Welcome To Misfortune

I wrote this for the local Wendy’s I eat at. Fast food is rough and everyone can use a good laugh, none of this is true except my friends dad is named “Dave Thomas”.

Welcome to Misfortune

The sign outside my Wendy’s says WELCOME TO MISFORTUNE.
Corporate says it’s a typo.
We know better.

I’ve worked here three years, and in that time I’ve learned two truths.
One: the Frosty machine never has variety because we made a deal with something in the basement.
Two: if you walk out the front door without checking the drive-thru lane, you will die.

Our drive-thru is built like a trap in a video game - cars have to swerve directly in front of the entrance. We call it the Baconator Gauntlet. I’ve trained my neck to swivel so far I can see three-quarters of the way around my own skull.

One time, I was carrying a drink, stepped outside, and-BAM.
Medium Coke. All over me. The floor. The bag.
It looked like the building was bleeding syrup.

The place has… texture. Not the good kind.
The drippy ceiling is alive and occasionally picks victims.
The tiles were white once, I think.
The cardboard paper towels don’t dry your hands so much as… gently move the moisture to a new location.

During the dinner rush, I sometimes think about Dave Thomas.
Everyone treats him like a mythical figure.
Me? I just tell people, “My best friend’s dad is Dave Thomas.”
Nobody believes me.

It’s easy money, if you ignore the depression.
And the smell of grease that seeps into your soul.
And the flies - the flies are basically on payroll.

People ask why I stay.
I tell them it’s the cheap app deals.
But the truth?
I’m waiting for the day the ceiling drips its final drop.
And when it does, I want to be here to see it.

Stay odd,

Zach