I'm going to start by sharing an essay I wrote for a Creative Writing class I took a few years ago. The assignment was to write about an early memory:
Sometimes I pretend I’m an independent film maker. I write, direct, produce and star in trendy, evocative, critically acclaimed films that play to tiny little audiences in art film houses. On exciting, but rare occasions, my films are shown to large audiences at independent film festivals. I have a small, but dedicated, following of fans who wouldn’t dream of missing my latest work. This loyal group is made up of college professors and high school English teachers and organic farmers. There are intellectual lesbians and Birkenstock-wearing environmentalists. Moms of babies who wear only cloth diapers and soccer moms who have to skip the credits to hop into the SUV to dash off to pick up the kids at practice. (Usually they watch all the practices, but they can make an exception when something important happens, like my latest film is in town). There are even some men, of assorted types & sizes. They haven’t quite figured out what it is about my films that resonates in their souls, but something small, primal, and hidden deep inside their hibernation chambers stirs just a little, shortly before the final music starts and the credits appear. They come back hoping to grab hold and look it in the eye long enough to determine if it’s a threat or a promise. My latest film is about me.
I am 16 years old and I work at Hardee’s. In an early scene, it is rush hour and the restaurant is packed. It’s noon and the crew is different from the one I usually work with. I know them by sight and can call them by name, but I don’t really know them. Know what I mean? Usually, I work at dinner time, after school. There’s a shot of two workers talking, laughing, making plans to meet after work. I step between them to get a coke. They smile politely and turn their attention back to work. They’re nice enough.
The place is packed and we’re taking orders; handing out hamburgers, French fries and cokes as fast as we can. There are the obligatory shots of burgers sizzling on the grill. The manager calls out directions to the bun man. The condiment guy switches out an empty ketchup dispenser for a full one and finishes dressing the row of burgers waiting to be wrapped up. There’s a close up of a hand putting cheese on the meat patties, another one of fries plunging into hot oil and a shot of hands giving and receiving change. There’s so much noise. The customers are talking. A mom wants to know what her preschooler will eat and she wants her older boy to settle down. The buzzer goes off signaling there is a basket of fries ready. They slap against the metal pan when they land out of the basket. The fry cook sprinkles them with salt and tosses them around to distribute it. The fry serving tool grates against the bottom of the pan because of all the grains of salt.
When you work in fast food, the action behind the counter becomes almost choreographed after you’ve worked with the same people for a while. One person steps away from the shake machine & another steps in. An arm can reach around a body for one pack of fries, if it is timed just right. There isn’t much room between the counter and the food prep area and we move fast. I keep making missteps. I step out of one person’s way and bump into someone else. I reach across to pour a coke & spill a root beer into the ice machine. I grab the last hamburger, just when another server is reaching for it. I know the routine of a different crew. I’m off my game.
A quiet, poorly dressed, man has been patiently waiting his turn. The camera keeps focusing on him in between all the construction workers on lunch, the moms & kids on the way to the pool and the office workers from downtown. The man isn’t very tall. He is wearing a suit and tie, but they are poorly fitting and threadbare. The suit is brown and the tie has a couple of spots on it. It isn’t pulled all the way up to his throat and the top button isn’t buttoned. His shirt isn’t white. It’s pale yellow, or maybe it’s just that dirty. He gets up to my register and asks if we have any extra food we can give him. He’s hungry and he doesn’t have any money. The first thought that pops into my head was that the inventory count would be off if I handed out a hamburger without collecting any money for it. I don’t have time to think. The crowd isn’t thinning at all and I have to keep moving as fast as I can. I’m just staring at him with a pretty blank look on my face. I glance back at the manager and around at everyone else behind the counter.
Before I know it, I am telling him that there isn’t anything I can do for him. He says he understands and is gone. I wish he had argued with me.
I don’t remember seeing him go. He is just gone. I can’t remember his face. It seems to me that he had on a hat, maybe a fedora or a bowler. He disappeared so fast that I think it must have taken all his courage to come in and ask for a hand out. When I turned him down, I think he was embarrassed. I’m standing there sort of stunned and my mind begins racing with ideas. I could have given him some food and marked it on the “damaged inventory” list. I could have asked the manager for advice. I could have given him the food and paid for it myself at break. I wish I had thought of all this before now. I wish I could remember what he looked like and then I could look for him when I get off work.
Wait, hold it right there. I don’t want to tell you what’s going on in my head. This is supposed to be a visual description of a movie that I’m going to make. I'm getting distracted by the internal motivational thoughts that the actor who plays me needs to feel and think. I’m fed up with this memory. I carried it with me right up front in my brain for the longest time. I was probably almost 30 before I could lay it to rest. I know it was one of the “midnight confessions” that I shared with my husband early in our marriage. Somehow, it seemed like proof to me that I was really just an imposter in life. I was pretending to be a Christian; a good student; an earnest, hardworking, promising young woman, but really, I was just as shallow and self-absorbed as everybody else. I mean, wouldn’t a REAL Christian be able to think faster on her feet than that?
Somewhere between 30-ish and now, I let it go. I began to understand that I had beaten the dead horse of my guilt for far longer than was reasonable. I was young, caught off-guard and he was out the door before I had a chance to gather my wits. I’m not trying to make excuses, I just began to see the incident in shades of grey instead of stark black and white. Yeah, I screwed up and didn’t take the action I wish I had taken. If a man walked up to my fast food counter at any point in the entire rest of my life, I’d give him a hamburger. I’d figure out what to do about it later. But, I didn’t do it then and I’m genuinely sorry.
I don’t cringe when I think about it any more and in fact, I haven’t thought about him in years. Funny though. When I hear the phrase “tell me about a memory…..”, he is the first thought to come into my head. The very first thought. What's up with that? Why doesn’t that man leave me alone? I mean, think about it. No matter how many times I go over it, it always turns out the same. He asks for a hamburger, I say no, he leaves.
It isn't the man that's bugging me though. It's me. He's in MY head, right? - I'm not in his. So, I'm the one that keeps bringing it back. Surely, I have better things to think about.
I think it might make a good film. Depending on where I go with it right?
