Between cavorting around campus thinking I'm the epitome of
slick, and sitting hunched on my bed reblogging grainy photos of Kurt Cobain, I
make a living by working at a fast food outlet. By a living, I mean I require
funds for snazzy new clothes and that delightful flavoured water from the Lolly
Shop.
I don't love my work, but I don't hate it either. Between
having coins launched at my face (not joking, we get some kooky customers) and
fishing jeans out of the toilets (that was a fun shift), I've got a few good
friends there and the staff discount is nifty, if not fattening.
Work never did live up to my expectations though. I always
thought working in a fast food store would be, well, reminiscent of those in
90s sitcoms, with the buttoned-up shirts, funny hats and cheerful little
mascots. Radical, it is not.
"It's an experience," my mother always says. I try
to take that on board and think of it as something to write about. Who knows,
maybe the coin/face incident could be the catalyst that leads to my dazzling
career in journalism. Those hundreds of people that flock in and out of the
doors and demand burgers from me every day could be my readers... although it
doesn't seem hugely likely that a 70-year-old woman buying 12 soft serve cones
for her tiny grandchildren would be interested in grunge music and acid washed
muscle tops.
But journalism isn't about assuming, it's about finding out
and knowing. Just because it's the official version that she doesn't like
dip-dyed hair or black lipstick, that doesn't mean that she's not playing bingo
by day, but bleaching her already grey hair and rocking out by night.