It was a Saturday night, but the caveat is that it was the Saturday night before our Holy Confirmation. For you non-Catholics out there, Confirmation is one of the seven sacraments on the road to full Catholicism. To be sure, mass was at noon, so a night of drinking couldn’t hurt, could it? I mean we were 17 years old, and that’s a powerful age when you have the thirst and the lust for female companionship.
My friends and I would be spending the night at our friend Pete’s house. Pete didn’t have Confirmation in the morning. He also had a house which lacked parental supervision, as his parents made the decision to leave a 17 year old to take care of himself without thought that his hooligan friends would descend upon the house like locusts with cases of cheap beer.
So we all get to Pete’s around 6pm and we start to drink. It amazes me how we always had somebody to buy us beer. It was usually the boyfriend of someone’s older sister, doing us a favor to look good in her eyes to try to secure his own spot in the Devil’s Bargain later that eve. One friend brings his beer bong. It goes by other names: funnel, beer funnel, tube, etc. We call ours the Lake Tahoe. We call it that even though not a one of us knows where exactly Lake Tahoe is, though we know it’s significantly west of New York and that it was mentioned in Godfather 2 so it has to be important so we’ll call our beer bong Lake Tahoe beer bongs. Right.
We spend the evening drinking. For whatever reason the group of us had, over the years, acquired the reputation as house wreckers. It wasn’t true. We never damaged the house of someone we didn’t know. We’d steal from them, but never wreck a house. That would be poor form. We only caused damage to our friends, but then we’d clean up before anyone was the wiser. The group of us had many beers, and there were various girls about. One of whom was the paramour of our host, but was also in the odd predicament of being the ex-girlfriend of another of our group. Theirs was a fire that just couldn’t be doused, so the inevitable hidden hooking up occurred unnoticed, until our fine host found them together in the shed in the back yard. When asked what was going on, our friend the ex- in question said he was, “showing her the lawnmower.” Which was laughable and in turn became a euphemism for all manner of hooking up for many years to follow. To wit: (Me): Hey, I met a really awesome girl last night; (Friend): Did you show her the lawnmower?; (Me): No, she’s not that kind of girl.
Back to the story.
So we spend our evening drinking and having fun until the wee hours. Many many many beers were consumed, and those of us who had to be at the noon mass for our Confirmation went to bed somewhere in the neighborhood of 4am, but sleep didn’t come easily and we barely caught our share of 40 winks.
Chuck had to be at work by 6:30am. He stayed up all evening and roused some of us around 6:15am to drive him to his job at McDonald’s. A few of us needed smokes which could be purchased that the convenience mart conveniently located across from the McDonald’s where Chuck conveniently worked and had a 6:30am shift that Sunday morn. In various states of inebriation, about 4 of us piled into a car and drove the distance, a couple of miles, to deposit Chuck in the care of Sir Ronald McD and get us some smokes for the smoking whilst drinking the coffee yet to be brewed. We left our friend, acquired our Marlboros, and drove back to Pete’s.
We had just got back to Pete’s and had just figured out how to make coffee and how many fucking scoops does it require well there’s 5 of us left so 5 scoops ought to do it and there better be some fucking sugar.
The phone rings. At 6:45am. There is no reason on God’s green Earth to have a phone call at 6:45am on a Sunday. Unless there’s a tragedy or the odd parent returning early from the vacation who would love to surprise you. Thankfully, it was not the parents in question. It was Chuck. He wanted us to come back to pick him up. He’d been fired.
Fired exactly 15 minutes after his shift began.
It seemed puzzling to us, so we all piled back into the car and proceeded to drive back down to retrieve our poor recently unemployed friend from the vile clutches of the burger giant. Chuck was waiting for us outside. When we pulled up, he got in the car. Naturally our curiosity got our tongues wagging and we needed to know why the fuck you were fired in record time?
Here is where the title of the story makes sense.
At this time in McDonald’s history, they had introduced the biscuit. This was the cornerstone of all marketing for them, and everybody loved him some biscuit and goddamn aren’t these biscuits just the cat’s fucking pajamas? Anyhow, these biscuits are made on trays. These trays each hold a certain amount of biscuits. These particular trays made 15 biscuits per tray, in an oven that could hold 4 trays at a time. Each biscuit was placed individually on the tray in nice neat rows to be put in the oven to be cooked and removed to a lovely golden brown.
Well, Chuck didn’t want to do it that way.
Chuck took all the biscuits, 60 in his first (and only) batch, rolled the dough into one humongous biscuit, and tried to shove the whole fucking thing into the oven at once, making what he referred to as a “super biscuit.” The manager saw him and fired him on the spot.
As we were leaving the establishment, I looked behind to see if the manager was watching us drive away. It was then that I noticed the chalk placard placed just outside the entrance doors. In calligraphic lettering, the good people of the McDonald’s marketing team had decided that they would announce the bakers of the wonderful new biscuits by name at each store.
The sign read, in nicely formed letters: Your biscuit maker today is...
And just below, scrawled in chalk, in half-drunken large bold letters read: CHUCK