I’d like to tell you about a trip to a McDonalds I took not long before I left Melbourne.
It was about 1am on a Saturday at Preston McDonald’s. McDonald’s was by far the closest eatery to where I lived at this time, and it was usual for me to neglect my stomach until late, so late night trips to McDonald’s were not all together uncommon.
I tried to avoid the Friday and Saturday night rush as often as I could, though, because on these nights this McDonald’s would be decorated liberally with drunks. I was hungry, though, and sought not to bother my roommates by cooking. So here I was.
I ordered from one of those machines they have and I tried to wait out of the way of the other patrons who talked to each other loudly and without inhibition. That’s when I noticed a man, holding food, trying to draw the attention of the staff.
What I noticed first was his suit. I know nothing about suits, and yet even I could tell this suit was cheaply made. It reflected the fluorescent lights as brightly as the lights themselves. The stiff, black stitching looked coarse and uncomfortable.
Then I noticed his posture. Again, it’s not like I have immaculate posture myself, but there was something about the way he held himself that drew my interest. His right side was slumped, the right knee was bent and his shoulders slanted and folded slightly forward, implying a peculiar centre of gravity for this man. He didn’t look in any way disabled, it was more that he embodied the physicality of an apology. As though he were collapsing in on himself in an effort to take up less space. He would have been late 50’s to early 60’s in age, with a head of hair that had all but given up on him. A pair of glasses stooped on his nose, the most obvious kind you could picture a man like this wearing. He appeared to me as painting of impotent discontent.
Someone returning to the counter with food in a fast food restaurant can mean only one thing. He was there to be complain. I felt myself tighten as I watched him, recalling years of having worked in hospitality, but also seeing his visible discomfort. I felt all of it for myself, but I wouldn’t dare look away. The man approached the counter, after having stood there for at least a couple of minutes.
A McDonald’s manager greeted him, politeness tinged with the fatigue of overwork. The man put the food on the counter, and started poking each item of food heavily with a finger.
“Cold. Cold. Cold.” The man said as he poked each burger. He spoke in a quiet and nasal voice, his eyes cast down at the food the hide his difficulty making eye contact. Everything about him in this moment gave away that confrontation is something he usually avoided. Which begged the question, why was he choosing this moment to make a fuss?
Another staff member joined the manager in solidarity. They were nodding sympathetically to the man, their tone offering the man a respect that perhaps came rare to him. They quickly complied with his request to make a new meal for him, apologising as they did so.
The man barely seemed assuaged by this. In fact, he seemed a little bit surprised and perhaps even a tiny bit perturbed that the matter was settled so quickly. He continued to complain, something to the effect of, “Well, it’s not good enough…” The man reminded me of my father in this moment, my dad also had a particularly out-of-touch way with dealing with service staff. The staff apologised again, trying to divide their attention between simmering his already limp temper as they also busied themselves with the countless other tasks that demanded their attention on this busy night.
It was at this point that my number was called by a separate but close by employee, my food was ready. I snapped my attention away from the man, and approached the counter to collect my food. It was barely conscious of me, but I remember being overly courteous and thankful to the employee as I received my food, as though trying to communicate my dissimilarity to this man.
As I turned to the door, my food in tow, it occurred to me, “This man can’t be alone here, he is behaving as though he has been told to complain. He must be here with someone.” As I padded towards the door, I swivelled my head around looking for anyone he might be with.
That’s when I noticed a table of people that included a woman, around his age, who was glaring silently in his direction. She wore a dress far, far more flattering that what he was wearing, and had a face that would be considered pretty if not draped in a long scowl. Also at her table were three younger people, perhaps in their 30’s. There was a blonde, handsome man with a mean face, scowling and nodding as he followed the conversation. A bored looking woman with lips you could tell from across the room must be enhanced by some kind of cosmetic surgery, her skin unnaturally bronzed. Finally, there was a very large man who looked like he spent many waking hours in a gym, he was wearing a gold blazer and and black shirt that was buttoned very low down his chest. He was hunched over the table, telling a story he appeared very invested in, that appeared from his gestures as though it might have been about a fist fight. The group appeared as though they had just been to a wedding with a dress code better suited to the Gold Coast or Las Vegas.
I was swept with a new found wave of sympathy for the man I had seen complaining at the counter. I looked at his group, the only one to my eyes that he could possibly be from. I felt that he was probably coerced into complaining on their behalf. He was surrounded by a group of people who looked in no way friendly, and he tried to make himself to them by being the instrument of their complaints. These people didn’t care about him, though. Perhaps the woman who appeared as though she might be his wife, but even she radiated an energy of toxicity and demand.
I left the McDonald’s, but as I continued to watch them as I waded out of the car park. This group sat by the window, I had a clear view of them.
I even got to see the man return with new food. He didn’t make eye contact with any of them, but he looked quietly triumphant as he said something inaudible, laying the food on the table. None of them even looked at him, none of them moved to thank him. The big man was still telling whatever story he was telling, he didn’t acquiesce to acknowledge the man’s return.
I felt sadness for this man. I, in my own way, am familiar with the feeling of being surrounded by people who do not, and will not, appreciate your contribution. People who you are so mismatched to, and yet you feel a compulsion to stay. It is an ugly feeling, one that makes you feel small and disposable.
There is every chance I am misreading parts of, or even this entire situation. I don’t think I was. I think this was a man who was treated no kinder on this evening than by an exhausted McDonald’s employee. I wish this man the ability to discern who is worthy of his energy, just as I wish the same to myself.
Thank you for reading, if you did. I appreciate the gift of your attention.
I LOVED YOU!
-Cat