Cross Roads

Chapter Two: Devil

— Chapter Two: Making a Deal With The Devil —

“Are you the manager?”

I stop working on the night paper work to look up at the man staring down on me over the front counter.  He is a short, balding man with a serious beer-gut, looking as though he is a frequent patron of this humble fast-food restaurant.  He is glaring down at me, obviously expecting my full and undivided attention when in reality he is only going to get about an eighth.  I know he is going to be complaining about something.  I know he is going to be telling me how to do my job as though he could have a clue.  I know that there is going to be an argument by just the way he is standing in front of me, like he is the most important person in the world and I should bow down to his every whim.

And my night had started out so promising.

“Yes,” I say sweetly, straightening up and setting aside my pen.  “How can I help you?”

He huffs, an air of superiority in his stance.  “I came through and ordered a Big Mac with no onions.”

I wait.  He does not elaborate.  “Yes, and?” I prompt.

“There were onions on it,” he growls as though this type of thing is just unacceptable.

In his mind it probably is, but what he doesn’t realize is that this is McDonald’s.  This is a fast-food restaurant, not a five-star, spend a hundred dollars on a meal kind of place.  Teens and college students work here.  Managers are between eighteen and twenty-four.  This is McDonald’s.

“Oh, I’m so sorry about that,” I gush, putting on my fakest look yet, sincere and apologetic when I am feeling anything but.  Complaints like this are nothing new.  “Did you call ahead?”

“. . . No.”

I frown.  “Well, did you bring your receipt?”

“. . . No.”

Now I am getting annoyed.  “Did you at least bring back the Big Mac?”

“No, I threw it out.  There were onions on it.  I asked for no onions and there were onions on it.”

“Yes, I understand that sir, but there is nothing I can do,” I tell him.  “If you had brought your receipt or the sandwich back I could have given you a refund—”

“I don’t want a refund,” he interrupts, face turning red.

“—or a replacement Big Mac,” I continue as though he hadn’t been so rude as to try and cut me off.  “But you didn’t so my hands are tied.”

“But I ordered it with no onions and they put onions on it.”  I swear that there was a whine in there, quite similar to that of a diva three year old.

And as if that would change the fact that he neglected to bring me proof of purchase.

“Yes, so you have told me.  And I am sincerely sorry about that.  It was an honest mistake.  It was not intentional, sir.  But the fact still remains that you did not bring back the sandwich or your receipt.  If you had I could have given you a refund—”

“I don’t want a refund.”

“—or a replacement for the sandwich.”

“I threw it out because there were onions on it when I specifically said for no onions,” he yells, face resembling that of a tomato in his rage over a stupid sandwich.  He throws his hands onto the counter, hitting my pen and sending it flying straight at me.