Chick-fil-A

Mustard Dreams – Chloe Fox

Nola Clifford

 Chick-fil-A

  In the summer of 2021, my family packed up the house we had lived in for 12 years and moved across the country to North Carolina. I, a rising eighth grader, began a new and entirely online middle school the following year. I hated it. I spent all my time holed up in my room, glued to my laptop, hoping that if I just kept myself distracted, I wouldn’t feel so alone.

I didn’t understand most of the school material, struggled with constant distractions, and never saw the faces of my classmates. I turned my camera on in hopes that someone from the sea of Zoom profile pictures I stared at daily might see me and want to be friends. But not one of the 60 students in any of my eight classes ever turned their camera on. 

Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and as time passed by, I gave up. I turned my camera off, stayed in bed during class, and obsessively watched episode upon episode of Criminal Minds, fearing the silence without it. I desperately told myself that if I hung on for this year, things would be okay, but most days, I didn’t even believe that myself. I was utterly alone, and unless the COVID-19 pandemic magically ended, that would never change. My mom, who witnessed my demeanor change firsthand, was particularly concerned. 

On a cold December morning, two weeks after I stopped getting up for class, she told me:

“You can’t just stay in bed all day.” 

“Why not? What difference does it make if I get up? It’s not like I can go anywhere.” I retorted.

“You aren’t living; you’re just existing.”

“I don’t know what you want from me. There’s a global pandemic!”

“I just want you to be happy; you can’t be happy with your life right now.”

I knew she was worried. I saw it every time she looked at the dark circles under my eyes or the stained GAP shirt I wore more days than not. And she was right; I wasn’t happy with my life. I needed less time alone and something that fulfilled me. With no estimate on the beginning of in-person classes or extracurricular activities, my prospects were bleak. Or at least that’s what I assumed till I discovered bright red “Help Wanted” signs in almost every shop near my house. I thought that a job might reestablish some normalcy in my life. 

I learned quickly that the employment opportunities for a 14-year-old were extremely limited. In fact, there were only two establishments that hired teens that young: Harris Teeter and Chick-fil-A. I had little knowledge of either, but the promise of free chicken nuggets was enough for me; I sent out applications to four nearby Chick-fil-A’s. With the intense need for staff at the time, I signed the onboarding paperwork only two days after I applied. 

The Cameron Village Chick-fil-A, my Chick-fil-A, was a brick-covered two-story building with large clear windows that naturally illuminated the entire store. A blue and white striped awning shaded the patio, filled with uncomfortably hard metal chairs and matching tables. An American flag hung stagnantly on a pole near the store entrance, lowered to half-mast. It was the only exterior reminder that everything was awry, that the normal world was a far-off fantasy from my pandemic reality.

Inside, however, the jovial restaurant had been transformed into a quarantined nightmare.  Bright yellow caution tape mummified the dark red booths in the dining room, making it look like a crime scene. Instead of greeting hungry clientele, the indoor order-taking counter became a vessel for cleaning supplies and employee belongings. Signs on every wall listed the symptoms of COVID-19, and by each door sat a corporate-required log book of every employee’s temperature before work. Neon social distancing stickers littered the floor, invisible barricades ensuring employees stayed far apart. There were more boxes of masks on the counters than tubs of sauce, and the entire place reeked of disinfectant. It was the kind of smell that burned your nostrils even through a mask, a spicy mix of headache-inducing Clorox wipes and chemically lemon-scented floor wash. My eyes teared up almost every day during the first few months of my employment.

But despite the sterile environment, every employee looked happy; their eyes crinkled gently, signaling hidden smiles beneath the company-mandated cow print masks. The restaurant echoed with laughter, the light, effortless type only expected from children. Even the managers policing health regulations distributed by the CDC joked around as they watched over employees wearily. It was the kind of contentment I hadn’t seen since lockdown started, a contentment I didn’t fully understand until my training began.

The first station every employee learned was drinks. A deceptively simple-looking small space, only taking up half of a fake marble counter, the drink station required incredible speed. A successful drink maker navigated quickly between a large central soft drink machine, six dispensers of lemonade and sweet tea, and a rickety, ever-churning ice cream machine, all while keeping lids, cups, straws, lemons, cherries, stevia, and ice cream base stocked. For an uncoordinated and easily distracted teenager like me, this meant regularly spilled sweet tea, a myriad of incorrectly poured sodas, and an eternally empty bin of lids. It was never my strongest station, despite my skilled and patient trainer. 

