Man Up!: Tales of My Delusional Self-Confidence

by Ross Matthews

  It was revolting, but for some reason I couldn’t stop smelling them. Despite my utter revulsion and against my better judgment, I would hold my hands and gloves up to my face and huff them. I was like a wholesome sitcom version of those poor dazed souls on Intervention who compulsively inhale magic marker, spray paint, or gasoline fumes.

  Puh-lease, keep your judgment to yourself. I know I’m not the only person who sometimes finds sick pleasure in horrible smells. Don’t for one minute pretend you haven’t delighted in the disgust of a dirty sock, long-expired dairy product, or your own funky BO. Don’t you dare turn your nose up at my courageous admission when you know your nose has done the exact same thing.

  It quickly became obvious to everyone at the plant that bulb farming just wasn’t for me. Eventually my supervisor, Marta, staged an intervention of her own. She gently pulled me away from the conveyor belt, looked deep into my eyes while shaking her head and said, “Ross, honey, we all like you here, but you’re spending too much time smelling your gloves. This is your third warning and I’m afraid we’re going to have to let you go.”

  Fair enough. She had a point. Thank God she said something. Sometimes you need a push. To this day, I can’t smell a hot dog without thinking of dear Marta.

  After that, I became much more picky when it came to my professional life. I wanted to identify exactly what I was looking for in a job. I knew for certain that I no longer wanted to work outdoors, so a temperature-controlled environment was a must. I also wished for a job that connected me with the people. You know, like really up close and personal? Finally, it was imperative that I work in an industry that really ignited a passion within me. The answer was clear: I needed a McJob.

  The McDonald’s in my hometown got a makeover in about 1992, so it was pretty freakin’ cool. The interior color scheme was ultra modern—gray, black, and yellow. They had removed what used to be the kiddie section called Old McDonald’s Barn (where, by the way, I celebrated my seventh birthday) and replaced it with an entire wall of TV screens that played McDonald’s-sponsored cartoons and music videos on a continuous loop all day long. Awesome.

  This was exactly the kind of place that could take my career to the next level. I remember being incredibly nervous when I brought in my application, completed with the lucky pen I was awarded for perfect attendance at my eighth-grade graduation.

  Before I handed in my paperwork, I bought a supersized Number One (Big Mac, fries, and a drink), settled into a corner booth, and ate slowly while scoping out the joint. Field research is essential, so I began taking copious notes on a napkin:

  The Blue Shirts tell the Pink Shirts what to do.

  The Blue Shirts must be managers.

  Most of the Blue Shirts have mustaches.

  The boys wear hats.

  The girls wear visors.

  I prefer a visor.

  The guy in the short-sleeved button-up shirt must be in charge.

  He has big arms.

  He must work out.

  He has a mustache, too.

  Note to self: Maybe try to grow a mustache?

  As I savored my last remaining french fry, I felt ready. This was the right place for me. After I topped off my Diet Coke (hello, free refills), I marched up to the head guy with the big arms in the too-small shirt and attempted my most professionally cheery greeting. “Excuse me, sir? First off, I love your mustache. Second, I was wondering if you were hiring.”

  Without looking up from the fry machine he snapped, “Fill out an application and bring it back.”

  “One step ahead of you,” I snapped back while whipping out my application with a dramatic flourish and setting it down on the counter.

  I don’t know if it was my excellent penmanship or the mustache comment, but he hired me immediately. I was in! I was now a proud member of the McDonald’s family! Sure, I was thrilled to simply have a job indoors, but it got even better—the perks were beyond my wildest fantasies!

  Mr. Mustache told me that I would be starting at five dollars an hour (a full fifty cents more than I was making at the ol’ bulb farm) and—get this—I was allowed two free items every break, not counting sodas. Because child labor laws were so strict in Washington State (holla!), I got two fifteen-minute breaks and a thirty-minute lunch for every shift I worked. Do the math, people. That translated into how many delicious McDonald’s menu items per day? Six. Yep, six whole items. Are you kidding me? I was in hamburger heaven!

