Lessons from the King
…China King, that is. Alas, my two week stint at Tennessee’s most established Chinese fast food joint has come and gone as quickly as the syrup oozing from its sweet honey chicken clung to my skin…and senses. Off my appetite for an undercover ‘worker’ lifestyle goes, dissipating with the rising steam of the chow mein, which is sure to be gobbled soon by the next batch of ravenous customers.
My view of the Eastgate Mall Food Court from the register.
You can’t say I didn’t try. I made a pretty darn good button pusher during my 4 day tenure…all with exception for those few (aka hourly) instances I double-charged customers because of a rare Spastic Finger Disorder, which releases uncontrollable urges to push buttons more times than necessary, and that time I may have handed a customer a $100 bill as change, mistaking it as the ten. Thank goodness for good samaritans. Other than that, I greeted people with all the cheer and obligatory “Would you like anything to drink with that?…Well, here ya go!” grace of a cute Southern wind-up doll. Smile, wave. Rewind, repeat.
I joke but in all seriousness, there is something about dealing with customers and God forbid, having to be nice, that definitely forced me out of my regular insularity. On my first day, a rather pleasant-looking man with a shiny head remarked, “You speak really great English for an Asian.” I wanted to plunk a coin onto that smooth vacuous head of his, but refrained. Figured it wasn’t a great way to start my first day on the job. I simply smiled sweetly, all the while fuming inside, and stated, “After all, I was born here.”
I got along well with my colleagues: Evelyn, Aidan, and Efrain. They were my Guatemalan compadres, from whom I Iearned helpful lessons about hard work, albeit through often difficult communication routes. My rusty spanish couldn’t make it much past the “Donde….” or “Que…” but patience won the day, and they would stare at me with their big brown chicano/a eyes, waiting seconds upon seconds for me to muster the right word, however ill-conjugated it was.
Admittedly, after only a few hours of standing on my feet, I’d be grumbling. I couldn’t imagine returning the next day and thereafter. The thought of the syrupy honey chicken stench emanating through my clothes was enough to make me go Febreze-crazy on my entire wardrobe and I don’t even like Febreze.
During breaks, I would converse with Evelyn, who turned out to be only a year older than me but acted worlds wiser. She rarely smiled but diligently served customers even when they couldn’t understand a word she uttered and probably vice-versa. She’s the only one in her family who resides in the US; the rest remain in Guatemala.
Aidan and Efrain were cheerful workers, especially Efrain. He always greeted me with an exuberant, “Buenas Tardes!” and spoke embarrassingly slow to me in Spanish, just to make sure I could understand. Feeling like a kindergardener was never more appreciated.
Evelyn’s intensity kept me on my toes but occasionally, I caught her peeking at her phone and smiling. She kept most of her personal life under wraps, but I gathered that she had a lover back in Guatemala. To think that she left all she loved behind for an underpaid job at China King doesn’t make much sense to me. Is this life really any better? But then again, I wouldn’t know.
My brief entrance into the “working” lifestyle taught me several things: lo mein is tricky to serve with slippery tongs, my brain ain’t no calculator, and I’m not very cut out for the service industry. But this stint has given me a newfound appreciation for those who graciously serve us gluttonous customers. I wish we could see ourselves staring greedily at food from the other side, for we all look like animals. To our feeders, thank you.
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