 Elijah, the kindest person I’ve ever met, trained me on drinks. He had seven siblings, a talent for playing the tuba, and fluffy golden hair that covered his eyes when he waited too long for a haircut. His father was a pastor, and despite my non-religious background, I saw how his faith shaped every part of his life: he had a warm gentleness about him. It radiated through everything he did, from the soft smiles he gave me as my hands shook with the fear of slowing down the drive-thru to his reassuring voice as he showed me the Caramel Crumble Milkshake recipe for the seventh time. 

I was bewildered by his complete selflessness. He wanted nothing more than to make the people around him happy, especially me. He read ice skating romance novels even though he hated them because they were my favorite. When we walked around the city, he made sure I never got too close to traffic. Every time we went out for food, he insisted on paying. Elijah thought of me before himself. He became my best friend, and slowly, I started feeling a little less lonely. He was the first facet of my new life that left me contemplating the possibility of a pleasant future in Raleigh.

After drinks, new employees are sent to bagging, the complex art of properly placing chicken sandwiches in red paper bags with the correct sauces. This particular station consisted of a large metal work table with an assortment of fancy heat lamps that kept food from the kitchen warm until a bagger boxed it off for an awaiting customer. A small TV screen listed every order with its entrees, sides, and sauces. If an order stayed on screen for longer than three minutes without being completed, a sharp chime sounded from the TV, alerting the on-staff manager to slow work; this particular feature–as a girl who constantly feared upsetting an authority figure- scared the crap out of me. 

Kacey trained me on bagging. He was quiet, the kind of person nobody noticed in a crowded room. He avoided talking at all costs, communicating almost only with subtle brow lifts and firm head nods. I only saw him on Friday nights when I worked past seven since he was exclusively a night shift manager. I thought maybe he chose late shifts because, at that point, exhaustion squashed most people’s desire for a conversation. Kacey was in his late 30s with a dark buzzcut that showcased his receding hairline. He wore the same dark blue colored polo shirt every day, which was meant to distinguish him from his red-shirt subordinates but only made him blend in further with the inky darkness of the night sky.

The more time I spent with Kacey, the more I learned about him. I noticed the ever-present dark circles underneath his eyes and his complete lack of care for anything anyone did. I watched him open and then close his mouth often as if his own words had no value to those around him. I never saw him smile or laugh; I barely ever heard him talk. Kacey was depressed. But even on his darkest days, when his eyes were rimmed with crimson, and his breathing was so labored it seemed like a chore, he came to work. He never missed a single shift. So, on the days when getting out of bed seemed pointless to me, I still got up because I knew, somewhere across town, Kacey did, too.

Drive-thru order-taking was the last of three major stations every employee must master; it combined the speed of drink making and the accuracy of bagging all into a tiny iPad and credit card reader. I spent over a hundred hours on the thin cement sidewalk that lined both lanes of the drive-thru as I took orders while simultaneously walking each car up the uneven pavement. I was naturally talented when it came to all things drive-thru; I was quick, precise, and prevented all customer complaints with a well-timed “my pleasure.” Those two dark asphalt lanes became a second home to me; they were my domain.

My love for the drive-thru, however, came from more than just my naturally nimble fingers and silver tongue; it started with Dylan. 

Think of the stereotypical image of a frat guy; that’s Dylan. A junior at NC State studying business, he had spiky black hair perpetually concealed by a red backward-facing baseball hat. He always made inappropriate jokes and talked about the parties he planned on attending after work. Dylan was the ultimate symbol of college life and adulthood, which simultaneously scared me and made me want to grow up faster. He was a terrible influence and probably my parent’s worst nightmare, but, of course, this only made me idolize him more. 

In comparison to him, however, my drive-thru skills were amateur. Taking orders was second nature to Dylan. He weaved gracefully through traffic as his fingers flew across the iPad screen in front of him without ever looking down. During training, he told me his speed depended entirely on remembering the precise location of every menu item, including hidden gems like the heart-shaped nugget tray. Yet, no matter how long I spent memorizing, I never obtained Dylan-level speed.  

In some ways, he was the closest thing I ever had to a big brother in that, most days, he irritated me beyond belief. A non-exhaustive list of “Annoying Things Dylan Did To Me” included sending me to drinks during every dinner rush we worked together, making fun of the books I read on break, and radioing down to the drive-thru with fake customer complaints he made up about me. But every so often, usually, when I saw him taking orders at an ungodly speed, I wanted to be just like him. The thought of becoming as cool and talented as Dylan made me look forward to the future and focus less on the gloomy present.

My Chick-fil-A career ended one short year after it began. In that small window of time, I witnessed the dining room reopen, got promoted to a trainer position, and met some of the most interesting and genuine people I know. Even now, three years after I quit, when I have a bad day, I often end up in my car at the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, hoping that I’ll see a familiar face or simply remember the place that became my second home during my first year in Raleigh.