  Free food is an incredible motivator. I never once dreaded heading in to work because I knew an entire kitchen full of possibilities awaited me, and just about every single one of them could be dipped in BBQ sauce. It was all so fantastically simple. When my break came, I just asked the guy behind the grill for whatever I wanted and he gave it to me like a magic, wish-granting genie.

  “I think I’ll start with a…yes. Bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit, please. But can you add just a whisper of extra cheese? Thanks. So, that’s one item. I think I’ll wash that down with…Yes, a hash brown. No! An apple pie—fruit is healthier.”

  Breakfast? Check.

  Then I worked for about one and a half hours, spending the whole time daydreaming about my next meal.

  “Nuggets please. Six of ’em. Throw in a few BBQs and a couple Sweet and Sours. I’m feelin’ saucy. Get it? And, umm…are those fries fresh? They are? Okay, then give me a small, no, supersized fry. Thanks!”

  Lunch? Check.

  Keep in mind, also, that sodas didn’t count as one of my allotted items, so by lunch I had consumed enough Diet Coke to fill a kiddie pool.

  I was usually rotated to the drive-through position by the latter part of my shift, giving me not only a beautiful view of the parking lot (shared with Shakey’s Pizza—yum! Mojo Potatoes, anyone?), but also some privacy to focus on my next break.

  “God, I thought my break would never come. Um, let me see…. You know what sounds positively delish? A Filet-O-Fish. But I don’t want any cheese on it, please. Just extra tartar sauce. And maybe I’ll try one of those hot fudge sundaes for dessert? Hold the nuts, they’re kinda fattening, you know? If you spilled a little caramel sauce on it too, I wouldn’t be mad at you. Thanks!”

  Dinner? Check.

  Have you seen the blockbuster documentary Super Size Me? Well, I was basically living the plotline. The only good to come out of all the McDonald’s food I was consuming on a daily basis was that every couple of months I had to get a brand-spanking-new uniform. The old one must’ve shrunk or something. Just kidding—I was getting fatter. It was no wonder, considering I was eating enough deep-fried food to feed everyone at a Midwestern county fair. Eventually one of my favorite coworkers, Veronica—a sassy, tell-it-like-it-is Chola mom of cinco—told me one day, “You face is good. But why you so fat for?”

  Yes, I was gaining weight, but I was also gaining a much larger friend base. Quick tip? If you work at McDonald’s and the most popular girl in school comes in to order, you are the most powerful person in the world. “No, Courtney, this is on me. I insist. It’s, like, no biggie. I’ll just mark down that you had a coupon. See you at school tomorrow? Maybe we can sit next to each other at lunch?”

  Also, I was now getting invited more than ever to hang out and watch TV with friends. I would arrive at their houses right after work, just in time for Real World: Miami. Still in my uniform and reeking of saturated fats, I would bring the ultimate hostess gift: two huge bags of whatever was left over when we had closed the restaurant. It’s true, the way to someone’s heart is indeed through their stomach. And my heaping bags of greasy cheesy treats congealed right around their li’l hearts. I was a hit ! The BMOC: Big Mac On Campus!

  All in all, I was a good employee. I was reliable and courteous, and my McRib-making skills were second to none. I did, though, have an issue with one detail in particular: the uniform rules required that I had to wear a baseball cap instead of a visor. Apparently visors were for the girls only? Umm…this just wasn’t right. It was a major Norma Rae–st
yle workplace injustice. These were the nineties, for God’s sake—’N Sync’s Chris Kirkpatrick was a poster boy for the male visor, breaking gender barriers for all of us. It was a brave new world, but my jerky manager, Dwayne (not to be confused with big-armed Mr. Mustache), just didn’t get it.

  At the time, I had a head full of short, glorious curls (a la early Justin Timberlake, another groundbreaking ’N Sync influence) made perfect by L.A. Looks Firm Hold Gel. There’s no way that a ball cap was going to suppress my spirit, or the volume of my hair. Out of the freaking question.

  Finally, after much nagging and going above Dwayne’s head (can you say “regional manager”?), Dwayne caved in, and I wore my visor proudly alongside the unflinchingly honest Veronica.

  “Why you wear girl hat for?”

  “Because, Veronica, this is America and, male or female, hat hair doesn’t discriminate.”

