Diary of a Fast Food Worker

By Kathey Norton

Using her actual diary entries from the mid-80s, writer Kathey Norton details her life as a young writer working in the fast food industry, and the struggle to remain creative while dealing with a soul-crushing boss, an ever-changing cast of co-workers, the drama of an atypical first romance, and the frustration and self-doubt that haunt her.

Brutally honest and poignant, dark yet hopeful, Diary of a Fast Food Worker provides a glimpse into the creative and, at times, tortured soul of a writer trying to survive the realities of working at Hamburger Hell, while still clinging tightly to her dreams and ambitions as a novelist and poet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 8, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483585307

Book preview

First Book Baby Edition, November 2016

Copyright 2016 by Kathey J. Norton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted without express consent of the author. The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress

PRINT ISBN: 978-1-48358-529-1

eBook ISBN: 978-1-48358-530-7

Book design by Kathey Norton/Book Baby

Front Cover Photo by iStock/Rich Legg

Printed and bound in the United States of America

This book is dedicated to the memory of David Richard Toothaker, my partner in crime, and the old soldier who fought with me in the very real trenches of Hamburger Hell.

If you’re going through hell keep going.

Winston Churchill

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To all of the great people I met while working in the fast food industry. For better or worse you all taught me something along the way.

To Dave T., I’m sorry you didn’t make it out of Hamburger Hell to experience what it would have been like to work in an environment where you could have been treated with kindness and respect. I’m also sorry there was nothing I could do to save you from dying so young. You are missed every single day.

To Michael N., I constantly hear your voice in my head. You were the absolute life of the party, and helped to keep my spirits going all those years we worked together. I’m also sorry, that, like Dave, you also died way too young. You were very special and I’m glad that you’re with your beautiful mom in Heaven. I know you made it there.

To The Smiths, The Kinks, The Pretenders, and Lou Reed. Your music was my daily soundtrack during these years.

To my mom, Jeanne, who always encouraged me to pursue my dreams. There were many lean times, but we made it through it all. I love you and miss you.

To Danita Moon for her assistance in proofreading.

Contents

Introduction

August 1985—December 1985

January 1986—December 1986

January 1987—December 1987

January 1988—December 1988

January 1989—October 1989

Epilogue

Photo Archive

INTRODUCTION

In putting together Diary of a Fast Food Worker, I tried to carefully select journal entries that would give readers a glimpse into the world of fast food and the lives of those individuals who are often forced to work in the worst possible conditions for very little pay. In addition, I wanted to document my life as a young writer and poet coming of age in an environment which was both a source of frustration at times, as well as one where I drew a great deal of creative inspiration from the people who crossed my path during this time.

Although the name of the restaurant and some of the names of my former co-workers have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty, the events and situations are actual accounts of my daily experience working at Hamburger Hell,

If nothing else, I hope this book will show that unlike the media image, fast food workers are some of the hardest working and most intelligent workers in the world.

Many of the fast food workers these days are college graduates unable to find work in a bad economy, retired people trying to supplement their meager pensions, and people who are just trying to do whatever they can to support their families. And yet, there are also workers like me, who spend their days working at fast food restaurants and their nights working toward a career in the even more bizarre world of the entertainment industry.

So next time you visit a fast food restaurant and encounter one of these hardworking people, why not take a few moments to find out their story.

You might be shocked and surprised by the details.

–Kathey Norton, September 2016

AUGUST 1985—DECEMBER 1985

WEDNESDAY—AUGUST 14, 1985

Some of my ideas or obsessions come back to haunt me as I grow older. I am especially drawn to things or people who possess a sense of darkness—an impenetrable blackness.

Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that I finally got a job at Hamburger Hell. I may or may not start on Monday.

I also have an interview with Macy’s. I want to see how the interview goes. If they offer me a position, I will tell Hamburger Hell that I have reconsidered and decided to take another job. I hope that I hurry up and get settled somewhere. I want to get going on some short stories pretty soon, but I’ve been feeling nervous and tired about all this indecision and uncertainty about hours, wages, etc., It’s killing my creative processes.

