alcoholic's Anonymous. She was. And wouldn't you know it, our executive burger flipper is anonymous too.

The rest of us are given a rousing thank you for coming to the interview and told that the position is filled!

What the hell? I wish I would have protested. I wish I would have asked how she could be so sure that we weren't all recoveries screw ups too. Hell maybe we were even bigger jerks than this girls. Hell, I could have been a heroin addict or a molester of puppies, if she'd just given me a chance. Line me up some coke, I'll show you what a moron I am. Here look, I'm touching myself write now, I've got problems really! Instead I took a seat in my mom's car and told her what happened.

And she, in her maternal wisdom advised me to shake it off and keep applying. She drove me to the next bout of humiliation.

My friend Robbie, a drug casualty and a victim of insane parents called me that night to tell me he'd gotten a job at Der Wiener Schnitzel. Now this stung. Sure, Robbie had a car and so was able to get a job in the next city, where his reputation was less well known, but there's no way he should be employed before me. After having the shocking revelation that stupid people don't know their stupid I began trying to insure myself of my intelligence based on comparisons folks whose IQ I was more sure of. Robbies was sub-monkey so it did my self esteem no good at all to have him succeeding where I had so far failed.

I went out the next day with renewed determination and drive. We stopped at the local KFC, though back then it was still called Kentucky Fried Chicken, and there behind the counter was Greg Weston. Greg was the hippest guy I knew. I had a few classes with his little brother, Brooke who would've made a great frat boy had he gone to college. Instead he was a really hyper stoner who was forever searching for the perfect way to call you a fag. I tried to be as cool as a KFC cup of cole slaw as I approached the counter and asked for an application. Julie handed me the application and I said hello to Greg only after it was in my hands so that my intent of my visit would be absolutely clear. Greg was perfect.

"Oh, you're applying for a job. Julie, this is Keith, he's a friend of my brother's." I said hello to Julie and didn't mention that I didn't care for Brooke much, and Brooke regarded me as just another probable homosexual. "Do you actually want to work here or do you just have to fill out applications for school?"

No, oddly enough, I did want to work there. I really wanted to work there. I wanted to be able to buy endless piles of cassette tapes and to be able to go out to eat without my parents. Amazingly enough I wanted to put on the horrid beige and brown uniform and paper hat. I wanted to wear the name tag. I wanted to take another step towards independence, towards being a grown up.

"I would like to get a job here!"

"Well, put my name down where it asks how you heard of Kentucky Fried Chicken, only put Chance. My name's Chance now." Damn Greg was cool. Way too cool to be a Greg. He was definitely a Chance. I handed Chance my filled out application and restrained the desire to skip from out of the restaraunt to where mom was waititng in the car. I hopped in the car with a big grin and told her that I had an in.

I was interviewed by Jim, who owned 51% of this franchise location. The interview, which he conducted from a white three ring binder was a series of questions like, "If a co-worker was stealing money would you:
a) Tell them to stop.
b) Mind your own business
c) Tell a manager

This was pretty easy, but then they got tricky. What if the thieving co-worker took care of his ailing mother? Woah! Heavy. What if it wasn't much money, just a few buck here and there! I must have survived their amazing psychological wizardry because a week later I was hired.

I attended orientation where I, along with many other newbies from neighboring cities watched a film detailing the life and accomplishments of Colonel Sanders, founder of KFC and the genius behind the top secret recipe of eleven herbs and spices. I was most disappointed to discover that I would not be trusted with this secret. The spices would come to us pre-mixed.

I finished my orientation and took my place on the prep line. I made pies and filled cups with cole slaw, mashed potatoes, and other gooey stuff. I hate to think how many pounds of chocolate pudding I ate. Never mind minimum wage, all the chocolate pudding I could eat meant I was a rich man. At first I'd save it until my break but eventually I learned how to sneak a few bites behind the line. Then I figured out I could fit a whole Chicken Little in my mouth. All I needed was for the boss to turn his head for a second and I was fed. These miniature chicken sandwiches were the only non dessert item at KFC that I didn't get totally sick of within the first month. Bless you Chicken Littles.

I did well enough on the line, or the boss noticed food costs rising, so I got moved up front to the register. I loved dealing with the customers. Having real live people to talk to made the time go much quicker than communing with styrofoam cups all day. Sure sometimes we'd run out of chicken and people would get pissy but I never took it personally. Insult KFC, insult me, insult my mother, it means nothing. I guess I was concieted enough to just enjoy the more interesting customers the way you'd enjoy teh monkeys at the zoo. When monkey's fling poo I don't get offended. When monkey's call my mom a whore because I don't give them chicken it's not personal.

