At McDonald’s.Learning the register’s grid with its Big Macs and value meals is easy, like picking up the mechanics of playing PacMan. My fingers memorize the grid so that in a few weeks I am considered what the managers call “one of our fast cashiers.” At the end of my shift, I feed my card into the time clock, and then stand next to the manager’s desk to hear how much money is in my till from the day’s orders, hopeful that it will be higher than the white girl who has been here longer and can handle more customers.I love my job. I love that it’s not a job. It’s the start of something, not the American Dream exactly, because I am an American, so what other kind of dream would I have? No, this job at McDonald’s is the start of the rest of my life. It is the first stop on my way to that country where rich people live and don’t worry about money or being treated badly when they don’t know all the English words or behave como una india.A white man shuffles up to my register at McDonald’s one day.
What do You think about A Cup Of Water Under My Bed?