 Chick-fil-A

  In the summer of 2021, my family packed up the house we had lived in for 12 years and moved across the country to North Carolina. I, a rising eighth grader, began a new and entirely online middle school the following year. I hated it. I spent all my time holed up in my room, glued to my laptop, hoping that if I just kept myself distracted, I wouldn’t feel so alone.

I didn’t understand most of the school material, struggled with constant distractions, and never saw the faces of my classmates. I turned my camera on in hopes that someone from the sea of Zoom profile pictures I stared at daily might see me and want to be friends. But not one of the 60 students in any of my eight classes ever turned their camera on. 

Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and as time passed by, I gave up. I turned my camera off, stayed in bed during class, and obsessively watched episode upon episode of Criminal Minds, fearing the silence without it. I desperately told myself that if I hung on for this year, things would be okay, but most days, I didn’t even believe that myself. I was utterly alone, and unless the COVID-19 pandemic magically ended, that would never change. My mom, who witnessed my demeanor change firsthand, was particularly concerned. 

On a cold December morning, two weeks after I stopped getting up for class, she told me:

“You can’t just stay in bed all day.” 

“Why not? What difference does it make if I get up? It’s not like I can go anywhere.” I retorted.

“You aren’t living; you’re just existing.”

“I don’t know what you want from me. There’s a global pandemic!”

“I just want you to be happy; you can’t be happy with your life right now.”

I knew she was worried. I saw it every time she looked at the dark circles under my eyes or the stained GAP shirt I wore more days than not. And she was right; I wasn’t happy with my life. I needed less time alone and something that fulfilled me. With no estimate on the beginning of in-person classes or extracurricular activities, my prospects were bleak. Or at least that’s what I assumed till I discovered bright red “Help Wanted” signs in almost every shop near my house. I thought that a job might reestablish some normalcy in my life. 

I learned quickly that the employment opportunities for a 14-year-old were extremely limited. In fact, there were only two establishments that hired teens that young: Harris Teeter and Chick-fil-A. I had little knowledge of either, but the promise of free chicken nuggets was enough for me; I sent out applications to four nearby Chick-fil-A’s. With the intense need for staff at the time, I signed the onboarding paperwork only two days after I applied. 

The Cameron Village Chick-fil-A, my Chick-fil-A, was a brick-covered two-story building with large clear windows that naturally illuminated the entire store. A blue and white striped awning shaded the patio, filled with uncomfortably hard metal chairs and matching tables. An American flag hung stagnantly on a pole near the store entrance, lowered to half-mast. It was the only exterior reminder that everything was awry, that the normal world was a far-off fantasy from my pandemic reality.

Inside, however, the jovial restaurant had been transformed into a quarantined nightmare.  Bright yellow caution tape mummified the dark red booths in the dining room, making it look like a crime scene. Instead of greeting hungry clientele, the indoor order-taking counter became a vessel for cleaning supplies and employee belongings. Signs on every wall listed the symptoms of COVID-19, and by each door sat a corporate-required log book of every employee’s temperature before work. Neon social distancing stickers littered the floor, invisible barricades ensuring employees stayed far apart. There were more boxes of masks on the counters than tubs of sauce, and the entire place reeked of disinfectant. It was the kind of smell that burned your nostrils even through a mask, a spicy mix of headache-inducing Clorox wipes and chemically lemon-scented floor wash. My eyes teared up almost every day during the first few months of my employment.

But despite the sterile environment, every employee looked happy; their eyes crinkled gently, signaling hidden smiles beneath the company-mandated cow print masks. The restaurant echoed with laughter, the light, effortless type only expected from children. Even the managers policing health regulations distributed by the CDC joked around as they watched over employees wearily. It was the kind of contentment I hadn’t seen since lockdown started, a contentment I didn’t fully understand until my training began.

The first station every employee learned was drinks. A deceptively simple-looking small space, only taking up half of a fake marble counter, the drink station required incredible speed. A successful drink maker navigated quickly between a large central soft drink machine, six dispensers of lemonade and sweet tea, and a rickety, ever-churning ice cream machine, all while keeping lids, cups, straws, lemons, cherries, stevia, and ice cream base stocked. For an uncoordinated and easily distracted teenager like me, this meant regularly spilled sweet tea, a myriad of incorrectly poured sodas, and an eternally empty bin of lids. It was never my strongest station, despite my skilled and patient trainer. 

