DQ Blizzard -TS-C7-

For some reason, at some point, my friends started working at Steak & Shake, too. At one point, three others of our crew of eightish worked at Steak & Shake. Mac flipped burgers. Travis washed dishes. Dan made milkshakes for one night, maybe two. I kept serving. Somehow, our affinity for the restaurant as customers confused us into believing the experience as employees would be the same. In many ways it was. The unemployed members of our gang still came in and benefitted from improved access to free food, and the employed ones spent a solid amount of time hanging out with them in the dining room, or with each other in the break room.

Out of our various stations of employment, I was the luckiest. Most importantly, I made more money than any of the hourly wage workers. Second, I got to deal with humans besides angry coworkers. Comparision aside, their jobs just sucked. Mac routinely burned himself on the large, flat single burner that was the griddle for the World Famous Steak Burgers. He sweated from the heat and stress induced by Mike on the weekends. Travis never caught a break and was blamed for any delay of procedure, since it was his responsibility to collect dirty dishes from the dining room, then wash them, then bring them out for the servers and kitchen staff to use. Once business slowed down in the earlier parts of the morning he had to mop the restaurant and then rinse the floor, basically remopping it. He got the chance to go home early less than anyone else. One particularly miserable weekend had him degreasing the corners made by any wall or partition connecting to the floor, vacuuming the sealing, and thoroughly washing every window and reflective surface in a restaurant made halfly of chrome. By the time I quit, Mac was the only remaining element of the once proud and well represented, "Coffee Boys," an affectionate name granted by Julie.

By far, Dan had the shortest run as a Steak & Shake employee. His initials were DQ, a novelty we realized when Stovall decided his job would be working the essential milk shake fountain. Doesn't that sound like a fun job? It isn't. After the first milkshake you can't wait to make one for yourself on your break. On your break, after you finished making your fiftieth milkshake, your entire body feels like your tongue does after eating a big ice cream cone. Microscopic molecules of sugar work their way into your skin, making microscopic cuts that add up to irritation on par with a long day at the beach, assaulted by sand, wind, saltwater and sun. The smell of milk overpowers your nose and all that remains of your olfactory glands is an unkillable lingering of dairy. Or, in the words of Dan, "It fucking sucks." In addition to the physical problems associated with high-quantity milkshake production, it had an element of stress one wouldn't normally associate with, "hand-dipped, real milkshakes."

Dan worked by himself, the lone soldier armed with tubs of generic frozen dairy product, a full bar of syrups, and some mixing contraptions straight out of Hellraiser. Had Dan stayed longer, he would have learned the trick to effective milkshaking is preparation. Whenever someone orders a chocolate milkshake, don't make one milkshake, make as many as you can and save the rest for the next person that orders a milkshake. However, anyway you shake it, it is still a hard job. To complicate the endless orders of milkshakes, malts, sundaes and cobblers, customers can customize their order with nuts, hot fudge, caramel sauce, cherries, whipped cream and specific amounts of milk, syrup, or variations in consistency. It's not easy to keep up with the orders, and I imagine it a bit of a blow to the ego to see customers enjoying your blood, sweat and tears so thanklessly. I got the money from them when that milkshake was particularly delicious, Dan got near-hypothermic fingers and a permanent aversion to dairy based desserts.

Speaking of desserts and their influence on gratuity, Steak & Shake had this policy where at the discretion of the server, a dessert could be given to a table free of charge to compensate for any problems that might come up during the meal. I had a policy where I tried to make as much money as possible. Giving your customers free stuff, especially when they don't ask for it, is a surefire way to achieve this end. You had to ask for a refill? I'm so sorry! Please, let me get you a Berry Berry Cobbler to resolve this injustice. Your French Fries weren't crisp? By all means, enjoy this Brownie Fudge Sundae. (God those brownies were good).

Back to Dan. He had a feisty latin temper, and his pride butted against the demands of the masses incurably. I really think he never came back after the first night, and I'm not sure if he even finished his shift. It was this same pride that kept him from hanging his head and shame and backing out of the Steak & Shake life, though. In fact, I probably couldn't have stayed at Steak & Shake for as long as I did if not for Dan. You see, I didn't (and still don't) own a car. Corey gave me rides to work, or let me borrow his car, but usually I was stuck looking for a ride at five or six AM. Dan, afflicted by Halo similarly to me, was up at these hours fragging his way to multi kills and rampages, making a name for himself in the virtual Microsoft Live universe. He used to play on my account (Landfried) and when he migrated to his own he kept part of the name he earned his reputation with and I believe goes by the tag DANXXFRIED or something like that. But he would pick me up. We shared a couple cups of coffee, actually Mountain Dew in his case, and hung out at the restaurant before the breakfast crowd started showing up.

It was always a surreal transition from dinner to third shift, or third shift to breakfast. I mentioned earlier how Steak & Shake was a very different place during the night. I always forgot the side of the social spectrum beyond the bar rush crowd, late night college students and general weirdos that popped in during the early AM. After doing battle with the hordes of insomniacs and drunks, it was slightly confusing to see groggy eyed factory workers and senior citizens coming in for their usual, low key breakfasts. The sun rose and filled the restaurant with harsh, direct light. People were quiet, building up the nutrients and energy needed to face their day. Dan and I didn't live in their world. We just finished our day, and we certainly didn't understand, and wouldn't be able to deal with, the lifestyle these individuals chose or found themselves in.

What does it say about him and I as people that the majority of humans in our country, the 9-5 early risers were space aliens to us? What value set and life path had we embarked on to feel so separated from the normal? It's not like we were artists or people pursuing a higher ideal than afforded by conventional lifestyles. We were just kids not really considering where life was taking us. We were having fun surfing down the road of faux-adulthood. For the first time in both of our lives we were self sufficient. We provided our own food, shelter and clothes. Perhaps back then that was enough for us. Never did we stop to consider what we would do with those things.