I was trained on drive thru next. I don't care what anyone says, turning the mic on your drive thru headset on when you flush the toilet is funny, no matter how many time you do it. Your co-workers here it, the customer at the drive through hears it. You say "Welcome to KFC, I'll be right with you." And then you flush. They assume you didn't mean them to hear it. It's comedy gold I tell you.

So, I was quickly discovering that despite my best intentions I just didn't have it in me to be a model employee and I was having way more fun being a screw up. Chance had long since disasociated himself from me. They moved me back to the deep fryers.

At this point I'd done every job but dish washer and bisuit guy. The biscuit guy had to be 21. It seems a youngster mixing up some biscuit dough at a KFC somewhere stuck his hand in the bowl and had it torn clean off. Jim went into great detail describing the way the dough turned pink as the powerful mixer just kept on mixing, but he swore it wasn't his KFC.

Our biscuit guy was Bradley and Bradley was some piece of work, lazy, overweight and totally unambitious. Exactly the direction I was heading. When not actually engaged in the act of making biscuits Bradley would sit and stare at his mixing bowl. We'd be slammed.

"Bradley, can you bring some slaw from the walk in?"

"Is that making biscuits? No, it's not. I'm the biscuit maker. If you need biscuits made, let me know." and then Bradley would stare at his bowl as everyone else ran around sweating grease.

I dreamed of one day having Bradley's power.

For now I got the hang of the fryer. These giant deep frying machines had to be vented and some genius designed the vent to blow toward the operator. As if teenagers didn't have enough trouble with their skin we were now spending hours with hot grease steam blowing in our faces. My cloths and shoes got so soaked in grease that my mother took to laying cardboard over the car seat when she'd pick me up from work. I'd bring two plastic KFC bags to put over my shoes.

My felllow grease faces were Brian and Tony. Tony was absolutely insane. He loved to sneak up behind me and break a chicken leg next to my ear. The sound of bones cracking and the way it made me cringe seemed to give him no end of joy. I didn't think it was nearly as funny as making one's coworkers listen to the toilet flush.

Tony taught me and Bryan a great trick. First you dip your finger in the chicken batter and then you dip it in the flour, with the eleven herbs and spices just like you'd do with the chicken. Then you'd add a second and third coat and finally you'd put your finger in the hot grease. If you held it there until you started feel some heat you'd pull out a Kentucky Fried Flangee. You can guess which finger Tony prefered to fry.

Of course it ws just a matter of time before someone put two fingers in making a crispy or original recipe peace symbol. Then three fingers and finally, I decided to do my whole hand. For we three fry cooks this was the most exciting day of our lives. We chilled the batter and flour for increased tack and to allow a longer submersion in the fryer. I applied the coats carefully avoiding clumps which could flake off and expose some skin. And then... the moment of truth, I dipped my hand in an inch at a time. I waited longer than ever, waiting until I felt my skin turning pink until... Ladies and gentlemen, I am an artist. My hand looked like a big, gorey, bubbling, burnt, um, hand. So I grabbed myself around the wrist and ran into the dining room with a horrified shocked look on my face. As several diners jumped up to assist I took a bite.

"Mmmm, mmm, love them eleven herbs and spices."

Miraculously no one narked me off. I went on to wash dishes, write lots of bad poetry while on the clock, drop out school and at 17 I moved out of my parents house into a condo where I would share a room with another high school drop out named Christian.

I don't think Jim was too happy about having a high school drop out working for him. He had tried desperately to make me go to my prom, even trying to set me up a date with one of the girls that worked there. He suggested I join the boy scouts! He was sure he could make a good clean cut American kid out of me, until I dropped out of school. That was when Jim dropped his paternal impulses twards me along with any interest in having me in his employ. I quit after being suspended for a week for drinking a free soda when I wasn't on duty.

Tony was fired a few months before me when he dove through the drive thru window, landing in the car of a customer who then recieved the most shocking ass kicking off his life. Tony claimed the customer had spoken rudely to the girl working the drive thru. Bryan quit after the minimum wage was raised, to what he was being paid after three years and as many raises. Chance took on a rich older girlfriend who kept him well stocked in presents including cloths, jewelry and plenty of booze. A few years later he came out of the closet, and probably found a rich older man to take the ladys' place. For all I know Bradley's still the biscuit guy.

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