  Revolutionary change may sometimes take a while to get used to, but it’s possible. You may call me a trailblazer. Okay, I’m fine with that. And I carry that title proudly. If you ever happen to see a male McDonald’s employee wearing a visor, tell him I said, “Hello…And you’re welcome.”

  It was a great time for me, and my superiors took notice of my moxie. I was thrilled when I was promoted and transferred to the McDonald’s Express in the nearby Cascade Mall, thinking I was being rewarded for my hard work. But little did I know that my quick climb up the fast-food ladder would lead to the downward spiral of my McCareer.

  Although I appreciated the convenience of working in the mall, being both retail adjacent and surrounded by countless cuisines (my counter was positioned between a Footlocker and a Sbarro’s), it quickly became obvious that, in the eyes of others who worked in the mall, I was food court scum. I was a lowlife. At my old McDonald’s, I was a king—the guy who went face to face with stubborn ol’ Dwayne over VisorGate and lived to tell about it. But in the mall world, I was at the bottom of the food chain.

  They never said it out loud, but I knew. When Brett from Brookstone ordered an All-American Cheeseburger Meal on his lunch break, his voice dripped with disdain. When Suzanne from Sears picked up her daily medium Dr. Pepper, no ice, she barely even acknowledged me. Screw you, Suzie. I knew you in kindergarten. You couldn’t finger-paint then and you can’t throw attitude now.

  But I couldn’t really blame them. Deep down, I knew it was me who was the problem. As much as I loved my McDonald’s job, it was beginning to pale in comparison to the other jobs in the mall that, let’s face it, were much cooler, cleaner, and just plain less-greasy. Those who worked at the other shops—the “retail people”—seemed so happy. Of course they were happy—they smelled like samples of perfume, not pickles. They wore designer-logo-emblazoned cotton, not condiment-stained polyester. Hell, they drove Hondas! Man, they were living the life, and I wanted in on it.

  The time had finally come for me to move on from McDonald’s, and I had my sights set on retail. The options in the mall were endless, so I decided to take a leap of faith by quitting my fast-food job altogether, certain I would soon land in greener pastures. I would have been thrilled to work at any of the retail shops: Bar-D-Western (a cowboy-themed clothing store owned by the parents of the Asian girl in my geometry class), the always refreshing Bath and Body Works, or the kiosk in the center of the mall that sold crystal figurines. You haven’t lived until you’ve seen two dozen crystal unicorns glittering in a mirrored display case beneath special halogen track lighting. And just imagine what kind of employee discount I would get on one of those mythical creatures. Fifty, 60 percent off ? Oh God!

  The problem? Even though I printed my application on mint green paper and spritzed it lightly with my brother’s Drakkar Noir, not one store would hire me. Not a single one, not even with my inside connection to my Asian classmate’s family. I felt totally betrayed. I mean, she and I had been study buddies!

  I almost gave up following what I thought was a particularly successful interview at Afterthoughts (a small boutique that sold bargain, last-minute accessories to complete an outfit—things like headbands, scrunchies, and bangles). I thought I had hit it out of the park at the interview. The manager was in her forties and had hair that went down to her knees. We had a lengthy conversation about how difficult it was to braid that much hair. She showed me her favorite brush. There was definite chemistry, and we had a connection, damn it! But, alas, I never heard back from her. It’s so sad, really. I mean, just imagine what I could have done with all that hair. Updos galore.

  I was beginning to panic. Like a total idiot, I had already quit McDonald’s before I’d locked in a new job. Time was ticking by without cash flowing in. There was a certain lifestyle I had grown accustomed to, and it involved going to the Cineplex on a regular basis—hello, those Meg Ryan movies weren’t gonna watch themselves! And do you know how much the cinema charged for Whoppers and an extra large popcorn at the snack bar?!? Unreal! I needed a paycheck and I needed it fast. So there’s a lesson here, kids. If you have a steady job that you hate, don’t be impulsive and drop it like a hot apple pie right outta the deep fryer. Instead, play it cool, heed the advice of Wilson Phillips, and “Hold on for one more day…”

  I found myself jobless, once again a civilian who had to pay for my Diet Coke. Tears filled my eyes after another endless, hungry day of handing out applications when I walked by a store that for some reason, I had never noticed before. I asked my mom about it when I got home.

