James Prout

RUNNER UP

Mc’Love

Of course, I didn’t instantly fall head over heels in the greasy kitchen of McDonald's. I did see you. I noticed you. My internal judgement, which was (and is) often so loud, particularly as a 17-year-old boy, couldn’t find any character flaws. Doe eyed with a polite grin. Gay? I think so. Much more attractive than everyone else in the gulag. You were glowing, probably from the heat of hash-brown frying, but you shone. That’s my first impression. I didn’t recognise you. I hadn’t seen you before; a good start when the options in Milton Keynes are few and far between. A quick smile, and I get on the drive-through. I absolutely cannot stand this place. The anxiety I get before a shift is something I hadn’t experienced so powerfully before, and it never gets any easier. The five in the morning wake up, taxi, awkwardly walking into the building with the adrenaline of being sent to war. I cannot grasp how a team of adults could feel so comfortable screaming at a bunch of 16-18-year-old students, but when your balls are on the line, perhaps its only fair when we, so naive and so incompetent, are the ones who decide if you get the chop. I can sympathise to some extent. It's the men, though, the older men who manage us. We all sit idly whilst they assault, physically and verbally, the young women and men on the team. It's certainly normalised, probably not normal. Shit. Drew is managing this morning. My stomach turns as I start to count my float. Hopefully, he’s in a good mood today, but not sure if it will make any difference. At least you’re here with me; it might make things a bit easier.

Clock watching isn’t an option in this place. The revolving door of mostly abhorrent customers ready to get their morning fix of artery-clogging McMuffins and sour coffee does not stop, so you don’t stop. Except whoops, I did stop the drive-through. I shut down the entire thing. I’m not sure what I even pressed. I feel like I am going to shit myself. You’re on the other headset, thank god... I ask how things are on your end. You’re innocent voice informs me its shut down for you to. Not good. My stomach is doing cartwheels now. Drew comes over, already furious, but strangely not throwing any accusations yet. He’s calling IT. They will fix it, no blame on either of our heads.

At least half an hour later, things get fixed, but this will not look good for the store. We might have lost the million-pound franchise of the billion pound company, some profit. All because of a 17-year-old in a stupid hat with an M on it. I think it's break time. I collect my free meal, the only perk of the £6.85 an hour job, and I scuttle into the dingy little employee room. Drew is sitting there with a few of the other incompetents. I take my seat, and he turns to me. “Ooooo”, He exclaims in front of the audience in a mockingly camp tone. The 30-something-year-old flails his hands around. “You need some testosterone shots”. Okay. Right. Odd comment. Maybe some not-so-funny ‘banter’. I am taken aback. I do want to cry a little bit. I don’t think I’ve ever been quite so embarrassed. At least you’re not here to see me remain compliant whilst I allow him to mock me. I suppose it's nothing compared to what the girls get. Ass-grabbing, constant sexual comments and rampant abuse on the daily. The teenage girls. From the 30-something-year-old man. The other managers seem impartial; some even laugh. I think the powerlessness is what I remember the most. The lack of protection in that filthy kitchen from the adults who just simply did not care. The employee turnover rate was so high that they didn’t need to connect with us. For the pocket money when we wanted to buy a vape from the dodgy corner shop or get a gift for nan, it was tolerated. They’d always get more children to join. Who would we complain to? It's our first exposure to the workplace, and the culture was revolting.

Dad picks me up at the end of my shift, and thank god for that. I see the red Vauxhall Astra pull up into the car park from my drive-through window and race to the clock-out machine. My chariot awaits, but you’re still here. You look tired. I wonder when your shift ends. I wave goodbye, you wave back. Home now, on the sofa, decompressing next to mum. I’m swiping on Yubo, the creepy on reflection, teenage dating app where you could find ‘Friends’. I suppose this is what unfiltered access to the internet for children and the predatory actions of large tech companies allow for. Alas, the beautiful gay boy from work is also on here. Internally, I shriek with glee. I quickly swipe to add you and instantly I’m added back implying you have swiped me before. When did you notice me, I wonder. I’m forthcoming and say “Hi”. I very quickly received a reply. “Hello, can’t believe you shut down the drive-through.” Incredible observation. The conversation ‘flows’ as much as it can between two awkward and inexperienced boys in the realm of courting. I muster up the courage, and I ask to take you ice-skating. A ‘fabulous darling’ hobby of mine. You say yes. I’m going to shit myself again.

Friday comes. I meet you in the rink. We get our skates on. Glide, talk, and then kiss in the stairwell. We end the night in another McDonald’s for food. 6 years on, and I still wince at how we first met, but I love you, Luke.