reset.
The silence was a physical relief.
"That's better." Albert climbed down. He wondered if he should turn off the fryers and the grill. That would be the satest thing to do. Turn everything oft" and go outside. Out into the dark of the plaza, where kids were gathering, scared, looking for a rescue that was very late in coming. But he didn't really know anyone out there
Albert was fourteen, the youngest of six kids. The smallest, too. His three brothers and two sisters ranged in age from fifteen to twenty-seven. Albert had already checked his home: none of them were there. His mother's wheelchair was empty. The couch where she would normally be lying and watching TV and eating and complaining about the pain in her back was abandoned. Her blanket was there, nothing else.
It was weird to be alone, even for a while. Weird not to have some bossy sibling telling him what to do. He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't being bossed around.
Now Albert walked the McDonald's kitchen more alone than he could ever have imagined being.
He found the walk-in freezer. He yanked on the big chrome handle and the steel door opened with a gasp and a breath of cold steam.
Inside were metal racks and box upon box of clearly labeled hamburgers, big plastic bags of chicken nuggets, chicken strips, fries. A smaller number of boxes of sausage patties. But mostly, lots of burgers.
He moved on to the walk-in refrigerator, not so cold and pristine, more interesting. There were plastic-covered trays of sliced tomato, bags of shredded lettuce, big plastic tubs of Big Mac sauce and mayonnaise and ketchup, blocks and blocks of sliced yellow cheese.
He found a tiny break room festooned with posters about safety and the Heimlich maneuver, all in both English and
Spanish, The dry goods were stacked against the walls of the break room: giant boxes of paper cups and boxes of waxed-paper wraps. Dull metal cylinders loaded with Coca-Cola syrup.
In the back, near the rear door, were talk wheeled racks of buns and muffins.
Everything had a place. Everything was organized. Everything was clean, albeit with a sheen of grease.
At some point, and he hadn't really noticed the exact moment, Albert had stopped just seeing it all as interesting, and started seeing it as inventory. He was mentally translating the separate ingredients into Big Macs, chicken sandwiches* Egg McMuffins.
Albert's sister, Rowena,had taught him to cook-With their mom incapacitated, the kids had always had to fend for themselves. Rowena had been the unofficial cook until Albert hit his twellth birthday, and then part of the kitchen duties had devolved to him.
He could make red beans and rice, his mother's favorite dish. He could make hot dogs. He could make French toast and bacon. He had never admitted it to Rowena, but Albert enjoyed cooking. It was a lot better than just doing the cleanup, which, unfortunately, he still had to do even though he was now responsible for the evening meal on Fridays and Sundays.
The manager had a tiny office. The door was ajar. Inside was a cramped desk, a locked safe, a phone, a computer, and a wall shelf straining under the weight of several thick operator's manuals.
Me heard sound; voices, and someone banging into a straw dispenser, then apologizing. Two seventh graders were leaning on the counter, staring up at the overhead menu like they were waiting to order-Albert hesitated, but not for long. He could do it, he told himself, almost surprised by the thought
"Welcome to McDonald's," Albert said. "May I help you?"
"Are you open?"
"What would you like?"
The kids shrugged. "Two number-one combos?"
Albert stared at the computer console. It was a maze of color-coded buttons. That would have to wait.
"What kind of drink? I mean beverage?"
"Orange soda?"
"Coming right up," Albert said. He found burger patties in a refrigerator drawer below the grill, They made a satisfying sound as he slapped them onto the grill-He spotted a paper hat
The silence was a physical relief.
"That's better." Albert climbed down. He wondered if he should turn off the fryers and the grill. That would be the satest thing to do. Turn everything oft" and go outside. Out into the dark of the plaza, where kids were gathering, scared, looking for a rescue that was very late in coming. But he didn't really know anyone out there
Albert was fourteen, the youngest of six kids. The smallest, too. His three brothers and two sisters ranged in age from fifteen to twenty-seven. Albert had already checked his home: none of them were there. His mother's wheelchair was empty. The couch where she would normally be lying and watching TV and eating and complaining about the pain in her back was abandoned. Her blanket was there, nothing else.
It was weird to be alone, even for a while. Weird not to have some bossy sibling telling him what to do. He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't being bossed around.
Now Albert walked the McDonald's kitchen more alone than he could ever have imagined being.
He found the walk-in freezer. He yanked on the big chrome handle and the steel door opened with a gasp and a breath of cold steam.
Inside were metal racks and box upon box of clearly labeled hamburgers, big plastic bags of chicken nuggets, chicken strips, fries. A smaller number of boxes of sausage patties. But mostly, lots of burgers.
He moved on to the walk-in refrigerator, not so cold and pristine, more interesting. There were plastic-covered trays of sliced tomato, bags of shredded lettuce, big plastic tubs of Big Mac sauce and mayonnaise and ketchup, blocks and blocks of sliced yellow cheese.
He found a tiny break room festooned with posters about safety and the Heimlich maneuver, all in both English and
Spanish, The dry goods were stacked against the walls of the break room: giant boxes of paper cups and boxes of waxed-paper wraps. Dull metal cylinders loaded with Coca-Cola syrup.
In the back, near the rear door, were talk wheeled racks of buns and muffins.
Everything had a place. Everything was organized. Everything was clean, albeit with a sheen of grease.
At some point, and he hadn't really noticed the exact moment, Albert had stopped just seeing it all as interesting, and started seeing it as inventory. He was mentally translating the separate ingredients into Big Macs, chicken sandwiches* Egg McMuffins.
Albert's sister, Rowena,had taught him to cook-With their mom incapacitated, the kids had always had to fend for themselves. Rowena had been the unofficial cook until Albert hit his twellth birthday, and then part of the kitchen duties had devolved to him.
He could make red beans and rice, his mother's favorite dish. He could make hot dogs. He could make French toast and bacon. He had never admitted it to Rowena, but Albert enjoyed cooking. It was a lot better than just doing the cleanup, which, unfortunately, he still had to do even though he was now responsible for the evening meal on Fridays and Sundays.
The manager had a tiny office. The door was ajar. Inside was a cramped desk, a locked safe, a phone, a computer, and a wall shelf straining under the weight of several thick operator's manuals.
Me heard sound; voices, and someone banging into a straw dispenser, then apologizing. Two seventh graders were leaning on the counter, staring up at the overhead menu like they were waiting to order-Albert hesitated, but not for long. He could do it, he told himself, almost surprised by the thought
"Welcome to McDonald's," Albert said. "May I help you?"
"Are you open?"
"What would you like?"
The kids shrugged. "Two number-one combos?"
Albert stared at the computer console. It was a maze of color-coded buttons. That would have to wait.
"What kind of drink? I mean beverage?"
"Orange soda?"
"Coming right up," Albert said. He found burger patties in a refrigerator drawer below the grill, They made a satisfying sound as he slapped them onto the grill-He spotted a paper hat
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