My First Job: Other Golden Nuggets From My Time at EFC

My First Job: Part 4 of 4

Other Golden Nuggets from my time at EFC

It was common knowledge to the general high school population that if you knew someone who worked at EFC, you could get a free meal or at least part of your meal free. That was partly due to high schooler shenanigans and partly due to the archaic ordering system. While the folks at McDonald's enjoyed the luxury of modern technologies such as cash registers that dummy-proofed things by calculating and posting change due to customers, we at EFC did things the old-fashioned way. Which is to say, we got out our stone tablets and chiseled out the customer's order. Instead of typing in specifics that was delivered electronically or even in "ticket form" the cooks in the back, we had to turn around and yell toward the door, "Hey, Bubba! I need a chicken-with-cheese and a no-pic!" ("No-pic" means chicken without a pickle. What kind of place would pair chicken with pickles, anyway?) And we even had to learn how to count back change mentally. The horror! Who KNOWS how many customers were ripped off and/or how much profit the EFC Corporation lost....probably enough money lost, surely, to justify cash registers that calculated change for the customer. Having said that, I did get pretty good at counting back change, which is kind of a lost art and cult skill these days. It's also a fun game to whip out at parties. I dare you to try to figure out how much change to give for an item that costs $9.37 if handed a twenty-dollar bill and fifty cents while being stared down by a very hangry person with eight screaming, tantrum-ing children in tow. Tick-tock!

I was just reminded by a fellow Chicken Compadre that back then, we handled filth-infested money and then immediately dished up your fries and handled your food without any pause to wash our hands. Hungry, anyone?

One magical evening, Dude, a guy from my high school, walked up to the counter. I had a hard-core crush on Dude, what with his mohawk and punk/skater-ly ways. (Before you classmates pull out your yearbooks or start flipping through my Facebook friends, "Dude" is not really his name, derrrr... And he doesn't have a mohawk these days, anyway - that I know of.) I literally got weak in the knees when he was around. That's not just a saying, people. That shit actually happens! I leaned seductively across the counter (which was really more to brace my wobbly-kneed self than to be seductive) in my oversized polo shirt, looked Dude squarely in the neck (i.e., me being short and too nervous to meet his eye), cocked my EFC baseball cap (i.e., hairnet substitute), and took that Fine Specimen's order. And then I did what any self-respecting fast food employee who has a crush on a customer would: I proceeded to load him up with other free food and kids meal toys. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING, says "I'm both cool and hot for you" like giving an 18-year-old guy who appears way out of your league free kids meal toys! Dude needed a sherpa or pack mule or something to carry away all of his "I love you! Mwah!" prizes when he walked away from me. Not that I was trying too hard or anything. He walked out of that restaurant and out of my life forever...Or until Monday, when I stalked him in the hallways of our high school.

But it wasn't all love and goodness to and from customers at EFC. While I was mild-mannered and generally go-with-the-flow-and-don't-cause-trouble, my friend Beffy was kind of a badass: pretty, tough as nails, quick-witted, and quick-tempered to boot. She had a low, low threshold for BS. I have no idea how she lasted more than a few seconds at EFC. One busy Saturday, a lady with two-feet long fake nails and an attitude showed up in her line and repeatedly yelled at Beffy that she didn't want the fries that were furthest from the warmer, or those that were more crispy, and on and on. Fingernails threw one last rude-tongued barb at Beffy, and Beffy blew! Muttering angrily and surely loudly enough for the Fingernails to hear, she lunged toward Fingernails and was about to head over the counter before two of the fry guys ran over and restrained her. I could hear one of the fry guys telling Beffy, "It's not worth it!" as they ushered her quickly into the back room to allow her to cool off. Me? I just stood there, watching the whole thing unfold, giggling nervously and soaking up floor grease with my dropped chin. I go into "totally worthless freeze mode" in a crisis. Note this for future reference.

