Double Agent

Ranch. The tastiest of dipping sauces and the partner in crime of deep-fried food everywhere. Could dipping fried pickles into copious amounts of buttermilk ranch be good for me? Absolutely not. Did it taste fantastic? Absolutely yes. But I found myself in a dilemma. I had asked for ranch with my french fries when ordering but had not received any. No problem, I knew that the wait staff simply could not get the order right every single time.  The solution, of course, was simple. All I needed to do was walk up to the counter and request a cup of ranch. In a perfect world, I could respond to this situation with no hesitation. But unfortunately, we live in an imperfect world and no amount of ranch can fix that. I sat in the booth and stared at my beige tray, hoping to summon the sauce without needing words or uncomfortable interactions. I glanced at my friends across from me. “Look at them”, I thought,  “eating their food without a care in the world, experiencing no inner turmoil regarding condiments”. They wouldn’t need to go up to the counter for any reason. I realized then that I would have to brave the unknown experience of asking for my ranch… alone. 

 I slid out from the booth and walked to the front of the store. I breezed past the fountain soda machine and trashcans. But, when I turned the corner toward the register, I froze, a bottomless pit opening deep within my stomach. An employee stood behind the waist-high counter, a chunky black machine was placed in front of him. I would like to say that he smiled at me but that would be lying; however, he also wasn’t scowling. The neutral employee, black apron donned, was stationary behind the register. I approached the register, nearly having to pull my legs up for each step, and not just because of the floor tiles that were gummed up with a thick layer of sugar from years of overturned beverages. My whole body felt heavy and goosebumps covered my arms. I planted myself as close as I could manage, nearly 10 feet away from the register.  I opened my mouth to speak.

“Hey, can I-,” Alright, I had made a brief pause, but it’s okay I can recover this. “Could I get some…”  Well, now the situation seems totally unrecoverable. It would have been better if I had just walked up to the guy and impersonated Tarzan of the Jungle: “Me. Ranch.”

“What did you want, buddy?” he asked with an unfazed, neutral expression. This guy acted like a chiseled chunk of stone that could talk. I continued in my anxiety-filled fugue state, shifting from foot to foot. My weight went left-right, right-left, left- wait. Had he called me buddy? Nobody calls me buddy and gets away with it unless their full legal name is Dad! Now not only was I nervous about this whole interaction, but I was also filled with a seething rage toward the person I happened to be interacting with. I tried my best to keep it under control because I did really want that ranch. The seconds were starting to dilate and distort now. I could not decide if I had been standing there staring for two seconds or two minutes, but I knew that it was time to try again.

“Yeah, can I just get a- uh? A- uhhhhh,” I stumbled over the words. This interaction was beyond the point of return and I had to start deliberating on the nuclear option of self-destruction. Maybe I could just start counting down like the phones in secret agent action movies. If it was between continuing to stutter and stumble over words or imploding, the better option was very apparent to me. But given that I do not actually have the option to self-destruct, I had to try and squeak out the rest of my questions. Just as I was finally working up the courage to ask, a third party entered the interaction. 

“Hey there, did we forget your ranch? I brought your order out and saw it on the receipt but I didn’t see any on the tray.” I turned to see that these words came from the kindest man I had ever seen. Maybe I was just filled with relief over finally being able to release myself from this tortuous exchange. I saw the ranch in his outstretched hand and a grin on his face. Surely if there was a perfect depiction of an angel, here he stood. Grabbing the ranch, it felt like a crushing weight had been lifted from my shoulders. 

“Thanks, man,” I said, tears welling in my eyes. Never had someone earned my thanks in a truer manner than this. 

“Yeah, don’t worry about it, boss,” he said with the kind of coolness that I thought only movie stars were capable of. He turned and ambled over to go and do some other miracle of fast food grace. I lifted my previously rooted feet and started to stumble away. The adrenaline was still wearing off and when I finally made it to my booth I felt as if I had just run a marathon. I was like Phidippides of Athens, only if Phidippides was just meant to go and get the ranch. The plastic top of the cup came off with ease and I dipped my fry into the blessedly cool dressing. That first bite felt like an herbaceous symphony through my mouth. 