 Elijah, the kindest person I’ve ever met, trained me on drinks. He had seven siblings, a talent for playing the tuba, and fluffy golden hair that covered his eyes when he waited too long for a haircut. His father was a pastor, and despite my non-religious background, I saw how his faith shaped every part of his life: he had a warm gentleness about him. It radiated through everything he did, from the soft smiles he gave me as my hands shook with the fear of slowing down the drive-thru to his reassuring voice as he showed me the Caramel Crumble Milkshake recipe for the seventh time. 

I was bewildered by his complete selflessness. He wanted nothing more than to make the people around him happy, especially me. He read ice skating romance novels even though he hated them because they were my favorite. When we walked around the city, he made sure I never got too close to traffic. Every time we went out for food, he insisted on paying. Elijah thought of me before himself. He became my best friend, and slowly, I started feeling a little less lonely. He was the first facet of my new life that left me contemplating the possibility of a pleasant future in Raleigh.

After drinks, new employees are sent to bagging, the complex art of properly placing chicken sandwiches in red paper bags with the correct sauces. This particular station consisted of a large metal work table with an assortment of fancy heat lamps that kept food from the kitchen warm until a bagger boxed it off for an awaiting customer. A small TV screen listed every order with its entrees, sides, and sauces. If an order stayed on screen for longer than three minutes without being completed, a sharp chime sounded from the TV, alerting the on-staff manager to slow work; this particular feature–as a girl who constantly feared upsetting an authority figure- scared the crap out of me. 

Kacey trained me on bagging. He was quiet, the kind of person nobody noticed in a crowded room. He avoided talking at all costs, communicating almost only with subtle brow lifts and firm head nods. I only saw him on Friday nights when I worked past seven since he was exclusively a night shift manager. I thought maybe he chose late shifts because, at that point, exhaustion squashed most people’s desire for a conversation. Kacey was in his late 30s with a dark buzzcut that showcased his receding hairline. He wore the same dark blue colored polo shirt every day, which was meant to distinguish him from his red-shirt subordinates but only made him blend in further with the inky darkness of the night sky.

The more time I spent with Kacey, the more I learned about him. I noticed the ever-present dark circles underneath his eyes and his complete lack of care for anything anyone did. I watched him open and then close his mouth often as if his own words had no value to those around him. I never saw him smile or laugh; I barely ever heard him talk. Kacey was depressed. But even on his darkest days, when his eyes were rimmed with crimson, and his breathing was so labored it seemed like a chore, he came to work. He never missed a single shift. So, on the days when getting out of bed seemed pointless to me, I still got up because I knew, somewhere across town, Kacey did, too.

Drive-thru order-taking was the last of three major stations every employee must master; it combined the speed of drink making and the accuracy of bagging all into a tiny iPad and credit card reader. I spent over a hundred hours on the thin cement sidewalk that lined both lanes of the drive-thru as I took orders while simultaneously walking each car up the uneven pavement. I was naturally talented when it came to all things drive-thru; I was quick, precise, and prevented all customer complaints with a well-timed “my pleasure.” Those two dark asphalt lanes became a second home to me; they were my domain.

My love for the drive-thru, however, came from more than just my naturally nimble fingers and silver tongue; it started with Dylan. 

Think of the stereotypical image of a frat guy; that’s Dylan. A junior at NC State studying business, he had spiky black hair perpetually concealed by a red backward-facing baseball hat. He always made inappropriate jokes and talked about the parties he planned on attending after work. Dylan was the ultimate symbol of college life and adulthood, which simultaneously scared me and made me want to grow up faster. He was a terrible influence and probably my parent’s worst nightmare, but, of course, this only made me idolize him more. 

In comparison to him, however, my drive-thru skills were amateur. Taking orders was second nature to Dylan. He weaved gracefully through traffic as his fingers flew across the iPad screen in front of him without ever looking down. During training, he told me his speed depended entirely on remembering the precise location of every menu item, including hidden gems like the heart-shaped nugget tray. Yet, no matter how long I spent memorizing, I never obtained Dylan-level speed.  

In some ways, he was the closest thing I ever had to a big brother in that, most days, he irritated me beyond belief. A non-exhaustive list of “Annoying Things Dylan Did To Me” included sending me to drinks during every dinner rush we worked together, making fun of the books I read on break, and radioing down to the drive-thru with fake customer complaints he made up about me. But every so often, usually, when I saw him taking orders at an ungodly speed, I wanted to be just like him. The thought of becoming as cool and talented as Dylan made me look forward to the future and focus less on the gloomy present.

My Chick-fil-A career ended one short year after it began. In that small window of time, I witnessed the dining room reopen, got promoted to a trainer position, and met some of the most interesting and genuine people I know. Even now, three years after I quit, when I have a bad day, I often end up in my car at the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, hoping that I’ll see a familiar face or simply remember the place that became my second home during my first year in Raleigh.