Bizarre Adventures in Foodservice: Arby's is Unbreakable

A Tough Customer

It was a cloudy day at the local Arby's... An uncharacteristically normal shift. I was working front line, taking orders that day, and at that point in time the only thing eventful that had happened was the vivid greenbottle fly I swatted on the front counter. As usual, the same fifty 80's-90's pop songs playing over the speaker system were beginning to drill themselves into my thick skull. But I can't complain. It gets me away from my mom and dad's failing marriage and constant bickering. After all, Sunglasses at Night for the 45th time this week wasn't the reason I'm taking antidepressants. My coworkers this shift, Albert and Kate, were unusually quiet today. Kate was almost always assigned backline, her skill and speed in making sandwiches being unmatched by any other member of the staff, while Albert manned the drive-thru window. He wasn't the best at it, but his visual gags, i.e. "going downstairs" to see if that item that's been discontinued for a week is in the back still, to distract any potentially angry customers from their anger, and uplifting fellow staff members. Albert and Kate and myself worked in tandem for a fearsome speed of service trio.

But unbeknownst to any of us, that was all going to change today. A particularly odd customer walked in around 1:32 this afternoon, his hands clasped tightly together, unusually tense. He glanced down at the counter, and then directly at me. We locked eyes for a split second, in which I could see an alterior motive painted on his face, the nature of which wasn't apparent yet.

"Hi, welcome to Arby's, can I help you with anything?" The soulless undead customer service greeting had become a natural response at this point, but I made it look alive.

"I'll..." He hesitates, breaking eye contact for a moment to peek behind the register. He didn't look like the degenerate type, but I've been surprised before. He blinks. I suppose I was mistaken. He wasn't looking at what I thought he was. There wasn't anything to see there anymore, anyway, I reassured myself. "I'll... Take the country style rib. Combo. Curly fries. Large." He was decisive about his order, thank God. 89% of the people who wandered in here took five minutes to figure out what they wanted. "Anything else?" I replied. He blinks. "Chocolate ha-- Milkshake. Chocolate milkshake. No whipped cream. Thanks." I nod. "Ok, your total's gonna be 21.31, would you like your receipt?" His mouth slowly contorts into a polite grin. "Yes. Thank you." So I hand it to him. His fingertips graze my palm. Touching him is like touching a live wire. My vision darkens and blurs, and I blink it away. "OH, sorry about that... Static cling..." He hands me a 20, a 1, and two quarters. A creeping feeling of dread fills me. Fuck, this guy is a creep. "Your change is gonna be nineteen cents. Enjoy." It's taking everything I have not to punch this freakshow square in the face. I don't know what his deal was, but I know I didn't like him. I reprint the receipt and put it on the counter on top of a small stack of napkins. I begin making the milkshake, making sure not to let the cup overflow onto the floor and my shoes. I top the cup with the dome lid, and grab the whipped cream canister, only to feel the creeping dread fill me again and run up my spine. Force of habit. Usually everyone asks for whipped cream. The moment I finish topping the ice cream with the pristine sweet-smelling topping, the dread flares up again, and my chest feels tight all of a sudden. The dome lid pops up at a thirty degree angle, on its own. What the fuck. What the fuck is that little thing? A bald albino rat? No it looks more like a tiny little cat.... The dread is overwhelming. Every breath I draw in feels like fire filling my lungs..

Rookie mistake.

The pain is unlike anything I've ever experienced. It starts in my eyes, I don't even have the strength to close them anymore, and spreads to the rest of my body, multiplying. My vision blurs again and goes completely black...