Well, since I have that orientation at Hamburger Hell and the interview at Macy’s tomorrow, I’ve got to get some rest now.

THURSDAY—AUGUST 15, 1985

It is curious how a girl, who professes a deep understanding of literature and can write a novel in five months and four days, can shake in her shoes at the thought of working at a fast food restaurant. I’m terrified to start work on Monday at Hamburger Hell.

My schedule will be 10:30 a.m.-2:00 p.m. I am forced to take a thirty-minute break. I will surely make myself scarce during this time. Perhaps I will find myself drifting off to the bookstore across from where I work in the mall. I will see visions of my book in the window.

I find it extremely difficult to think about working with all those other young people at Hamburger Hell. They’re so noisy and sociable. I just want to hide inside my shell and never come out. I stick out like a sore thumb. And it seems like everybody is the other’s boyfriend or girlfriend. They’re nice enough people, but I don’t see myself getting social. I’m just there to earn my paycheck every two weeks while I work on my writing career.

I just feel so nervous at the thought of working there. I desperately wish I could surround myself with well-traveled, extensively well-read, introverted artists. We wouldn’t have to say a word to each other or work together. We could each work at separate stations.

I’ve never really been exposed to young people outside of school. I prefer the company of older people. Quiet people. Loners.

I’m afraid because of my nervousness that some of my creative processes are blocked.

I’m feeling very tired now.

FRIDAY—AUGUST 16, 1985

Tonight I bought my shoes for work. I’m still nervous about starting work at Hamburger Hell.

What I would like to do is see if I could qualify for a Cal Grant so I could go to California State University, Sacramento to pursue a degree in English with a minor in film. I’m not sure about all of it right now, though. I would be about twenty-five years-old when I graduated. It would all depend on where I was at that time in my life. Would I be a published writer? Would I have a higher paying job? If I could answer yes to both of these questions, I would not hesitate about returning to college to pursue a degree.

SUNDAY—AUGUST 18, 1985

Hopefully when I start work tomorrow I will be exposed to a different side of life. Perhaps the struggles of the working class will inspire me. I’ll casually observe the guests as they’re called at Hamburger Hell, and overhear bits and pieces of their conversations. Maybe working at Hamburger Hell will prove quite fascinating artistically.

MONDAY—AUGUST 19, 1985

My first day on the job went well. I worked the salad bar, cleaned off tables, served guests, and became part of the working class. I really found it all fascinating. I rather enjoy my dual life as a fast food worker by day and an aspiring novelist by night.

TUESDAY—AUGUST 20, 1985

My second day at work went well, too. The manager is on me about not taking a break. I never sit down or go to the bathroom. I just work, work, work. My job is okay except for the fact that I’m starting to hate salad.

WEDNESDAY—AUGUST 21, 1985

Business people are the sloppiest eaters! Salad bar chaos! Day 3 at Hamburger Hell was okay. At least nobody got on me about not taking a break.

THURSDAY—AUGUST 22, 1985

Day 4 on the job… My trainer, Sheryl Hyman, is always on my back about not cutting the honeydew melons or cantaloupes properly.

Inside my soul I hate to take orders. I’d rather be the person giving them.

It’s so hard to smile all the time and be sickenly friendly.

I’m so sleepy tonight. Just imagine, tomorrow I will get to see my creative mentor, Ray Davies, in person when The Kinks play at the Concord Pavilion in Concord, CA. I’m overwhelmed! Exhausted and suffering from a severe case of writer’s block, I am convinced that my new job at Hamburger Hell is destroying my creativity.

SATURDAY—AUGUST 24, 1985

Right now I’m listening to The Kinks (State of Confusion, side B, "Don’t Forget to Dance).

ME: Oooh, the loneliness! Oooh, the smell of salad dressing all over my hands. I need the money! It’s only temporary!

BOSS: Kathey, you need to smile more.

ME: Yes, sir.

BOSS: Kathey, we need a medium Diet Coke.

ME: All right. Okay.

