Opinion March 12, 2001 In the Wrath of a Tyrant Hello, some of you may know me as Mark;.others might know me as Sparky. Others still may still be familiar with one of my many other aliases under which my secret lives are lived. It is all of little con- sequence. | am going to tell you a tale one of grease, grime and minimum wage horror. It was a _ windy, winter, Wednesday afternoon that | decided to partake in some fast food. | did not go to Burger Christ, nor did | fre- quent a franchise that clings to its Scottish prefix like a clown to his oversize shoes. It was a different world alto- gether. One that sold strange sandwiches and had Pippi Longstockingesque logos adorning everything. Upon entering the establish- ment, | had to wind my way through a labyrinthine struc- ture to the counter. As | made my way closer to the end, | nervously eyed the girl work- ing the register. It definitely appeared that her senses were as tweaked as my own. “Can | take your order?” She was quick, a little too quick if you ask me. | was only half way through the stockade already | felt as though it was the beginning of a paranoid episode. As she picked me apart with questions about french fries and beverages, | decided that | would not be the victim yet again. Noticing the slight sparkle of braces in her > tes ion Session Session Session Sessior Sun. Sand. Study. An unlikely combination — unless you're taking a Summer Session course at Carleton University in Ottawa. Flexible and feigned smile, | picked my tar- get. | myself had braces for quite some time and | won- der, is she self-conscious about them too? Whether she was or wasn’t, | bored straight into her soul by route of orthodontic work. | could tell right away that she was feeling the dread of having a customer take control. As | stared down my devilishly sweet foe and her surgical steel smile, another thought dawned on me, this time | had forgotten to pay attention to the preparation of my food. Leaning over the counter and into the kitchen, | found an un-obscured view. The burg- ers that | had ordered were a fairly simple combination: a bun, some lettuce, tomato, a dollop of mayonnaise and a slice of cheese. Assembly of these components would have been easy for even the most inept of fast food | employees, such was not | the case. The minimum wage worker in question was most definitely a career professional. One could | determine this in seeing the | way his dirty apron was lack- | adaisically hung over his | slouched shoulders. It was obvious in the master skill he used to flip the patties and the way he dove into the challenge of burger prepara- tion, rather than shy away. Perhaps | was watching him a little too closely for the manager was soon following suit. | suppose it was my fault, because under his man- agers watchful glare he cracked. It was only a slice of cheese that he missed, and as | felt to blame, | could not sit idly by as the manager moved in to berate him. | caught the manager's eye, and although she did not acknowledge me, she knew what it meant, no fucking around. The missing cheese slice was put on the burger where it belonged and my metal-mouthed opponent smiled at me as she handed it over. | proceeded to a table but before | had even unwrapped the sandwich, | heard the first sounds of the impending doom. In my absence, the manager had moved in. She was tear- ing a strip off the poor slouch whose glazed over look indi- cated nothing but dumb foundedness. Immediately | saw the panic spread, like a wildfire, to the other employ- ees. One by one they fearful- ly realized that their days of $7.50 an hour could be num- bered. The first to break down was the girl at the counter. Tears welled up in her eyes; they sparkled under the neon lights as her braces had only minutes — earlier. Other employees shuffled about, cleaning, and looking busy to escape the wrath of the enraged tyrant. As | watch it all unfold, | spot the girl from the register coming into the lobby to clean. ! stare away from her, afraid she might recruit me in a plot to defect. | just know she must be entertaining the fantasy of one day leaving this tiny island, but there is no way | can take her with me. In leaving | don’t look back and to this day there is a strong doubt that | will ever return to that place. In this instance, | ask that you have sympathy for those toiling at the burger joint down the street. | was weak, and once again in entering the realm we call the public, | failed. Some might say it is a psychological disorder, this | doubt very much. In any case, don’t worry about me because it’s all in my head. 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