Everything was darkness save for the cones of light illuminating segments of sidewalk and street. The wind still whispered through the trees, creaking their branches faintly, and shuttling leaves about. Timothy was soothed by the faint immensity of the shrouded world. He could not perceive his footsteps as he passed by each dark, shuttered house. Even the dogs his presence normally excited were away and resting. Occasionally the mint green of a garage light caught his eye, startlingly bright in the deep night. After the perpetual rush of his shift at Burger Korner, this eased his frazzled nerves.

It seemed a steep price to pay to experience the natural world, but his food service existence did not often afford him the time or energy to adventure frivolously. Tonight he was akin to the aquarium patron casually strolling through the deep tunnel. A world existed all around Timothy, yet he was not part of it. A cat trotted deeper into the night. A car started in the distance. A leaf or two swirled into reality and away into obscurity. Timothy was a spectre passing through a world he no longer belonged to. He was too physically and emotionally spent to care or otherwise trouble himself with existing fully. His passage was unremarkable in this moment, and he preferred it so.

His thoughts turned to the tears that erupted from his eyes in the freezer. He found that display of emotion startling. His colleagues would get frustrated, hell, he would get frustrated! Sometimes they might go in the back and cry. He could recall a time or two where he went back to get a box of this or that only to find one of the girls crying amongst the shelves. The guys were typically more violent: kick a box, punch a box, yell in the freezer. He tended to yell in the freezer. Fast food is a brutal slugfest of physical and emotional punches. Plaster a smile on your face, energize your voice, pep in your step. Stand over the hot fryers for an eternity, push out into the freezing cold, the pouring rain, and sweltering heat. The grill blasting you with heat. The freezer chilling your bones. The entire process was a study in extremes.

Tonight a lady asked for fresh fries. Timothy internally rolled his eyes as he set off to gather the necessary things for her order. Drink cups, sauce packets, sandwiches on the tray. Next came the fries, which he deftly scooped into their containers and brought over.

"Are those fresh?"

"They sure are!"

"But they were sitting there when I ordered."

"I pulled them out right before you got in here.

The lady popped one into her mouth. "I asked for fresh fries."

Thunk. Thunk. Fries in the garbage.

"Ok, I'll bring them out to you."

Constantly questioned or doubted. Constantly assumed to be a halfwit or incompetent. Talked down to, yelled at, even just being ignored. At best, an interaction with a Customer was neutral. At worst, an interaction with a Customer was a heart-pounding, adrenaline fueled cage match. Then, rarely, like when the lights kick on after a power outage, there are those times a Customer is impressed or genuinely pleased by an interaction and Timothy was left glowing from praise or pride. These things were absolutely random, devoid of any relation to his performance. Timothy and his peers were at the whims of the Customer.

The Customer is always right, they say. Customers would mockingly say that to get their way. Seeing it, hearing it, or even reading it set Timothy's bones on fire with purest rage. Customers were dim, dark creatures. Their entire existence a pantomime of real human life. They thrived on their basest instincts. Want! I want that! Need! I need that! Give! Give me that! A Customer claws to them any tiny perceived creature comfort. Customers waltz in with dirty, wet, wrinkled dollar bills and expect the world laid at their feet. For $5.89? Timothy didn't care how much money they had. They weren't signing his paycheck, nor was their $5.89 making its way to his pocket. That line of reasoning was true and not true simultaneously. It was impossible to draw the dots from those cruel goblins to the numbers in his bank account. The Customer was always right is just a clever form of torture for customer service professionals everywhere. The people making the real money, they were out of reach of such grime and muck.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Timothy's thoughts flicked to the owners of his store. In fact, they owned all of the Burger Korners in the immediate area. Two brothers. One handled the numbers, the other handled the machines strewn throughout food service. Timothy knew a few details about the brothers. He recognized them if they came into the store, and he had an impression of their temperments. They would work during special occasions, like holidays, just for the thrill of it. Ostensibly they knew how to do every job. Timothy had seen them cook some food, bag some orders, even take an order or two, though they tended to struggle with the computer. They were competent, but unpolished. They lacked the grace of constant practice. Those two brothers inherited this fast food empire. Truly, they were kings of men, and like all kings, they came into the world with silver in their mouths, and a golden throne for their meals. They've kept the business going, those two millionaires, frolicking about their greasy forts.

It irked Timothy when they were about. Over his years, there were a few instances where someone was fired because the owners heard something they didn't like or saw a tattoo or some other harmless thing to end someone's employment over. Truly blessed at birth, those two. In particular, he was fully cognizant of the imbalance of power in their "relationship." Timothy made enough money to live his life, assuming nothing terrible happened, and he worked constantly to achieve that modicum of acceptiblity. Timothy literally sweat and bled and now cried for Burger Korner. He had three sick days for an entire year, his insurance was a whisper of care, and he had one week of vacation possible. So yes, he worked with snot attempting to pour out of his nose or right after a car crash where his car was totaled and he was a bit scraped up and a bit bruised. His entire existence at Burger Korner hinging on the whims of a Customer, who with dedicated effort and even just a slight bending of the truth, could probably see Timothy fired. Then in come these brothers, perfectly optimistic about all things because they were kings. Their houses ate his apartment for lunch, their cars were next year's best model, and those Customers were faceless, tiny gnats they might notice if and if it flew directly into their eye. In pranced those kingly brothers to see how the peasants behaved, but otherwise never appreciated the true weight of fast food.

When he first became an assistant manager, Timothy recalled a new hire, Octavia, who would linger after her shifts just chitchatting with him and the others. One of those times, she was sitting on the stainless steel counter between the sandwich chutes where bags were kept; food was never prepped there, and yet, a customer saw her sitting there, complained, and she was promptly fired. Timothy later had a meeting with the District Manager about that incident, and a bad taste lingered in his mouth to this day. That was the weight of fast food. It was a constant debilitating pressure that began to squeeze all hope from a person's spirit. The unrelenting physical demands, the fickle emotional traumas, and sameness of it all. After every shift, Timothy was less defined as a person. Each night, while sweeping up old fries and sesame seeds and bits of lettuce, he was also sweeping up soul dust and person powder. Burger Korner was grinding him down. His spirit was rounded out, his interests were smoothed over, his dreams were made flat. If you've time to lean, you've time to clean. If you've time to lean, you've time to clean. If you've time to lean, you've time to clean.

Those kings amongst men never had to clean. They never found themselves on their hands and knees with a razor scraper cutting congealed grease off the back of the fryers. They never weighed the affect that calling off would have on their paycheck when they were ill, and whether all the bills would be paid or enough food would be put on the table. Those kings had land and assets! The little gnat-Customers never sought to see their lives ruined for a bad burger and some cold fries. Those kings pranced in and pranced out, the same as they ever were, unground and whole. By the time Timothy got home and showered away the day's grime and eaten some real food and relaxed as a real person, it was time for bed. And so he prepared himself for bed and promptly fell into an exhausted slumber.