CONSCIENCE: Kathey, this is your creative conscience speaking. We’re the characters in your head. Give us life! We’re gasping for breath! Dying! Breathless! Dying! Dying! Help us, Kathey. Help us!

ME: But I have a job now! I’m too tired to breathe life into you and take orders from personnel managers at the same time! I’m the one who’s dying a bit more each day! Give me life! Make yourselves known to me! What are your names? What are your stories?

CONSCIENCE: We can’t live without you, Kathey.

ME: Please don’t die! You’re my only friends! Without you I cease to live creatively! I will try to make everything work out for us. I promise that I will get you all into print one day and out to the cold, cruel world to be analyzed, but for now I am a bit sterile as far as plots and situations are concerned. I will give life to you. Please don’t make me beg! Don’t take orders from anyone! I taught you better than that! I know I’m taking orders at work, but I assure you that I’m terribly disgusted with myself.

FRIDAY—AUGUST 30, 1985

Cashed my first paycheck in the amount of $77.50.

After work I went to Deibert’s Readerama on the K Street Mall and blew some of my paycheck on two books: And I Don’t Want to Live This Life by Deborah Spungen (about her daughter Nancy who was killed by Sid Vicious of The Sex Pistols) and No One Here Gets Out Alive (about Jim Morrison of The Doors) by Jerry Hopkins and Danny Sugerman.

SATURDAY—AUGUST 31, 1985

I was expecting a quiet day at home today, but I got called into work this morning. No big deal, I guess. Work went all right. No major spills like the Italian salad dressing on my uniform stunt that I performed with such precision yesterday.

Well, school will be starting soon for everyone but me. Oh well, no more looking back. That part of my life is over for now except I’m still following my insatiable quest for knowledge of people, art, and life in general.

MONDAY—SEPTEMBER 2, 1985

Work was hectic. I made about nineteen cents in tips, but I think that I’m going to turn eleven cents back in because I’m not sure that I’m allowed to keep money that I find on the floor. I’m going to look like a moron turning it in, but I don’t want to do anything wrong.

WEDNESDAY—SEPTEMBER 4, 1985

A year ago today I began my first year in college, feeling depressed, angry, and fatalistic. I immersed myself in playwriting to save the few shreds of my sanity and optimism.

Well, a year later finds me working at Hamburger Hell and trying to get published.

I have decided to remain a quiet observer (as much as possible) and keep a written or mental journal about my encounters at Hamburger Hell. I might someday write a short story or book about the people I have met there and the situations that occur. Of course I would fictionalize the names.

Today this guy, Alfred, who works at Hamburger Hell, asked me, Would you be my friend to the end? I replied, Define what you mean by ‘friend?’ I also asked him what he meant by the end. He told me that he asked everyone that question, but that I was the first to make him explain himself. He asked another girl who immediately said Yes, which made me question how sincere the commitment would actually be.

THURSDAY—SEPTEMBER 12, 1985

Work was all right. No major spills. I can’t wait until payday. I’m really glad that I finally have a job so I can make money.

I received my check for $154.99, and dashed to Bank of America to cash it.

At work this boy asked me if I wanted to go bike riding with him on Sunday, but I told him that I’m going to Pacifica.

I don’t know what this guy’s intentions are. I don’t know him and I don’t think of him as anything other than a co-worker. My mind is too consumed with my job, writing, and Ray Davies. I’m a loner! I don’t want social ties. I like to stay home and read, write, and play my Kinks albums.

So I can only pray that this guy at work doesn’t ask me about going out or anything, because I will have to go on a binge of excuse making.

I really don’t want to get socially involved with the people I work with or anyone else for that matter. I will be busy trying to get Schoolgirl in Disgrace published.

You know, I have this fantasy that if my novel gets published and I’m working at Hamburger Hell, that I will be swarmed with customers wanting me to autograph copies of my novel, and I will emerge from the prep room covered in oily Italian salad dressing that I just spilled all over myself, borrow a pen from my manager, Nicky, and proceed to smile and sign away.

Unfortunately, the reality is that the novel was rejected by Warner Books, Inc. I received my rejection notice in the mail today.

