I am a fast-foodist

This is something I wrote recently which I hope finds a home...Enjoy!

I am a fast foodist

I am ashamed to admit this elitist bent of mine; however, it is a fact: I am a fast bigoted against fast food workers. This isn’t to say that I avoid fast food establishments because of my fast foodism. However, I go in with a chip on my shoulder ready for a battle.

And whom might I battle? A semi-illiterate low income uninsured worker whose only skill is to ask, “Do you want fries with that?” Yes! You bet! I anticipate the messed up order and the discourteous behavior. I am not surprised and frankly it isn’t the type of thing that bothers me. I am bothered when fast food workers argue with me and refuse to see my logic. I am hungry and willing to pay, but not at the expense of my perceived dignity as an American consumer. I am the customer and I am right!

From the stereotypical notion of fast workers described by Eric Schlosser in his book that criticizes that fast food industry and its affect on our culture, he claims that fast food workers can not use creativity—all the food products are prepared or prepared to specific guidelines without any individual decision making allowed. Fundamentally, a fast food worker is interchangeable and he had in fact not been hired for any decision making ability. According to Schlosser, in Fast Food Nation, the "trait most valued in fast food workers is 'obedience.'”

Thus, it seems unfathomable, perhaps un-American, that a fast food worker can’t subscribe to this corporate aim to please and are more than willing to insist that I, the customer, am wrong and, in their eyes, probably an idiot. In contradiction to Schlosser, the fast food workers who I have argued with are not just obeying a prescribed set of rules. They have an interpretation of a rule that I disagree with, and in response, they don’t say, “I need to go speak to my manager.” To them, their internal judgment, internal authority, and ultimately their pride are what fuel this disagreement. If they were behaving in the stereotypical fast food worker mode, this situation would not occur. Ironically, I value independence and individuality--the fact that they dared to argue with me, an act of independence and individuality, should have endeared them to me.

But it doesn’t endear them to me. For example, at one Jack in the Box, there was a sign on the drive through window that said the store gave discounts for showing college IDs. When the person came to give me my order, I tried to show my ID card to the woman. She told me that I was supposed to mention this at the order window. I argued that the sign had not said this, all the while believing that she had simply made this part of the policy up. I refused to drive away or pay for the food until she gave me my ten percent discount. My husband sat in the passenger seat afraid they would call the police. Finally, I had a bright idea. I would drive back around and order again—this time mentioning my ID at the order window. The woman had no choice—I had outwitted a fast food worker! I have other examples in the same vein, but they all demonstrate my deep seated need to thwart the fast food worker’s authority.

It is important to note, I don’t ask to speak to the manager and thwart the fast food worker’s autonomy. It is mano to mano—one hungry customer at odds with the fast food worker who holds onto my food. I may have the money, but in a way that is very little ethos. I am also interchangeable—6 Billion times interchangeable according to McDonald’s. I have no solidarity. Customers behind me would throw me out for the fast food worker if it meant getting their food quicker. I have little power—except my reasoning ability. I can clearly explain my position and then perhaps I will get what I believe is a reasonable solution. No yelling. No cursing. Certainly no putdowns. I am the most annoying dissatisfied customer—I have “principles.”

Perhaps the root of my fast foodism, my bigotry towards fast food workers, is fueled by the flicker of humanity that I see when I do get into disagreements with the worker. Rise above your corporate structure, realize your human potential! But, I have to admit, this is tempered by the fact that I still want my fast food. I could see a time where fast food workers, enlightened and free, are replaced by ATM windows that give food instead of money. The process would be automated, so I wouldn’t have any existential issues with the service people. Did I mention that last week my ATM ate my card after 3 tries, when I swear I used the correct PIN? But, how can you argue with a machine?

The fact is, my fast foodism is probably not associated with an enlightened desire to see a fast food worker break out of his capitalist shackles. I think the real reason is that I don’t want them to argue when I give my interpretations of a coupon or ask for a discount. I want their blind allegiance to me. I want to skip away with glee and a bag of fries because I didn’t have to pay full price. I don’t want to deal with surly evidences of cracks in the cogs. I like my fast food experience to be smooth, uneventful, and forgettable. You wanna think? You wanna disagree? Get a college degree and some white collar job. But, if you want to be part of an exploitative chain gang, act your part. Know your place. These haunting thoughts are what allow me to bow to God of Fast Food Bigotry.

I am loathe to suggest a complex analysis of the economics of fast food—I am not sure if my own experiences represent anything larger or telling about the state that fast food workers are in. Primarily, I believe my story of fast foodism is more confessional and says more about myself than an economic or social conclusion that could be made. I think of myself as fairly open minded and not hateful. Probably, my best friends and acquaintances would never identify me as a fast foodist. Perhaps, I exhibit this bigotry only when I am at a particular altered state of hunger. There are those with road rage—a situational state of anger. I have fast food rage and as part of my road to recovery, the fast food window should be closed to me.

But, here I believe lies the boundary between addiction and bigotry. I get such a high from arguing with fast food workers, a high bolstered by my body’s hunger. It is a primal state of survival, where I must outwit the fast food worker so I can receive the endorphins that come from inducing alarming amounts of fat. Could there be a class action suit against these fast food companies, who profit off of my addiction? Alas, I would probably just use the monies I won to go back to the drive through window so as to try to outwit one more unwitting fast food worker.

I have tried to best characterize my bigotry—fast foodism is the best phrase I could come up with, however, I recognize that others use it to describe the cultural desire for fast food itself. That desire might be part of my fast foodism, but I don’t just want my greasy food hot and quickly, I want to be right! Now, all I have to find out is if there is a twelve step program out there for me.

I am Melissa.
I am a fast foodist.