By Lyndsey Gilpin
The tile floor gleams ever so brightly, but it won’t stay that way for long. The first customers of the morning, along with their scuff marks, have already started trickling in, but that’s normal; they’re the “usuals” at McDonald’s on the corner of Floyd and Warnock streets.
They enter with looks of exhaustion and relief, their faces blushed from the 40-degree chill outside. Now they’re here for their morning coffee and paper, catching up on the world that they must become a part of once their cups are empty.
A stocky man walks in at a quarter past six, treating his four daughters to breakfast before they go to school. All the girls wear plaid skirts and gray sweatshirts, but each of them has added a piece of flair. The little one has pink socks and the eldest has purple nails.
No words are exchanged as they pour syrup over their hotcakes. All that can be heard is the crinkling of Dad’s Egg McMuffin wrapper and the orange juice cups alternately tapping the table. It’s a tired morning for some, after all.
But it’s not for others.
“Hey, Happy, how ya doin’?” yells a paint-splattered man to the restaurant owner, who is donning a sweater vest.
“Good, if U of L won, it’d be nicer!” he says, chuckling loudly while he fumbles through his papers.
The irony here is as thick as the steam from the cappuccino machine.
Grunge is mixed with dress, and smiles are as common as looks of desperation. The fluorescent lighting compliments the sunrise and the ongoing obnoxious beeping from the ovens backs up the tunes overhead.
The CD mix plays Teddy Geiger after Beyonce and before Fall Out Boy. It’s nonsense, but it works. A sense of comfort is here that would never have been suspected.
“I’m doing my own little thing,” Beyonce states overhead through the speaker, while manager Dave gives an interview to a young man.
Once their feet hit the pavement, the day begins. But in here, after the meals are ordered and before they lean against the counter to wait for “125!” to be called, the drink fountain offers a certain peace.
An “excuse me” or an “oh, thank you” is exchanged, and impatience disappears.
The burly man with the neon green hoop through his ear lobe nods at the suited businessman at the ice machine; a simple understanding that can be found in few places at this hour.
The ambitious, anxious teenagers work alongside the middle-aged women who have sat in these jobs for years. The 50 pins on their official black caps prove it. The young ones in the visors throw annoyed glances up at the timer above the drive-thru window, the one that seems to be constantly chasing them down. But right now, all must work together. Eye rolls at the order screen won’t end the shift, but a joke and a laugh from the man assembling sandwiches in the back perhaps makes the time go by faster.
Six coffee pots are brewing as the hash browns deep fry in oil. That man keeps adding more oil. Open the door, scoop it up, pour it in. But he looks around with glazed eyes, as though he’s not meant for this job. There’s more bubbling up than just the oil inside the pan.
“For you I will,” Teddy Geiger sings through the building.
By 7:45, the sun is beginning to show itself through the glass panes that make for the walls of the restaurant. Everyone moves faster, the tension level rises a little higher, and another few workers reluctantly walk through the back door.
For now, they have to stay behind the counter, force a smile, and say, “Hello sir, how are you doing today?”