Oh well, like I always say, I’m dying, but I’m not dead yet.

SATURDAY—SEPTEMBER 14, 1985

Work was okay. We sure get a lot of punk rockers and heavy metal kids in the restaurant on Saturdays. They hang out on the mall all day and wear Ramones and Motley Crew T-shirts. I want to put them in a film. I really do.

I’ve got to get back to my typewriter and get another short story off to some magazine.

I have encountered some fascinating characters at Hamburger Hell. I mean potential characters. There is one man named Charlie, who says for every friend he loses, he gains ten more, and a man who told me that a hotel wouldn’t let him have a room because he didn’t meet their standards. He was rather scruffy and spoke incessantly of streetcars.

SUNDAY—SEPTEMBER 15, 1985

The AIDS epidemic is growing worse and worse. A CPR class held in Rocklin, CA. had a poor turnout because people were afraid of contracting AIDS from the CPR dummy used in the class.

I’m glad that I’m celibate, but I do come into contact with the customers’ dirty dishes. I do worry about germs. I’m actually a Howard Hughes about germs. I always disinfect everything, but inhaling the fumes from the cleaners is probably more of a threat. Anyway, I guess if you’re going to catch something and die, you’re going to die no matter what you do.

But AIDS is causing so much controversy. Now parents in New York don’t want AIDS victims attending school with their children, and hospital workers want permission to wear gloves and masks when coming in contact with AIDS patients. Basically we’re all undereducated and terrified of dying.

TUESDAY—SEPTEMBER 17, 1985

I became terribly depressed when I saw this girl playing guitar on the mall. I kept thinking what a shame it is that I have gotten so far away from playing the guitar and piano.

I’ll always know that I was a failed musician who turned to writing. It’s my salvation.

If I don’t find a way to creatively express myself, I will self-destruct. I’m running out of artistic options. If I don’t make it as a writer, I have no other choices. I would have failed at my last option.

If I end up failing at writing as well, I can see buying a sleeping bag, finding a freezer, and quietly lying down to sleep forever, allowing my heart to just freeze to death as the rest of my body gently slumbers. I’m so incredibly sleepy now that I will just end here.

SATURDAY—SEPTEMBER 21, 1985

At work today this girl named, Trish, and my manager, Nicky, were being sexually explicit during a conversation. Nicky said something about my ears being too tender to listen, and Trish turned to me and asked, Are you married, Kathey? Do you have a boyfriend? Of course I answered no to both questions. Then Trish said, Then we had better not talk like this in front of Kathey, Nicky. People seem to think I’m so naïve, which is a correct assumption; however, I’m not naïve in the sense that I let people take advantage of me.

SUNDAY—SEPTEMBER 22, 1985

Mom tries so hard to believe that my dreams of being a published writer and film director will materialize.

She is rather financially distressed about our present situation, however. We live from check to check. Right now I have thirty-one dollars. I had forty-two, but I spent about $9.10 on food and gave some lady outside the market a dollar.

I feel angry at myself for not working as hard as I should at being a writer. Sylvia Plath worked three times as hard as I do, and she always had at least ten manuscripts out to publishers at any given time.

I must make a point of working obsessively hard for the remainder of the year, and even harder in 1986, a year I feel will be crucial to my writing career.

MONDAY—OCTOBER 7, 1985

Salad bar frequenters at Hamburger Hell were wearing their Monday faces. One lady jumped on my case for not filling up the salad crocks.

If there is anything in this world that can cause me to fly into a rage, it’s being told that I’m not working hard enough. Work is all I have. I think I could handle being told I was a bad lover, but not an incompetent worker.

Although I have no basis for comparison, I would like to think that I’d be an excellent lover, but I do fear that my mind might tend to wander.

WEDNESDAY—OCTOBER 9, 1985

I hate myself for always falling asleep. My eyes won’t stay open. Time passes too quickly. Not making enough progress with revisions to the novel. This cold apartment is making me lethargic. Just wish I’d be able to stay awake long enough to finish revisions and