Ah, yes. EFC. There was something about that place that...lingered. And it was the stinch. Strange how the smell of liquified butter-like substance (on the bread slices) and peanut-oil drenched food frying could both lure in customers and repulse its employees. Mostly because the smell haunted us employees once we left. It permeated my hair and clothes. It infiltrated the inside of my car, clinging to me like a certain person's (read: not mine) passed gas that doesn't follow directions to stay on the outside of the vehicle. If I didn't take the Biohazard shower immediately upon arrival once home after work, the smell would wind up in my sheets and on my pillow, which meant I would continue to re-absorb the smell when I went to bed. My work clothes had to be burned in a metal garbage bin in the back yard. Okay, that last part is hyperbole a bit, but I did have to quarantine the offensively-smelling clothes until they could be washed. And even then, the smell was still there! After my nine-month stint at EFC, it was years before I could even hunger for EFC food again or not trigger a gag reflex upon smelling it.

EFC even had (has?) its own college, somewhere in the Midwest, to develop stellar future food service employees, I suppose. I can't even imagine what more I could learn after mastering fast food in nine months. My time working there overlapped with my college search. My totally hi-LAR-ious parents got a kick out of suggesting that I "could always go to EFC University!" (insert parents collapsing into uproarious laughter at their own witticisms). This was as funny to me as a smack on the ass by a breading-coated hand. To this day, they remind me that I am always welcome to continue my education. If that ever happens, the Zombie Apocalypse will surely be imminent. I'll just say "No" to Cluck U.

My First Job: Prank and Rile, Part 3 of 4


Oh, there were as many pranks going down at EFC as there were baskets of chicken breasts being fried. That's what happens when teenagers are running the show. My favorite falls somewhere between flirting and sexual harassment, depending on your perspective. The uniform at EFC at the time was navy blue pants and some 1990s-esque color-block polo shirt. Oh, and an EFC baseball cap, because later there would be a company baseball team practice. (Nah.) So, some of the guys working in the back would lay in wait, their gloved hands covered in flour and breading stickiness. I (or some other female employee - this was definitely not just a "me" thing) would come slide-running to the back on a film of fry grease to get chicken that was finally ready for someone's order. Once I had the goods, I'd turn to leave, and said guy would smack the back of my pants with a breaded hand. This left me with a beautiful white handprint or two on my backside for all of my customers to admire. Have you ever wiped your wet, breading-covered hands on your clothes? It's pretty much stuck like white paste until you can get it to a washing machine. Not cool, boys. Kinda funny if it's not you, maybe, but definitely not cool.


If you like the pie at EFC, this one's for you: One night I was closing the store with three other guys. We were clowning around (who, us?) in the back. One thing led to another, and suddenly, I found myself pinned to a refrigerator and having a pie shoved in my face. If that sounds like something that went too far, it was. I don't think the pie-to-the-face was as offensive as "three guys versus me" felt at the time. I walked out of there that night in the middle of closing, I was so pissed. I believe that was riiiight about the time that I gave my two-weeks' notice and refused to work a closing shift, much to the irritation of the other Chicken Slaves.


I think it was the combination of the slickness of the fry-grease coated floor, the narrowness of the area behind the counter, and the pheromones of teenage employees that led to "The Grope." The Grope was another one of those nebulous concepts that may or may have not been appropriate in a workplace setting, depending upon whom you ask and the particular situation. I mean, groping your partner while dancing is one thing, but doing it while doling out chicken nuggets is another, I think. In the bustle of activity behind the ordering counter, it was easy to collide with someone, particularly when we were in a rush ("fast" food, right?) to get someone's order and get them out of our faces and/or when we were ensnared in a flood of oil from a leaky machine. Either way, I was probably going to hit something (like the floor...with my face) or someone. Many of the fellas who came to deliver chicken to the front line workers "snuck around" us by putting a hand or two of theirs on our waists to make their way past us. It seemed to be part of the culture. When I worked my next job - also behind a food counter, but this time at a movie concession stand - I remember being fully surprised that the guys behind the counter did not touch me at all when moving around (in spite of limited space and an occasionally leaky butter dispenser). I asked myself the question, "Why does nobody touch anyone else here?" And it finally occurred to me that maybe not everyone gets groped at their job! Maybe EFC is just a Special Place for Groping! It is truly embarrassing that I became so used to being groped that it didn't occur to me that maybe it was not really part of the job description.


