Well, it’s time to steampunk the time machine again. The one over there. The one in the corner. That’s mine.
Yes. The time has arrived to set its calendar function to a May day in North America — its 1,965th iterations of C.E or A.D. (your choice). My machine, its vacuum tubes warm to the challenge. I click the counter to 2000 + 17. Dial needles slowly sway forward as the tubes warm. I click the destination counter to 1900 + 65.
OK it was McDonalds. My parents dropped me off so I could put in an application while they did journey upon an errand. I shall never disclose the nature of their journey-called-errand because both joined the deceased quite some years before I started writing this account you now read, that is, unless you have already departed from this post.
Dear readers, we are now in that very McDonald parking lot. Do you see the car leaving this lot? Do you see me walking in at the back door?
OK. There was this guy at a corner desk. Did he tilt his head sidelong in my direction? Yes he did. How did you know?
That guy would utter something of portend the following day. You’ll read about that mere minutes from now. Allow me to repeat his very words, so that you may carefully note them:
“The uniforms are in the basement.”
By gosh there were uniforms in that nether room. And don them I did.
Bill, thank you for recalling the insignificant.
Upon donning the red and yellow vest, upon tilting the paper cap to a jaunty angle, I returned by the same set of stairs.
And thus did I learn the milkshake-machine trade. A fellow tradesman was already at our shared station. Few customers demanded shakes that day. We simply stood there and took turns. My associate posed an inquiry:
“Why did they assign two tradesmen to this light-duty trade?”
“Why were we not assigned the task of squeezing mustard and ketchup for the grillsmen?”
Excuse our yawns, Bill. Uh, did you parents return from their quest?
Indeed. They returned. I do not think that they expected to find me in full uniform regalia, jaunty tilt and all. I do not.
Day number two: co-shaker and I are on the job, waiting for the ever infrequent shake order to arrive. In the mean while the manager and his assistant sat upon a picnic table outside. They watched us as we nervously stood, working hardly at faux cleaning.
Some short minutes thereafter the assistant manager of picnic-table note informed me that my application existed not, one person where only half-ass staffing sufficed.
Fortunately I had a prepared response “uh, yeah. I haven’t done that part yet.” My second day was also my last — pink papers were drawn.
Next job to visit via steampunk: OS&D Clerk at Dance Freight Lines — connecting the north with the industrial south.
Thanks for reading.