Do You Want Fries with That?

Do You Want Fries with That

A Parable of Preferences

The scene opens on a small fast food restaurant. It's a bit run down; neither the inside or the outside are the prettiest things a person will ever see in their lives. But it's up to code, and some of the patrons who frequent the place are in the habit of saying that it has character because of its... used... state. Right now, though, said patrons don't seem to be in as forgiving a mood. A line has backed up out the door, a queue of angry people jostling and muttering as they wait to get to the counter. Most of them already have meals on their trays, which they are clenching with white-knuckled hands, and at which they sometimes glare disgustedly.
Behind the counter there is but one worker, a poor, frazzled sort wearing a rather dorky apron and even dorkier hat; he tries to appear calm and conciliatory, but his good arm sometimes shakes uncontrollably and the other, bandaged from elbow to fingertip and useless, he holds protectively to his chest. One of his eyes is swelling shut. His good arm, his face, and what else you can see of his skin, are all covered with a lattice of scars of various ages. Bruises in the pattern of fingers encircle his neck.
Person after person comes up to the counter and leans over, yelling in his face and gesturing wildly. He smiles, sometimes calmly, sometimes sadly, and shrugs. Occasionally he waves his good hand in the direction of the back room, or makes a small motion with it. His every action, and very being, seems to radiate with "Well, what can you do?" It is difficult to say whether that is directed towards calming the clients and their disgruntlement or at calming himself and his inability to escape them.
Yet another one approaches, as deliberate, regal, and menacing as a dowager empress whose breakfast had been undercooked and whom was determined to see a few heads roll before lunch. He visibly steels himself for the encounter, this metaphor having occurred to him also. It was, he reflects, a particularly apt one. She slams her tray down on the counter in front of him, causing food to splatter up all over his face and clothing. He makes no move to wipe it off.
"Can I help you, ma'am?"
She levels a baleful glare at him; he fights the urge to back away slowly and remains where he is, looking at her diffidently from under his hat.
"You most certainly can!" She is every inch imperiousness. "You can give me a new meal, that's what you can do. This one was completely intolerable!" This last is said with dripping disgust. For a moment, he just looks at her, thinking about how he had never thought before that disgust could drip. It wasn't water, after all. Her majestic throat clearing brings him back from his introspection.
"Ah... may I ask what was wrong with it, ma'am? So I know what I can fix." He adds quickly, when she takes a deep breath in what seems like the beginning of a tirade. Alas, he is unable to forestall it.
"I'll tell you what was wrong with it! Everything was wrong with it. There wasn't a single thing in it that was satisfactory. I wanted it my way, and this isn't it!" She speaks in italics, and it frightens him. But he rallies quickly.
"Well... ah... could you be a bit more specific?"
"I ordered a 'Megachurch Meal', number seven, sermon with extra uplift, a side order of contemporary worship, and a large outpouring of the Holy Spirit. And look at it!"
He glances at the tray in front of him. "Ah... and what's the problem with it, ma'am?" He is visibly even more nervous. He has had this conversation many times. He knows that it is unlikely to end well.
"Well, my sermon wasn't nearly uplifting enough, for starters."
He has an answer. It isn't an answer that will satisfy her, as he has learned by experience, but it is an answer. "That's how much uplift The Boss said to put on all the sermons here today, ma'am."
He is right. It doesn't satisfy her. She glares even more balefully at him. "You can tell your boss that his amount of uplift isn't satisfying to his customers."
He looks unapologetic. "The Boss, ma'am, and I don't tell Him what to do. He knows exactly how much is good for you today. That's why he's The Boss, and I'm out here serving you."
"But that's how much I want, young man, and I'm sure your boss would want me to be happy with the meal he gives me. That's why they're 'happy meals.'"
"The Boss, ma'am, and they're not called 'happy meals' here. That's the competition. And too much of that stuff makes you fat, you know." She is clearly affronted that he could ever suggest that she might become fat. He sighs, and wonders why he bothers at all. "The Boss doesn't want you to become fat. He likes making His customers healthy."
"Well, tell your boss that if he cares that much, he can make it low fat."
"The Boss, ma'am, and I suppose I could mention it... but I think He probably knows what he's doing. And besides, the reason you like it is because it's high in fat."
She gives him a look that suggests that he should never presume to guess her reasons for anything. She scowls, and points at the next offending item on her tray; the line backs up even farther behind her. "My side of contemporary worship had hymns" she spat that word "mixed up in it."
"Well, ma'am, they're both made in the same place. They do get mixed up sometimes. You still got what you ordered; you just got some extra stuff, that's all."
