By John Leatherman
“Mister, um…” Brushing a stray brunette lock from my eyes, I squint at the top section of the form on my clipboard. “I hope I’m pronouncing this right. Is it Uberloorde?”
Bare scalp glistening under the fluorescents of my cramped office, he adjusts the strap of his gold left eye patch and responds in a vaguely Eastern European accent. “Please, Ms. Gimble, call me Max.” He indicates the name tag on his red-and-yellow-striped Tasty Patty uniform.
“All right, Max. First, I want to stress that you’re not in any kind of trouble. This is simply a routine performance evaluation that I conduct with all my employees to figure out what’s working and what’s not.”
He gives me a light nod, the tips of his freshly waxed handlebar mustache bobbing. “Understood.”
“That being said, I would like to discuss the first time you closed out your register…”
***
As I locked the door behind the last departing customers, I glanced over my shoulder at Max behind the counter.
Frustration growing, he counted and recounted the cash in the till. He pounded the wall. “Blast it all, this total is off by seven thirty-three!”
Sweat beads forming, Max frantically searched his register. Finally, fists clenched, he threw back his head and screamed, “Curses! Where is the self-destruct button?”
***
Max clasps his hands. “You have to understand, Ms. Gimble, where I used to work, self-destruct buttons were kind of a thing. I was surprised to learn you don’t have one.”
I wag my index finger. “Now, Max, there’s no need to be embarrassed. We simply have a different corporate culture here. What did we learn from this?”
“I now understand that I should have logged into the system, opened the daily receipt summary, and clicked the auto-reconcile button.”
“Yes, very good. That’s a definite improvement.” I click my pen and scribble on the review form. “Speaking of which, you know we can’t overlook the ‘extra cheese’ incident.”
***
“Extra cheese? Yes, you may have extra cheese for an additional…” Max stroked a finger along his mustache. “…one billion dollars! Otherwise, you will never see your precious extra cheese again!”
The greasy-haired, pimple-faced fourteen-year-old boy winced and pointed at the colorful menu marquees above the counter, his voice cracking. “Uh, Mister? That’s not what it says up there.”
Flustered, Max verified the price. “Very well. You may have extra cheese for…” He rubbed his hands together. “One hundred cents! That will bring your total to sixteen fifty-nine. Plus tax, nyah-ha-ha-ha!”
The teen placed a twenty on the counter. “Eh, keep the change.”
Grumbling, Max snatched the bill. “Foiled again…” He raised a defiant finger. “You win this time, good sir, but I’ll be back!” He punched the sale key and pondered as the printer rattled and buzzed. “No. Wait. Scratch that. I’m not going anywhere. You’ll be back!”
The teen took his receipt. “Not during your shift.”
***
Slumping in his seat, Max stammers. “Okay, see, what happened there was…”
I hold up my hands. “Again, I bring this up not to shame you but as a marker of real progress. Last week you only held one milkshake hostage. And five thousand dollars would be a very reasonable ransom demand. If, of course, we didn’t already have published prices in store, online, and in the app.”
“It is a learning process.” Max sighs. “I suppose it would not be advisable to extort five hundred percent gratuities from the customers for merely keying in their orders.”
I gasp. “I never even thought of that, but you’re right! First rate, Max. You anticipated a problem, and you solved it in advance. That kind of thinking could make you assistant manager someday.”
“Hmm.” Smile widening, Max twists his mustache. “Would that be a more attainable five-year goal than, say, global domination and total suppression of all opposition?”
“I would tend to think so.” I shrug. “With the caveat, of course, that I’m not a licensed life coach. But then again, who is?”
“I shall take that as an action item.”
I review my notes. “One more thing. We don’t need to go into a lot of detail on this, but last week I believe we established conclusively that you can get a lot more cooperation from the french fry guy…”
He dutifully completes the prompt. “…by not threatening to have him vaporized.”
I nod and wink. “Lesson learned for both of us. Now I know never to try that.” I skip to the bottom of the form. “So, in summary—I see definite progress, but there’s always room for improvement. Do you have any questions for me?”
Max sits up straighter. “You got my email about the uniforms?”
“Orange jumpsuits would have to go through corporate, sorry. But thanks for the suggestion.”
“Very well. Thank you for the feedback.” He rises. “Back to serving up smiles, then?”
“As only Tasty Patty can.”
“I shall return to my register promptly. Just need to take care of one thing first.” Exiting my office, he turns toward the door marked roof access.
With Max’s ascending footfalls echoing from the stairwell, I venture into the kitchen. Ensured I have adequate staff for the approaching dinnertime rush, I proceed to the counter and then the dining area. Noting a rowdy junior patron spilling her root beer at table nine, I grab the yellow Wet Floor/Piso Mojado placard.
Wheeling out the mop bucket, I hear Max’s voice booming from above. “Hey, McClowny’s customers! Have an ice day!”
I watch through the panoramic window adjoining the Patty’s Playplace ball pit as a translucent blue beam streaks from our roof and strikes the burger joint across the street. A massive iceberg materializes around the establishment, encasing all but the rotating polka dotted M standing high above its parking lot.
Yes, I will speak to Max about that freeze ray eventually… but for right now we need the business.
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