The Chronicles of McLendy's

Statistically, I'm pretty average. IQ measured in the upper 130s to lower 140s, depending on age when tested, a reflection of my test-taking skills and not necessarily an indication of intelligence. I grew up in a family where the father had a job as an engineer/manager and the mother had a job as a teacher. Dinner was usually served around 17:30, depending on events planned for the evening. We lived in a three-bedroom, two-bathroom house with a full basement, a one-car garage and a one-car carport on a 1/4 to 1/2 acre lot. My sister and I participated in the usual assortment of extracurricular activities including Scouts, church, marching/concert band and other socially-approved civil gatherings.

At the age of 16, boys and girls were expected to get a job and buy a car, earning their own spending money while living at home for two more years with their parents, before going off to college.

A few months after my 16th birthday, I finally found the car I could afford, a 1967 Dodge Dart (with the smallest engine they made, a 170 cubic inch I6 that made 101 bhp @ 4400 rpm), so I got a job at a fast-food, takeaway restaurant called McLendy's. I've talked about the job in other stories so I won't repeat the details of how I got hired.

Instead, I want to reminisce about my first encounter with the type of adult who feels he/she is owed a debt of gratitude or a special place in society because of their previous work experience and/or skills:

Bazooka Bob, king of the shoulder-fired, propellant-powered, explosive/incendiary device.

"Rick, this is Bob. He'll show you how to fry the potatoes and cook the hamburgers."

A short, pale-white man in his late 20s reached out and shook my hand. "Great to meet ya, Rick. Glad to have you aboard."

"Thanks."

"Okay, I'll leave you two to get acquainted while I make a couple of phone calls. I'll check back in with you later on."

At McLendy's, we wore a black baseball cap and black shirt with a white stripe that pointed to the McLendy's logo. The bill of Bob's baseball cap was level with my shoulder so Bob was probably six or seven inches shorter than I was.

"How old are you, boy?"

"Sixteen."

"That's 'sixteen, sir.'"

"Oh, sorry. Sixteen, sir."

"You ever thought about joining the military?"

"Umm..."

"Don't you have anything to say? Don't ever 'umm' and 'uh' your superiors."

Superiors? Wasn't this guy a short order cook like me?

"No...sir."

"Very good. Anyway, this frying vat is pretty easy to operate. Just get the frozen fries out of the fridge over there, rip open the top, pour in enough fries to half-fill the basket, drop the basket in the oil and press this button. The fryer'll beep at you when the fries are cooked."

"Oh, okay."

Bob cocked his head back and gave me a stern look from under his cap.

"Okay, sir?"

"Very good. Here, I'll show you what's next." The fryer beeped and Bob dumped a basket of French fries on a metal sheet with perforated holes. "Shake some McLendy's special blend salt on it like this and your fries are ready for the customers."

"Yes, sir."

"I'll show you how to cook a few burgers but not too many. We want the customer to have freshly fried burgers, not some old shoe leather like places down the street serve."

I nodded my head, tired of using the word 'sir' that I didn't even use with my father who had served in the U.S. Army or my grandfather who had served 29 years in the U.S. Navy.

While Bob pulled out a couple of square-shaped, quarter-inch thick pressed pieces of ground-up cow, he grilled me about my dreams and aspirations. I answered each question and got a lecture each time about needing to know what I want to do in life if I want to get anywhere. Bob showed me how to cook both sides of the hamburger patties so that they were dark gray on the outside and light gray on the inside.

"Bazooka Bob!" An older, tall guy slapped Bob on the back. "So you got us another recruit in the making. Fantastic!"

Bob stood up straight and nodded his head. "Yes, sir. Rick, this is Jack, founder of McLendy's. Jack, sir, this is Rick."

Jack and I shook hands. Jack slapped me on the back. "Rick, you're in good hands. Bob here'll twist yore ear off about his days in the military but he's the salt of the Earth, aren't you, Bob?"

"Yes, sir."

Jack walked out of the kitchen.

Bob leaned over to me. "Did you know how Jack came up with the name of this place?"

"No...sir."

"He and a buddy of his were rival managers for McDonald's and Wendy's. They got tired of working for 'the man' and decided to open this place together."

