On a lonely stretch of the Pearblossom highway, just outside of Little Rock, California, there is a McDonald’s where reason and accountability have been deep fried in the oil of incompetence and dusted with the salty flavor of discontent.
The first sign of trouble is the order tracking screen. The McDonald’s is crowded with hungry motorists, who stopped at this McMirage in the Mojave to use the bathroom, get some food, and get back on the road. In theory, the tracking screen is a piece of McTechnology that should help this operation run smoothly. But in practice, it’s a real-time chronicle of McFailure. There are about twenty orders listed as “in progress” on the tracker. But progress is a lie. New orders are added to the display at regular intervals, but old orders are never taken off the board.
Watching the orders pile up makes the crowd antsy, and when some people get antsy, they get angry. Case in point: a man in a Yankees cap looks like he’s contemplating multiple felonies.
“Are you the manager?” Yankees Cap demands.
“Yes.”
“I’ve been waiting thirty minutes for a damn Big Mac,” Yankees Cap says. ““What the fuck is taking so long?”
The manager doesn’t respond, perhaps because he thought Yankees Cap was asking a rhetorical question. So Yankees Cap makes it clear that he expects an answer.
“Hey, I’m talking to you. What the fuck is taking so long?”
“My cook called out sick!” the manager says.
That seems like a reasonable explanation to me, but to Yankees Cap it sounds like an excuse. He trots out that old wisdom about how excuses are like assholes. But the manager doesn’t seem to care. He shrugs and walks back to the kitchen. Yankees Cap searches for allies among the hangry patrons.
“Do you believe this shit?” Yankees Cap asks.
Nobody believes this shit, but none of us seem willing to storm the McBastille, not yet anyway. Yankees Cap curses, a few patrons grumble, and here and there bellies rumble.
Time drags on. More orders appear on the tracking board, but no food comes out of the kitchen. Then, all of a sudden, we hear a howl from the condiment station.
“You’re out of ketchup!” a man screams at the top of his lungs. “Give me ketchup!”
There’s no telling what someone will do when they’re desperate for condiments, so the other patrons, even Yankees Cap, give Ketchup Man space. But at this McDonald’s, nobody can hear you scream—nobody who works there anyway.
Hell-bent on securing the appropriate condiment for his fries, Ketchup Man charges toward the counter. To the rest of us, the counter is a barrier, a visible line in the sands of commerce. But to Ketchup Man, the counter is a hurdle. He presses his hands onto the counter top, swings his legs around, and vaults the counter.
“Ketchup!” he howls.
With a shrug, the cashier abandons his post.
“It’s under the counter,” another patron shouts. “There!”
Ketchup Man searches under the counter. He liberates a container of McNugget dipping sauces, throwing packets of BBQ and sweet & sour across the counter. Then he finds the ketchup packets, which he pockets.
“Un-fucking-believable,” Yankees Cap says.
Next to Yankees Cap, a woman with long pink fingernails yells about her order.
“I’ve been here fifteen minutes,” Pink Fingernails shouts.
“Fifteen minutes is nothing,” Yankees Cap says. “I’ve been here forever.”
“It’s supposed to be fast food,” Pink Fingernails grumbles.
“Why don’t you idiots get your shit together?” Yankees Cap barks.
The cashier who abandoned his post returns from the kitchen with a bag of food. The order tracker tells us that one lucky number is finally ready. A woman wearing a sun dress and combat boots rushes to the counter. Winner, winner, chicken dinner! Except, Sun Dress Combat Boots didn’t order chicken; she ordered a quarter-pounder with cheese.
“This order is all wrong,” says Sun Dress Combat Boots. “I didn’t order McNuggets.”
“I did!”
The voice belongs to a man in a Raiders jersey. Like all pirates, Raiders Jersey is bold. Without showing his receipt, Raiders Jersey grabs the bag of McNuggets from Sun Dress Combat Boots, then helps himself to the sweet & sour sauce packets that Ketchup Man left on the counter.
“Where’s my quarter-pounder?” Sun Dress Combat Boots asks.
“Hang on,” the cashier says, before disappearing into the kitchen.
Meanwhile, Ketchup Man is on to his next act, but this time he’s accompanied by a friend who wears a Spider-Man t-shirt. In slow-motion, Ketchup Man and Spider-Man choreograph a fight scene from a movie. They trade wild haymakers and vicious uppercuts in the cramped space. With each punch, Ketchup Man and Spider-Man invade the personal space of the other customers. But the fight between Ketchup Man and Spider-Man is child’s play, or maybe cosplay. The real fight is between the manager and Yankees Cap.
“It’s not that hard,” Yankees Cap says. “You cook the food, you serve the food. End of fucking story.”
“This is the worst McDonald’s in the world,” Pink Fingernails says.
Yankees Cap is grateful for the support, but no matter how much Yankees Cap and Pink Fingernails complain, it doesn’t change the manager’s story.
“We’re short on people!” the manager says.
“Hire more people, dumbass!” Yankees Cap says.
Hiring more people is one option, although in the middle of the Mojave, where there are more tumbleweeds and meth labs than people, staffing is a tall order. Another option—and I’m no business expert—is for the manager to pitch in, rather than arguing with customers.
But the yelling between the manager and his customers continues. The crowd grows. Here and there, a few orders trickle out, but they’re all wrong.
“This is hell,” says the woman standing next to me.
I agree with her. This McDonald’s is hell. I just never imagined that hell would smell like French fries.
If you use Substack Notes, please Restack this story🙏🍟
Yelp weighs in
We stopped at this McDonald’s on the way back from visiting my mother in Las Vegas. If you take I-15, you hit the usual rest stops, but you also hit a lot of traffic. If you take the Pearblossom highway, you’ll probably make better time, but your food options are limited. Very limited. When we got home, I went to Yelp to see if my McDonald’s experience was unique. Sadly, it wasn’t.
But to be fair, it wasn’t all negative reviews.
Shout out time!
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Stick around and chat!
You know the drill. I’ve got questions. You’ve got answers.
A bunch of stuff clearly went wrong at this McDonald’s—poor management, staffing issues, entitled customers, meth (?), mental health issues (?), Yankees fans, late-stage capitalism. What’s your theory of the case? Go nuts!
Have you ever worked at a fast food restaurant? Tell your story!
What’s your worst fast food experience? Share your pain.
What’s your McDonald’s order? I’m a McNugget man myself, extra BBQ sauce.
McNuggets come in two non-poultry shapes: oval and Christmas stocking. What’s the deal with that?
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Best opening line of a story I've read in a long time. McChef's kiss.
Great story, laid out like a horror movie with ketchup instead of blood!
During college years I worked at a McDonalds in Buffalo, Nathan’s in Coney Island, and a now-defunct burger place in Brooklyn. Those stories may appear on my ‘stack, but I will give you credit for inspiration, Michael.