"I'll take the country style rib. Combo. Curly fries. Chocolate milkshake. No whipped cream. That's all, thanks." I must have fallen asleep on the job again. It happens. I nod, trying to ignore the fact that I just had the most terrifying dream possible. I enter the guy's order into the register UI, being careful to make sure it specifies no whipped cream. "Your total is gonna be 21.31, would you like your receipt?" I ask cheerfully. "No, thanks." He replies, handing me a 20, a 1, and two quarters. I hand him nineteen cents. I break my gaze from the register, and glance in the customer's direction. Same guy from the dream. My heartbeat falters, and a chill races down my spine. My arm hair sticks up. "Have you come in before? I feel like I'd never forget that tie if I saw it." He grins, this time genuinely. "I'll take that as a compliment." I breathe a sigh of relief. "No, I don't think we've met." He replies. "I get that a lot." I nod, taking a copy of his receipt to the counter in the back. I still couldn't shake the feeling that the guy was a freak and couldn't be trusted as I made the milkshake a second time, making sure not to add whipped cream. I walk over back up to the front counter and hand the customer his shake, and a straw. He takes a sip. "Perfection. Except for one small issue." He locks eyes with me. The dread creeps in again, filling every fiber of my being. "This is mocha, not chocolate." The overwhelming searing pain
starts again, first in my eyes, and then everywhere else. I black out as the pain is at its peak.

   "I'll take the--" I cut off the customer. "Sorry, give me a second." I scurry down the kitchen walkway, past the backline and the dishwashing area, as well as the walk-in  freezer, out the back entrance. I close the  "WHAT THE FUUUUUUCK!!" I shriek, letting out all of the pent-up frustration from my situation. This was a dream. It had to be. A fucking awful one, unlike anything I've experienced. I took a deep breath, no, several, and tried to focus on my immediate surroundings. Passing cars... Birds singing. Wind whistling. It was a peaceful day. But not for me. I needed to get out of this fucked up and evil Groundhog Day scenario and wake up. But to do that, I would have to confront the freak who put me in it in the first place. Beat the living shit out of him. With Albert and Kate's help, it would surely be a breeze. 3 of us on a 30-year old, piece of cake. I finally pulled myself together, but as I turned around to walk back into the building, there he was. "Are you okay? You look tense. I saw you run back here, figured something was wrong--" I cut him off. "Shut up! I know what you're up to, you fucking sick twisted freak. Don't even pretend like you care." I was nearly sobbing at this point. "All because I fucked up your stupid milkshake." What was I doing? Confronting this asshole wasn't going to change anything. I approached him. His expression is painted with boredom. He doesn't think I have the balls to kick his skinny ass. Which isn't quite a correct assumption. For the most part. I swing at him hard, with the force of a hammer. Blood gushes out of his nose. "How's that feel, you sadistic dick?! That's only a fraction of what I've felt!" I swing at him again, this time harder. I hit him square in the nose. Again. Harder. Again. Something awakens in me. There's something in my hand now. It looks like a... hammer? One that you might use to drive nails into a wall. I hit him with it. Again, this time it comes more naturally to me.

"Please... Stop! Max! That's enough!" I hear Kate yelp. I glance towards Kate. "You don't know what he's capable of. Back off. I don't want you getting dragged into this hellscape, too." I hit him again. Each time, no matter the force I exert, it seems to hit twice as fast and hard, but also harder to control. I hesitate, and look at him. It wasn't enough. I missed the past four times, and now he's gotten enough time to recover. Son of a bitch.... The searing pain takes hold of me once more.

I accept it this time. Surely if I make this asshole's order correctly he might think about not killing me this time. "I'll have the Country style rib, curly fry, chocolate milkshake, no whipped cream." I sigh. "Your total's gonna be 21.31. Would you like your receipt?" He nods. I hand it to him. "Thank you. Sheesh! Is it that hard to let a man place his order?" I roll my eyes and go into the back and make sure the ice cream machine is set on "CHOC" and make sure I don't put any whipped cream on it. I step back up front and hand him his shake. "I don't get paid enough for this..." I mutter under my breath. "Enjoy." When the sandwich and fries are done, I bag them and hand it to him. He walks out of the restaurant, glancing towards me briefly as he moved out of sight.