"Thus the name McLendy's...makes sense."

"Oh no! Don't ever make that mistake. It's a combination of their last names, McLendon and Hollander."

That made even less sense but it did explain the training material I saw which looked like it was photocopied from some other company, perhaps either from McDonald's, Wendy's or both. Many years later I had a good laugh with another former McLendy's worker when we saw the movie, "Coming to America," with its nod to other entrepreneurs who had borrowed ideas from chain restaurants to start their own.

"You ever fired a weapon, boy?"

"Yes...yes, sir."

"Ever wanted to fire a bazooka?"

"Not that I know of."

"How about an RPG?"

"RPG?"

"A rocket-propelled grenade launcher."

"Can't say that I have."

"Boy, you don't know what you're missing. Let's just set these burgers off to the side here and go grab a smoke. You smoke, don't you?"

"No, I don't."

"Hell, boy, you still wearing diapers or somethin'? Still suckin' on your momma's teets, I bet. Well, let's step outside, anyway, and take a break. We deserve it."

I looked at the sign on the exit door that said, "No employees past this point after dark." I started to speak but Bob saw what I was going to say.

"Don't worry about that sign. It's meant for young'ns like you. You're with me so it's all right."

We stepped out into the dark and leaned against the building. It was January in east Tennessee and just a little bit cool outside but not too cool for our short-sleeved shirts after working over a hot oil fryer and burger grill for about an hour.

"Boy, I tell you what. This life sure sucks. I am the certified number-one expert on a classified RPG that hasn't even been approved for use yet because it's too advanced for the regular soldier, and here I'm standing here with some fucking kid with no one who appreciates my advanced training."

Bob handed me a cigarette. I held it but didn't light it.

"You know what, boy? I put in ten good years with the Army and the moment I make one comment to the wrong person, they throw me out like a piece of goddam meat."

"Oh yeah?"

"That's right. I seen that this RPG wasn't meant for no regular soldier and during one of our demonstrations to a bunch of highly-decorated generals, I let one of 'em know that this RPG should never fall into the hands of an idiot 'cause they'd never hit nothin' with it. I thought I was doin' the general and me a big favor, lettin' him in on what he could say to the right person to get this thing reconfigured for a lesser-trained soldier. Instead, I got reprimanded for steppin' out of line and speaking my mind when that was not my job. You see what I mean, don't ya?"

"Uh-huh."

"They don't want no thinkin' soldier, even if it took one to operate one of those things. Did you know I could hit AND DISABLE a moving APC with only a couple of seconds to acquire the target?"

"Is that so?"

"I never missed once. Not a single time."

"That's incredible."

"That's what they told me, too. I even got a special commendation for my accuracy. But the moment I open my mouth, just to help THEM make it the perfect weapon, they shut me down and toss me aside. TEN YEARS!"

I looked at the cigarette, wondering if it had any special additives because Bob seemed to get angrier the more he smoked. I handed the cigarette back to Bob.

"Thank you, soldier. You're a good kid. Not many people appreciate the kind of work I did. I expected to get out of the Army and offer my services to one of them weapon makers but they said they didn't need me in civilian clothes. Ten fuckin' years down the toilet, kid. But I tell you what. I'd do it all over again."

I nodded.

"That's right. They took an uneducated, fuckup like you and turned 'em into me. You see what I'm saying, boy? You got to make plans. Go see a recruiter. Find out if you can get your high school grades up high enough that you qualify to operate an RPG from the get-go, instead of taking two extra years like me."

I hid a yawn behind my hand, glancing at my watch at the same time.

"You're right, boy. Time to return to duty. You got a better head on your shoulders than I first thought. You got me thinking, too. I might just go back to the recruiter myself and see if they have need of me now because I bet no one else has proven the capability of that pea shooter like I did. It's been a year and I bet they're itching to find me but don't know where I am. And I sure as hell learned to keep my mouth shut, I can tell you that!"

Bob turned around and banged on the door. "Hey, we're locked out here! Somebody let us in!"

Bob looked at me and smiled. "Next time, kid, be sure to prop something in the doorway. It dang sure is embarrassing to have to ask to be let in, don't you think?"