From that moment I decided that, like Batman, I needed to become what I feared most. Rather than training to fight crime, I needed to train my interpersonal communication skills. To do this, I would get a job in food service. The only thing holding me back was regulations, for most positions an individual had to reach sixteen years of age before they can work. So after a wait of nearly four years, I applied for a job at Culver’s. I had a friend who worked there. When I was contacted about an interview, I looked at the incoming call on my phone with great trepidation, but finally picked up and gave the hiring manager my availability. On the day of the interview, I showed up right on time and the hiring manager got called out from the back. I sat down in one of the booths and prepared myself to be drilled with questions. When the interview started, my fear of the questions quickly turned to interest. It felt more like a conversation than a step in an application process. The next thing I knew, I was asked when I could start! 

My first day came and they had me taking orders from customers in the dining area. It was truly time for me to test my interpersonal communication and social skills. I cowered behind my trainer as I watched them easily manipulate the screen while taking orders. It was like an art form almost. The ancient art of order-taking eluded me though, and when the trainer offered to let me take control, I nearly broke down. Unfortunately, my anxiety was not enough of a reason for me not to get trained on the register, especially because this was something I accepted as part of the job when I was hired. I stumbled through a lot of orders, unable to make myself understood.  My trainer had to jump in to save me for the first hours. But, after four hours, I completed my first shift, and my first step to becoming a better communicator! 

I made it through a lot more shifts and my time at Culver’s flew by. It did not take long for me to master the order-taking position and even move up to taking orders in the drive-thru. I tried my best to let my smile be heard through the crackly speaker. It didn’t matter what my position was, if I saw a customer who needed assistance, I wouldn’t be afraid to approach them. I had my opening line for taking orders, “what can I make fresh for you?” But I also had lines for customers who seemed to be having trouble, “everything alright?”, or, “what seems to be the problem?” and a few other stand-bys. 

Working at Culver’s has been great for my interpersonal communication skills because every interaction typically revolves around food. Most of the customers frequent the store and often know exactly what they want to order before walking through the door. Some customers need some time to figure out the menu and assistance when ordering. But, I have to admit  there have been a few that are the type I feared when I started working here: those customers who just want to watch the world burn and they decide to start with the Culver’s of Cape Girardeau. The pinnacle example of this type of person walked in on one very fine Tuesday. 

I was positioned behind the counter with my hands on the edge bearing the brunt of my weight.

“Hey there! What can I make fre-,” “I JUST CAME THROUGH THE DRIVE THRU AND I DIDN’T GET MY CHEESE CURDS,” she bellowed in my general direction, jamming a receipt in my face. 

“I’m sorry about the ma’am, what size were they?” I spoke with a sympathetic tone, attempting to soothe her. 

“CAN YOU NOT SEE THE RECEIPT?” she was yelling at me like I had kicked over her child’s lemonade stand. I glanced at the receipt and saw they were supposed to be large. I turned around to look to see if the curds had been left forgotten while bagging her order. Sure enough, a large sack of cheese curds sat there. I scooped up the cheese curds and placed them in a small brown bag with the Culver’s logo emblazoned on the side. 

“Here you go, ma’am. Sorry about the inconvenience.” I said, handing her the bag. 

“THIS IS THE WORST FAST FOOD EXPERIENCE I’VE EVER HAD. I WILL NOT BE COMING BACK HERE.” She howled, to no one in particular. I watched her stomp away, cutting off any reply I might’ve been able to give her. As I watched her storm out, I noticed that a child had been standing behind her patiently. Though perhaps a bit shaken by the interaction he had just witnessed, he trudged up to the edge of the counter, barely tall enough to see over it. He gazed up at me with deep brown eyes and opened his mouth to speak.

“Excuse me, sir, could I please have a-” he paused and I could tell that he was going over the script he had created for himself in his head. “A… uhm-” I had taken his family’s order earlier and was running through the possibilities of what he could want. I vaguely remembered a two-piece tender meal with ranch and fries. I thought that would be the most likely contender. He looked to be on the verge of tears.

“Did you want a Ranch?” I asked quietly, trying not to scare him more.

“Yes please, thank you.” He replied, barely speaking above a whisper. I smiled and turned to grab the ranch, quickly swiveling back to place it in his hand.

“You got it, boss.”