I was a freshman in college when I ran for the border in West Lafayette, Indiana. Taco Bell was paying a whopping $6.50 an hour for part time help. In 1997, it was like hitting the jackpot as far as hourly wages went. I was pretty excited when I found out I was hired. I can’t say I was thrilled…I mean, I was going to have to work at a fast food restaurant. I wasn’t delusional…I knew it wasn’t going to be pretty, but my eyes were on the prize. I guess I just didn’t realize at the time exactly how humiliating it truly could be.
I can honestly say that being a part time cashier/sous chef/busboy/bathroom attendant at Taco Bell was the hardest job I have ever had. It was literally the first time I had someone give me a job to do and stand there until I had finished it…and finished it well. Usually people gave me things to do (at school, at past jobs, at home) and I would procrastinate for a while before I decided whether I would deem the job assigned to me as worthy of a mediocre half assed effort or a full force, try my best, “wow them” effort.
I hadn’t started this new job yet, but as they handed me my navy polyester, high waisted work pants, collared Taco Bell golf shirt and teal visor, I had a feeling this would not be one of those times when I would strive to “wow them”. I regarded my new uniform disdainfully and was horrified to discover they expected me to start that day, on the spot. I had assumed I would just be running in, picking up my uniform and getting my schedule….WRONG!
Scott Dulane was my manager, but secretly he was my arch nemesis, sent to Earth to make me miserable. He was about the same height at me, which at the time was about 5 ft, 9 inches. I noticed that his shoes had extra thick soles and wondered if he wore them to gain height. I pictured him being the size of an oopma loopma when he got home (that is if he ever left Taco Bell, which I had serious doubts about…) His hair was a perfectly coifed helmet and I often caught him combing it lovingly.
He glared at me and said, “Get dressed in the latrine over yonder.” I was baffled. I used to watch reruns of M.A.S.H. late at night so I knew what “latrine” meant, but I had no idea why he was using it here, now. I was mulling this over when he spoke again. “Come on, we don’t have time for you to sit there and dilly dally.” It was definitely going to take some time to get used to this guy’s way of talking. I cleared my throat and said,
”Um, I need to go tell my ride that I have to stay.” He rolled his eyes. “Well, get on with it then.” I ran out to my friend’s car and explained the situation and then I headed back in to change.
When I emerged from the bathroom, my shirt was untucked (to hide the high waisted, pleatedness on these horrid pants) and my visor was on, but stylishly tilted to one side. Scott was none too pleased with my creative interpretation of Taco Bell’s uniform. He made a beeline for me, his hips twisting awkwardly as he shimmied his lumpy frame over the counter. “That is not the appropriate way to wear an official Taco Bell uniform, young lady.” I stared at him. “Tuck in that shirt and straighten that hat! Have some respect and (at this point, he moved about 2 inches from my face) follow me.”
We passed a time clock and Scott paused to give me a card and let me punch in. He then handed me a giant 3 ring binder. “This is everything that is on the menu. I want you to study this, and when you feel like you have it memorized, I’ll give you a test.” I must have looked as incredulous as I felt because he hurriedly said, “it’s important to know your menu if you want to take people’s orders…what if someone wants to know the difference between a fiesta burrito and an a original burrito, what would you say?” Before I could answer, he went on, “Nothing! That’s what…or you’d be looking for me to save you, which is not what I’m here for. You need to know your menu. Go ahead and get started. You can sit here.” There was a small study corral right next to the soda fountain machine. I set the binder down and pulled the chair out.
I was just about to settle in when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw a boy about my age with a perfectly starched uniform and an unseasonably dark tan. “I’m Bartholomew Jenkins. Everyone calls me Bart. I guess you’re the new girl. Make sure you learn that menu. Scott is a real asshole to people that don’t take this test seriously.” I nodded. “You thirsty? One perk of this job is unlimited pop….yep, all the pop you can drink. What’s your poison? You look like a Dr. Pepper girl.” I nodded again. He handed me a brimming, crackling cup of soda just as I heard a ding from the front door. “Gotta get to work. Start studying!” I watched him walk away as I sipped my drink.
I spent about an hour looking over the menu, and when I felt like I had it sufficiently memorized, I headed to Scott’s office. I made my way down a dimly lit, narrow hallway, framed on each side by metal shelves containing boxes of extra supplies like napkins, sporks and hot sauce. There wasn’t much else back there besides the time clock and a mop and bucket. I approached the door with a half chewed sign that read “MANAGER”. I knocked quietly and waited. Nothing happened. I knocked again, but this time, more forcefully. I waited again, and again, there was no response. I was getting ready to rap again when Scott yanked the door open. “What is it?!” I was so shocked by his greeting I momentarily forgot why I had been coming to his office in the first place. “Well?? What do you want? If you need to use the restroom, you don’t have to ask.” I shook my head and said, “Um, Scott, Mr. Scott, sir, I finished studying. I’m ready for the test.” The look on his face was one of total disgust. “You think you can learn all 39 menu items in ONE hour? Ok, you asked for it. Get ready to take the test. If you miss any, I’m not sure we can take you on as a team member.”
I started feeling nervous. Self-doubt was plaguing me as I grabbed the paper from him and headed back to the small table. I sat down and looked at the first question. It read: 1. List the five main ingredients in a taco supreme. Easy! I breathed a sigh of relief as I realized I really did know all of this information pretty well. I finished the test and handed it to Scott who had stood behind me for the entire 25 minutes it took me to write my answers. He said he wanted to make sure I didn’t plan on cheating…(on a Taco Bell test!).
