hard.” I didn’t mention the heroin this time.
“Don’t worry, you’re educated enough,” she said, and shook my hand. I got the job right there. They needed someone for the drive-thru from 9 p.m. until 2 in the morning, five nights a week. I
was
the onlywhite guy; everyone else was Mexican or South American. The ones that didn’t speak English worked in the back and cooked the burgers. The ones that could speak English worked the registers. The nicest one was Marcia; she was tall and had a bunch of gold teeth like caramels. Juan worked the grill. He was shaped like a soft triangle with a huge bulging groin area and a super small head. His face was compact and smoothed over like a baby’s. He spoke no English but I could tell from his little squeaks in Spanish that he was very stupid. He worked in the back, cooking the meat with all the smoke, and he was always smiling. Something was always pleasing his little dinosaur brain.
The drive-thru wasn’t so bad. I just had to take orders on a little headset and then take the cash when the customers drove around. After 10 p.m., most people were quiet and just passed me the cash without a lot of talk. They were tucked in their cars waiting for their warm food. After the first week I got comfortable with everything, and I started talking to the customers. I would ask them how they were doing and try to draw them out a little; most didn’t respond, but some talked to me.
“What the hell are
you
doing in there?”
“Just working,” I’d say.
“You’re the first white dude I’ve ever seen working in a McDonald’s.”
“Yup, that’s me.”
“Well, at least you can speak English.”
“I try,” I said.
But then I got into this thing of not being myself; I pretended to be people from different places, using different accents. I did this partly because I was warming to the actor idea. I had never taken an acting class, but I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life. But I partly did the accents because I was tired of being me.
“Hey, where you from kid? You from New York?”
“Yeah, Bensonhurst.” I had never even been there; I just remembered it from
Do the Right Thing
.
“Hey, no shit, me too, which part?” This was a skinny black guy with a friendly face. He had ordered two Big Macs.
“Um, near the bridge.”
“The bridge? The Narrows?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Oh, that’s Fort Greene.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“All right kid, you hang in there.”
It felt good when people believed my act, like I was accomplishing something. I would do Italian too. It was really bad, but maybe my ragged good looks helped people believe it. This blond girl came through and immediately started smiling when I talked to her with the Italian thing. She had a high laugh that sounded forced, but maybe it was real. She was really digging the Italian guy I was doing.
“You are so-a beautiful, sooooo-a beautiful-a! In all of Italy I never saw-a such-a beautiful girl-a. Oh mio, I love-a the beautiful girls like-a you.”
She drove off laughing the high tingle, which felt good and lonely. But then five minutes later she came back, and over the speaker I knew it was her, because I heard the high laugh through the headset.
“Hi,
teeeeheeeee,
it’s
me, teeeeheeeee,
the ‘beautiful-a girl-a’ from before.”
“Oh, hi-a,” I said through the intercom.
“Hi, I forgot something. I uhhh, I needed a… strawberry milkshake. Small.”
“O-kay, one-a strawberry milkshake-shake-a, small-a.”
When she drove back around to my window she was smiling andher face was splotchy with pink spots because she was embarrassed, but I could tell she was also pushing herself to be forward. One great thing about the accents is they helped me be more outgoing.
“So, you’re from Italy? Why are you so blond?”
“There are tons of blond-a men in Italia.”
“Oh, I’ve never been. Which part are you from?”
“I’m-a from Pisa.”
“Like
“Don’t worry, you’re educated enough,” she said, and shook my hand. I got the job right there. They needed someone for the drive-thru from 9 p.m. until 2 in the morning, five nights a week. I
was
the onlywhite guy; everyone else was Mexican or South American. The ones that didn’t speak English worked in the back and cooked the burgers. The ones that could speak English worked the registers. The nicest one was Marcia; she was tall and had a bunch of gold teeth like caramels. Juan worked the grill. He was shaped like a soft triangle with a huge bulging groin area and a super small head. His face was compact and smoothed over like a baby’s. He spoke no English but I could tell from his little squeaks in Spanish that he was very stupid. He worked in the back, cooking the meat with all the smoke, and he was always smiling. Something was always pleasing his little dinosaur brain.
The drive-thru wasn’t so bad. I just had to take orders on a little headset and then take the cash when the customers drove around. After 10 p.m., most people were quiet and just passed me the cash without a lot of talk. They were tucked in their cars waiting for their warm food. After the first week I got comfortable with everything, and I started talking to the customers. I would ask them how they were doing and try to draw them out a little; most didn’t respond, but some talked to me.
“What the hell are
you
doing in there?”
“Just working,” I’d say.
“You’re the first white dude I’ve ever seen working in a McDonald’s.”
“Yup, that’s me.”
“Well, at least you can speak English.”
“I try,” I said.
But then I got into this thing of not being myself; I pretended to be people from different places, using different accents. I did this partly because I was warming to the actor idea. I had never taken an acting class, but I was trying to figure out what I was going to do with the rest of my life. But I partly did the accents because I was tired of being me.
“Hey, where you from kid? You from New York?”
“Yeah, Bensonhurst.” I had never even been there; I just remembered it from
Do the Right Thing
.
“Hey, no shit, me too, which part?” This was a skinny black guy with a friendly face. He had ordered two Big Macs.
“Um, near the bridge.”
“The bridge? The Narrows?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Oh, that’s Fort Greene.”
“Yeah, exactly.”
“All right kid, you hang in there.”
It felt good when people believed my act, like I was accomplishing something. I would do Italian too. It was really bad, but maybe my ragged good looks helped people believe it. This blond girl came through and immediately started smiling when I talked to her with the Italian thing. She had a high laugh that sounded forced, but maybe it was real. She was really digging the Italian guy I was doing.
“You are so-a beautiful, sooooo-a beautiful-a! In all of Italy I never saw-a such-a beautiful girl-a. Oh mio, I love-a the beautiful girls like-a you.”
She drove off laughing the high tingle, which felt good and lonely. But then five minutes later she came back, and over the speaker I knew it was her, because I heard the high laugh through the headset.
“Hi,
teeeeheeeee,
it’s
me, teeeeheeeee,
the ‘beautiful-a girl-a’ from before.”
“Oh, hi-a,” I said through the intercom.
“Hi, I forgot something. I uhhh, I needed a… strawberry milkshake. Small.”
“O-kay, one-a strawberry milkshake-shake-a, small-a.”
When she drove back around to my window she was smiling andher face was splotchy with pink spots because she was embarrassed, but I could tell she was also pushing herself to be forward. One great thing about the accents is they helped me be more outgoing.
“So, you’re from Italy? Why are you so blond?”
“There are tons of blond-a men in Italia.”
“Oh, I’ve never been. Which part are you from?”
“I’m-a from Pisa.”
“Like
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