"Don't get smart with me, young man! This is a travesty! Your boss shouldn't let this happen! I'm deathly allergic to hymns!"
"The Boss, ma'am. And they're made out of the exact same ingredients as the Contemporary Worship Choruses, ma'am."
She draws herself up. "Then why do they make me sick?"
He considers this a long moment. He knows that he will regret his answer as soon as it leaves his mouth. But, still, it is his job to be helpful. "It's probably something psychological, ma'am. I know a good counselor, right around the corner..."
She draws herself up even farther, the very image of affronted pride. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with me, young man." She says to him, severely. "Your hymns must have gone bad from age. They've lost all their virtue."
He gestures towards an elderly couple eating quietly and with every sign of contentment at a table behind the woman. "Other customers still enjoy them, ma'am, and say they're just as good and filling as they ever have been."
"Well, they do absolutely nothing for me, so I think that I shouldn't have to deal with them. The smell puts me off of eating completely. They shouldn't be made here at all, when they upset the customers!"
"Other customers like them, ma'am. If you hate them that bad..." He shrugs. "You don't have to eat them, I suppose. Though it detracts from everyone else's experience if you don't. All that waste and trash lying around."
"Ban them, ban them, ban them!" Her voice rises to a shriek. He mentally adds another slash mark to his tally of customers who are incapable of understanding reason, and realizes that his mental chalkboard is running out of room.
"I don't have the authority to do that, ma'am. Only The Boss can make the worship, and he seems to like both kinds just fine. And many other varieties too, for that matter." He suspects that she is completely unaware of any other kinds, but he has always been a rather conscientious
person.
"I have been coming to this place for twenty years, young man. I have been loyal; I have never gone anywhere else. I am entitled to the kind of meal I want."
"I'm sorry ma'am. The Boss wants what's best for all His customers, regardless of how long they've been coming. It's in the manual, if you'd like to read a copy. It's... ah... in the 'Matthew' section... paragraph 20, I believe."
"I don't need to read any manual, I've been here for twenty years, and I know what it's all about. Besides..." she looks at him suspiciously "That sounds a bit like communism. Everyone knows that your boss is for democracy."
"If by communism you mean all the members give of themselves for the good of those around them, than I suppose it is communistic."
"That's un-American!"
"I don't believe The Boss has any political affiliations, ma'am."
She gapes for a moment, then mentally scratches those statements from her memory as being completely incompatible with what she knows to be true. She moves on to her next complaint. The line is around the corner now; people have to leave the restaurant in order to get in line. The murmuring of complaints is almost deafening. "Well, look at this 'Outpouring of the Holy Spirit!' It's almost empty. What have you got to say about that?"
He just looks at her blankly for a moment; despite everything that has already happened he would never have suspected the customers could sink down to that level of cluelessness. "Those are self-serve, ma'am. If yours is empty, it's because you haven't filled it."
"How dare you? How dare you suggest that it's my fault. You're the server, it's your job to make sure that everyone has everything they need and are completely satisfied. If my cup isn't full, it's your fault."
"Ah... well... technically it's not my job to make sure everyone is satisfied or has everything they need. It's my job to give you whatever The Boss tells me to give you. I can't eat for you; The Boss wants you to do some things for yourself, after all."
"But when I tried to fill my cup at the Spirit fountain, it spilled all over me, and I had to go clean myself up!"
"That does happen sometimes."
"I pay your salary, young man, and you need to treat me with the respect I deserve!"
"And a lovely $5.25 and hour it is, ma'am."
She clenches her fists. "I had to wait ten minutes in this line to talk to you, and all I get is smart aleck remarks. You need more help, here, so we don't have to wait in line so long. You're not doing your job properly."
"Well ma'am, we can't afford any more help because half of you don't pay your bills. And one of me would be plenty to run normal business... except that all my time is taken up with dealing with everyone's complaints."
She splutters she rants, she moans, she groans, she whines, she screeches, she points her finger at other customers who were destroying her dining experience, but all to no avail. He shakes a little in fear, but will not relent. He will follow The Boss' orders, even if this one does stick his arm into the fryer again.
"I'm never eating here again! I'll find another restaurant that will treat me the way I want!"
He smiles. "There's a nice one two blocks away, on the corner. It's very highly recommended. But..." He adds, always conscientious, "I don't think you'll like that one, either."
"Why ever not?"
"Because your problem doesn't seem to be with our restaurant, it seems to be with The Boss."