I passed with flying colors much to Scott’s chagrin. (I’m telling you this guy, had it out for me!) He told me to shadow his best employee, Bart. Today was a day to observe, to learn the ropes. I followed Bart around as he prepared tacos and burritos with ease and zest. He made everything look pretty easy as he explained to me his 5-part plan to conquer the world. Taco Bell was just the beginning, apparently. As the day dragged on, the customers thinned. Bart and I were discussing the virtues of adding another hot sauce to the menu when Scott burst out of his office and sauntered toward the front of the store. He looked at us, sighed and then disappeared down the hallway again. He re-emerged with the mop in his hand. He walked up to me, shoving it into my hand and said, “You got time to lean, you got time to clean!”
I took the mop and headed to the dining room. I dragged the wheeled janitor bucket and yellow caution sign behind me as I whistled songs from Mary Poppins. I was pretending to be in a musical, dancing around with mop and rolling bucket when I ran into Scott. Shit. “You’re done for today, Orth. Go home.”
I looked out the window and saw a blanket of white snow. “Can I call my roommate for a ride?” Scott ignored me. I walked after him, repeating my question. He shrugged which I assumed meant yes. Apprehensively, I touched his arm. “What?!” He jumped and looked annoyed. “Where is the phone?” He looked briefly at his office door and made a decision. “There’s a pay phone down the way, next to the Mad Mushroom.” I couldn’t believe he wouldn’t let me use the phone in his office, but instead of commenting, I smiled and walked out, punching my time card. Scott handed me my schedule as I grabbed my coat. I said goodbye to Bart and headed to the pay phone.
The next time I worked, Lacy, a part time employee and a full time bitch, was the one schooling me in the fine art of measuring every ingredient you put on a taco. She showed me how “to work the line” and by that afternoon, I was getting pretty good at being the middle man in the taco line…that is…until I felt Lacy’s hot breath on the back of my neck. I turned around and faced her. She was in her late 20s with dishwater blonde unkempt hair that exploded from her visor in frizzy tendrils. “You’re putting too much cheese on those tacos.” I had had it. She had been micromanaging me all day. “Why do you care?? You’re not eating them!” I regretted it as soon as I said it. The look of satisfaction on her face told me I had made a big mistake. “Oh really? Well…I’ll have to share your views with Scott.” I groaned. As much as Scott hated me, he loved Lacy. They were like this odd little troll couple that was dutifully loyal to the Taco Bell Nation.
Scott punished me by making me scrub industrial sized bins with dried, caked-on refried bean goop. I choked down vomit as I suds up my s.o.s pad in the oily water. I willed the minutes to go by quicker. As soon as the clock read 6:00, I threw down the scrubbing pad I’d been using and peeled off the yellow rubber gloves. “What do you think you’re doing?” It was Scott. “I’m only scheduled to 6, Scott. I’m punching out.” He shook his head and laughed. “You don’t just leave. You get cut.” I stared at him and pushed a wayward hair out of my eyes. Exasperated, he explained. “If I give you a job to do, I expect you to finish it.” I stared at the pile of dishes. “But my ride is going to be here.” He laughed again. “They’re just gonna to have to wait, now aren’t they?” I gritted my teeth and hurriedly started scrubbing the remainder of the dishes. “Make sure you do a good job. I’ll check them before you leave.” I fought the urge to bark back a snide remark. How I hated this little man!
The dishes incident wasn’t the only time Scott made me stay past my scheduled hours. I hated working until 8:00 pm on Saturdays, and Scott knew it so he always scheduled me on Saturdays until 8:00 pm. One Saturday in particular, I was very anxious to get off on time because there was a big party we were all heading to. The original plan had been to go at 7:00, but I convinced them to push it back by an hour. Scott must have sensed it because at 7:55, he handed me a mountain of green onions and said sweetly, “You’re gonna chop these here onions and then you’re cut.” I was pissed, but I knew better than to complain by now.
I grabbed the onions and power walked to the back chopping station. I grabbed the knife and went at those onions like my arms were a pair of windmills. I was fast…so fast that I’m lucky I didn’t lose a finger in the process. Finally when I was satisfied, sure that all the onions would pass Scott’s inspection, I headed toward the walk-in cooler, the onions still balancing on the cutting board. In my rush, I got clumsy. (Who am I kidding? I was always clumsy…) When the toe of my boot got caught under a loose tile, I desperately tried to keep my balance, but I couldn’t. As I went down, I watched the green onions fly into the air and come raining down on me as if in slow motion. I choked down a sob and cast furtive glances in every direction. I stole a look at the clock. 8:10. Fuck! By now, my friends were in the parking lot waiting for me… for sure. This was a setback I could not afford!
After making sure that no one was looking, I shook off the green rings that clung to my uniform and used my forearm to gather up the remaining amount. I arranged as many onions as I could on the board and kicked a few smashed pieces under the counter. I had just risen when I saw Scott come around the corner. He grabbed the cutting board from me and stared at the onions. I gulped, marveling at how close I had come to being caught. He fixed his eyes on me and for a minute, I thought he knew, and I was terrified. I smiled and said, “Cut?” He nodded and I scrambled to get out of there before he realized what I had done.
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