Rough Night at the Burger Paradise

Normally I love working the drive-through. You get to talk to people, time flies by, and frankly, it's the least greasy assignment you can get. Your most major side-task is doing dishes. And I'm bizarrely fond of doing dishes. A match made in heaven, right?

Tonight, there was an... unanticipated hitch in this otherwise perfect arrangement.

It gets cold in New England. I mean COLD! Ball-shrinking, electron-slowing, mind-erasingly cold. Tonight it was well below zero (Faharenheit) which made waiting at the open window for grandpa to find exact change... somewhat less pleasant. But it did make me appreciate being up to my biceps in steaming water between orders all the more.

Do you see it? I didn't see it yet. Wait for it.

An order comes in and I hurry to the window without drying off as carefully as usual. I'm leaning out the window helping the folks figure out what they want (it's particularly complex sometimes. I'm not sure how...) At some point I realize my arm is frozen to the window frame.

Yup. Tongue-to-the-flagpole frozen.

At this point I have several choices. I can just start screaming. And don't think I didn't consider it. I could have calmly called over the grill guy and asked him to get some hot water to pour over my arm. I could have asked the folks in the car if they'd seen the move A Christmas Story (A triple-dog-dare?!?!?!?) Or I could fix a grin on my face and rip my arm free right in front of them.

I chose the last option. I kept up some witty banter, leaned back for a little extra leverage, and pulled. I don't think they noticed a thing. I'm pretty sure they didn't notice the skin and hair left on the window frame. I got them their order, shut the window, and had a nice yell.

I can now add skin and hair to the blood, sweat, and tears I've given for my restaurant.

Your job may pay better, but admit it, I often have better stories. :)