  “What’s Lane Bryant?”

  “The plus-size store at the mall? Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason,” I replied, trying to hide my glee. A plus-sized clothing store for women? Was there a more perfect place in the entire world for me to work?!? I’d had a lifelong love affair with full-figured ladies. Delta Burke, Roseanne, Rosie, Oprah—these were my people! If anyone could see my retail potential and take a risk on me, it was gonna be a BBW (Big Beautiful Woman).

  I was a tad nervous to apply, fearing that rejection from a big-boned gal would crush my spirit. But the dream of spending eight hours a day assisting large but fashionable gals accentuate their sexy curves and smartly camouflage “trouble areas” lit a fire under my equally plus-sized ass.

  “I’m here to apply for a position,” I told the lady at the sales counter. She had really cool hair. It was a deep maroon hue with a platinum blonde streak serving as the surprising centerpiece of her bangs. This fantastic creation was longer in the front and kinda spiky in the back. Very ahead of its time. Sort of a Kate Gosselin backward mullet. The kind of hairdo that said, Yeah, I work at the mall, but I have a gay cousin who does hair in the city.

  She smiled. “Really? Well, come on back with me.”

  Her name was Kend’rah and I liked her a lot. I never got the nerve to ask if she added the apostrophe herself, but I assumed she did. She deserved it. She was just about the coolest person I’d ever met. I yearned to be like her. I even considered, right then and there, changing my name to R’oss.

  “Have you ever worked retail before?” she asked while playing with the coiled telephone-cord-like keychain around her wrist, a telltale sign of a retail manager.

  I answered honestly. “No, but I shop a lot.”

  She laughed. I laughed, too. This was the best interview I’d ever had. We chatted for over an hour and, by the time I left, I was officially the only male employee at the Lane Bryant in the Cascade Mall.

  Just as I had imagined, working in retail was so much better than working in fast food. Case in point? When there were no customers at McDonald’s, I had to stay busy by scrubbing the thick layer of grease behind the deep fryer. “If there’s time to lean, there’s time to clean!”

  But when there were no customers at Lane Bryant, I got to stay “busy” by gossiping with my coworkers and boss Kend’rah about the most recent episode of Melrose Place while we folded extra large pairs of stirrup pants. Sure, I didn’t get free nuggets at my new job, but I did get to rattle off priceless nuggets to customers lik
e, “Honey, did you leave fifty pounds in the dressing room? Because you look amazing !!!”

  I was in my element, and I quickly became the number one salesperson in the entire store. No joke. Look it up. I’m sure it’s in their records somewhere. I was the best—the Wizard of Waistbands, the Sultan of Stretch Jeans, the Baron of Belts.

  It was, by far, the best job I’d ever had. I loved every minute of it, all one and a half years that I worked there. I’d love to say that I’d return to my old position at the company one day, maybe live out my retirement as an assistant manager at the Palm Springs branch. But, dear reader, that will never happen. Ever. Why? Because it’s forbidden. Why? Because, dear reader, of what I’m about to tell you—a story I’ve only shared with one other person, my very best friend who I confessed to only moments after it happened. I haven’t even told my mother. She will read it for the first time with all of you. Mom, please sit down. The time has come for me to cleanse myself and undo these shackles of shame. Here we go…

  We got a new assistant manager about a year into my career at Lane Bryant. Let’s call her Alexis. She was the quintessential bad girl: tall—like, eight feet tall—with a stern, tense face framed by the unsettling, partially grown-in stubble of her shaved eyebrows. While only twenty-one, she had the voice of a lifelong pack-a-day smoker (think Bea Arthur with a chest cold) and would tell long tales of growing up with her family on the Indian reservation near the local casino. She complained about anything and everything while twirling the creepy skull ring on her nicotine-stained finger.

  She must’ve made at least three times what I did in her high-up managerial position, but for some reason she inevitably asked me at the end of every shift to drive her to the bar across the river. Alexis and I couldn’t have been more different, but I liked her, even though I knew she was trouble.

  As we were closing down the store one night, I caught her putting some merchandise into her bag. “Just a little for me,” she said, laughing as if it was no biggie.