An hour later, I stood behind the counter at Cheesy Dog, lamenting my manicure. I had already chipped three nails and broke the one on my pinky. Van was right. I so wasn’t cut out for fast food.
Chris, my trainer, babbled on and on about the steps of properly frying a hot dog, but what did I care? It was all Greek to me.
“Okay, Maxie,” my trainer said, trying to get my attention. “It’s time for you to use the deep fryer.”
“Okay,” I said, with a nod, trying to get the state of my nails out of my head.
“I’ll start you easy. Go get some curly fries out of the back and put them in. The temperature is ready and the timer will automatically start once you put the food in.”
I hurried in the back and grabbed a bag of fries out of the freezer, breaking another nail in the process. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. I hurried back out, ripping open the bag and pouring the contents into the fryer.
“No,” Chris yelled. “You’re supposed to put them in the basket first.”
The hot oil splashed out as the fries hit it, heading right for us. I put my hands up, blocking my face. Forget my manicure, it looked like my hands were about to become one tragic mess.
Chris screamed in pain as I waited, expecting my screams to join his as white-hot pain engulfed my hands. But the pain never came. I moved my hands and looked down at myself. Not a drop of oil had hit me. It puddled at my feet, a steaming mess of goo.
Chris wasn’t so lucky. His wails, no doubt, could be heard for miles around. He cradled his hands to him, the skin covered in angry blisters. He glared at me as he danced through the pain.
Well, I never said that putting me with a deep fryer was a good idea. Needless to say, neither was this job.