It didn't help, either, that there was a rumor that one of the managers refused to sign the new sexual harassment paperwork handed out by the owner, allegedly on the grounds that "It would take all of the fun out of my job!" (Thankfully, like some people have the good fortune of doing, said manager grew up well and is now a respectable member of society.)


We also "Stuck It to the Man" (who, in our case, was the Annoying Customer - meaning everyone but our friends and loved ones who dared approach our counter space) when we had the chance. Many folks who approached us to order nuggets were stuck on McDonald's lingo, and often requested "Chicken McNuggets." Being minimum-wage paid teenagers and trying to exert any control and authority over our crappy job at the bottom of the totem pole, Beffy (my best friend who helped land me this cushy job) and I would reply in a snarky tone, "I'm sorry, we don't sell 'Chicken McNuggets' here," leaving that customer confused for a few seconds. If we were feeling generous, we might add, "This is EFC, not McDonalds; we don't sell McNuggets." Subsequently, we'd make their hungry faces ask for chicken nuggets the correct way, the "EFC" way. And then we'd have to get them to specify if they wanted a 6-pack, an 8-pack, or a 12-pack of nuggets, because that's the EFC quantity in which they were sold. So there, suckers!


Sometimes we (and I say "we," but I really mean those fry guys making the big bucks in the back room) got behind on our chicken orders when we were particularly busy. We'd pull one over on the customer by going "to the back" under the guise of "checking to see if their order was ready." But really, we went back there and inhaled as many nuggets as we possibly could get away with. We really liked to test the outer limits of "being right back" with someone's order. But here's the thing: no matter how much food I ate before I left for work, really gorging myself and everything, I would inevitably be overtaken by standing in Ground Zero of fried chicken aroma. Every. Time! So when work breaks didn't come for hours, and a meal time approached while I was on the clock, I had no willpower to resist a freshly fried batch of goodness. So...I'm sorry that I scarfed those nuggets you were waiting for instead of giving them directly to you, but it was only an extra five minutes, right? What would you have done with that time anyway, gone to The Limited?


The biggest prank of all was the one that the actual menu played on unsuspecting customers. Or maybe it was just the customers' denial and/or ignorance at play. It seemed a lot of health-conscious folks (and usually women, really) gravitated toward the one menu item with the word "salad" in it: The Chicken Salad Sandwich. (There are many more options for real salads on the menu today, to EFC's credit.) Remember, this was the mid-1990's, and there wasn't quite as much information passed around about how bad mayo-based salads were or the nutritional content of anything on the menu, for that matter...So here was the typical "I'm on a diet" order: "I'd like a chicken salad sandwich on whole wheat, toasted, with a diet lemonade/diet coke." Somehow, us worker grunts were the ones who had access to a secret pamphlet of nutritional information. This may be a reach, but if those dieters knew that the chicken salad sandwich had about FOUR TIMES as many grams of fat and calories as the regular fried chicken dealio does, and that whole wheat is NOT necessarily good for you like whole grain is, and that toasting does absolutely nothing for nutritional value (I have no idea why this "toasting" phenomenon happened; I think these customers just liked the darker look of toasted bread and the extra calories that we burned by running back and forth to the toaster oven)...Well, that might have helped to explain why they weren't losing weight. So we let them live happily in their delusion and snickered about them when they left.

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: My First Job: Rank and File (Part 2 of 4)

Tales from the Crib...and Beyond: My First Job: Rank and File (Part 2 of 4): All of this hullabaloo about fast food chains supporting anti-gay causes and the ensuing controversy has stirred up some more of my own memo...