A week or two or go, we here at This Fine Newspaper got into a conversation regarding gross fast food horror stories. Do not ask me why; we're journalists, we eat a lot of fast food, and we're strange. Isn't that reason enough?
During this discussion, I did not have a personal gross story, which I took as a good thing in one way, but as kind of a bummer for storytelling purposes. Well, of course just days later, I now have a story. It is not as gross or horrid as some; I did not find a portion of some unexcused animal in something I had partially eaten or anything. But this story is real, and it was disturbing enough to me.
I have a part-time job in addition to my employment at the Tribune. Therefore I spend parts of three days per week at a very major department store selling things like sump pumps and water softeners to people who, in many cases, know more about the items than I do and nonetheless ask me questions:
THEM: What is the pumping capacity of this 3/4 horsepower deep-well pump at 80 feet?
ME: Cosine? Four? The Gettysburg Address?
Anyway, I was at said job on Saturday, and I decided I was hungry and wanted a little breakfast. I won't say where I elected to go, other than I had a whopper of a hunger and I wanted to have it MY way, thank you. I therefore went on break, went to this restaurant in the nearby food court, and took my place in line.
I was the third person in a line of three, and the woman at the cash register decided this was the moment to officially freak out and declare that three people in a line was WAY too busy for her to handle. So, she barked -- and I say that somewhat literally -- at a woman who was cleaning on the floor, on her hands and knees, to get up and help her NOW because it was TOO DAMN busy.
The woman on the floor, a skinny blond woman who also looked stressed, looked up and informed the Barking Woman that SHE was told NOT to help with food orders because SHE had to clean. So there.
But the cashier barked back that she DID NOT CARE because it was BUSY. I felt kind of bad for getting in this line, bringing the customer number from a calm two up to a Full Red Alert busy three, and causing such stress in peoples' lives.
After this order, the woman on the floor -- we are talking palms completely down on the floor, now -- rolled her eyes and decided to help Barking Woman. She got up, went and got some fries for a customer, then grabbed a burger.
Without washing her hands.
The line then thinned out somewhat, as I decided to get the hell out of there and not look back. I eat at this particular restaurant about once a week, and was now going over the three times since Christmas that I have been sick and wondering if there was some sort of link.
When I went back into work at the store and told this wonderful story to my co-workers -- most of whom also frequent this particular burger joint -- they all responded with a face-shriveling grimace and an "EEEWWWWWWWWWWW!!!" sound. After that, they all then asked me some questions that I wish I'd had better answers to:
"Well, what did you say? Did you DO anything?"
I had to tell them that I did not do anything, that I instead high-tailed it out of there because my stomach, still recovering from a recent illness, informed me it REFUSED to be there any longer. But in reality, I was just uncomfortable. I could have -- and should have -- said, "HEY SKINNY BLOND WOMAN, WASH YOUR HANDS BEFORE YOU HANDLE FOOD LIKE THAT BECAUSE THAT IS GROSS AND YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED AND REPENT YE NOW!
Or something like that, possibly with a little more tact.
But, I did not. I have always prided myself as a doer and not a watcher, and as someone who stands up for what I think is right and is not afraid to speak my mind. I was not that doer in this case.
After weighing my actions, or lack thereof, I decided I had to do something. And, on Monday, I did. I called the Washoe County Health Department, and logged a complaint about the restaurant. I did something, thankfully. But it was two days after that woman was handling food with those grubby hands -- and I hope nobody got sick from that in the meantime.
I also learned a lesson from the whole incident -- to speak up when a wrong is committed. This is a lesson I thought I had learned before, but I guess I needed to learn it again.
I also learned NOT to eat at that restaurant for a while. And that it is better not to have a gross fast food story after all.
Jimmy Boegle, a fifth-generation Nevadan, is all of a sudden eating in more these days. His column appears here Tuesdays, and he can be reached via e-mail at jiboegle@alumni.stanford.org. Even though no readers ever e-mail him anyway.