Christian Fisher

Thursday, October 13, 2022

Second assistant manager of a fast food restaurant. Not exactly a lucrative title, nor one that carries much weight or value in the adult world, and, yet, I felt differently. There I was, eighteen years old, not even out of high school and as serious as could be. For years after this point, irritability was a commonplace, and I never could get enough sleep. There was one thing which kept me going, and it’s the reason I have no regret in staying at Culver’s for as long as I did: money. So much working meant so little time. So much money that I had no time to spend. As such, there has been little issue in paying for my college career, and for that, at least, I am grateful.

It was a Thursday. Shouldn’t be an important detail, yet one which stuck to the minds of all involved like a starfish on glass. “Clara’s Thursday” as it would come to be known, started off poorly. From the clock-in of a 2:30 shift, the day was looking to be one of misery. Understaffed, of course, and there was no mystery behind that.

I wasn’t promoted to manager out of kindness nor out of a sense of ambition for the restaurant’s future. I was simply a replacement. Kirk, the scheduling manager, had chosen a strange and inconvenient method of quitting his job: not quitting. That is to say, he simply chose to stop caring, stopped putting forth any effort, and just waited to be fired or to find an opportunity to simply walk out the door. God only knows how happy I was to see another copy-pasted, half-redacted schedule on the wall that day, understanding that it could only get worse. Great sportsmanship on Kirk’s part if you ask me.

Despite the horrid scheduling, the day didn’t go the path I expected it to — it was significantly worse. An overflow of customers, three in-house registers, and a drive-thru all packed with orders going into a kitchen populated with no more than three or four teenagers. Refunds here and there, orders being forgotten, orders given to the wrong cars, and customers waiting upwards of twenty minutes. There were also complaints, many complaints, far more than would be expected of a day such as this, and aggressive ones too. These customers were dissatisfied, and there I was, a naive looking teenager ready to take it all with a nod and an artificial customer service voice.

Around dawn was when Clara, an employee in the drive-thru asked if shecould go to Walmart. Claims of feeling sick were well evidenced in her voice, face, and mannerisms. It was just across the street, within walking distance, so with only slight deliberation, I sent her on her way. She simply needed some medicine to help with a headache. I agreed, thinking it would be unjust to disallow such after an undoubtedly stressful few hours. Proper night time was when the schedule of a Culver’s shift endured its harshest stress test. Beyond a certain point, the vast array of sub-sixteen-year-old employees were legally required to clock out of their shifts, at which point only the older workers, whose average age I estimate to be less than twenty, would remain. There were six of us. Two at drive-thru, two at front-of-house, and two in the kitchen. But that six soon turned to five, and then to four, and then to zero.

“Where the fuck is Clara!?” I heard. I don’t remember who said it, but the words surely could, and probably had, come from anyone working that night. We were a skeleton crew, and any further loss of manpower would be devastating, and, yet, she was gone. None of those in my vicinity did much about her absence nor did I. After all, there was little time to seek her out when the screens, grill, and fryers were as flooded as they were. Edith, however, felt differently and was kind enough to seek Clara out. Of the six employees in the restaurant that night, Edith was perhaps the worst person to have done so.

A controversial person — devising a pseudonym for Edith is little trouble — as I only remember her name as being a strangely religious one. Fitting as her name was, Edith’s evangelism was bold enough to discomfort even the Mormon coworker. It was not a kind boldness. “Sinner get ready,” “Sinners go to hell,” and other such rhetoric were Edith’s style and would present themselves at any opportunity, only occasionally and accidentally managing to appear polite. I know nothing of what happened to her and her job — whether she was fired — but I feel no envy for those cursed with her presence nowadays.

Naturally, Edith was the one who found Clara in the bathroom and spoke with her for thirty minutes. Not much is known by anyone about what was discussed during that time, but what I do know is that it was in some way religious. Some sort of attempt to convert Clara to Christianity. Perhaps a noble cause — if Clara were not actively dying during those thirty minutes. 

I had no idea of her intentions. Up until the point of the duo’s graceless return from the bathroom, the pills Clara had bought from Walmart had not even crossed my mind. And, yet, here she was walking out, having taken the whole bottle thirty minutes prior. I’d like to say I was proactive in the situation, that I took immediate action, but I didn’t. I and the others deliberated for some minutes, during which time Clara’s life could have been in danger. “Shut it down! We’re done,” I declared at last, after what could only have been too much time spent thinking.

“I’m fine,” Clara said as we seated her in the manager’s office, but her claims were ignored. With Clara down, I called the police. Meanwhile, the remainder made rushed, hasty attempts to close down operations while also making sure Clara was ok. I held the empty bottle in my hand, too stressed to have ever even read the dosage, and I relayed the information to the phone’s other end. “Holy shit!” I exclaimed without a moment’s thought or hesitation. Before my explanation was even finished, I saw the blue lights arrive less than three minutes into the call, and I was enveloped by shock and awe. 

Police and paramedics are professionals, so this was ironically the calmest period of the entire day. Questions were asked, information was given, and I was told that the total dosage taken was not enough to be life threatening for someone of Clara’s body type. Regardless, she was taken to the hospital to have her stomach pumped, from which she would be discharged the following day.

In a surprising moment of thoughtfulness, Kirk came into the restaurant, after all was said and done, to close it himself. He didn’t need help, nor did he want it. All five remaining subjects of “Clara’s Thursday” were allowed to go home. Clara would return to work that Saturday and would eventually be fired after bringing an Orbeez gun into the restaurant and using it to shoot employees. 

All these years later, questions still remain. Did she know that the dosage wouldn’t be lethal? What did her and Edith talk about? But there was one, which may have a strange answer, that was quite intriguing: Why were the customers so upset? While the sun shined and the complaints were most frequent, Clara was working at the drive-thru station, specifically, she was taking orders from customers. From breadcrumbs of information and a little reflection, it seems that Clara was quite rude to the customers during this period. Her sour attitude cubed the already exponentially disastrous service being delivered to an extent that I can hardly blame the customers for complaining — although my past self would certainly disagree. 

The final note is one of respect — respect to one particular subject of “Clara’s Thursday”: Arthur. Arthur, of course, being the heroic king of Camelot. Quite a fitting pseudonym since Arthur was the hero of that night. During Clara and Edith’s thirty or so minute absence, Arthur maintained his work and took over both of their stations by himself. At no point did he complain, nor did he make much of any noise at all. He suffered silently through it all and were it not for his honorable workmanship, my blood would perhaps have reached the elusive ocean floor level of pressure. 

The events of this night cannot be blamed on any particular person. The titular Clara is not the sole reason for this night of catastrophe, and ‘twould be dishonorable to depict her as some sort of culprit. I do wonder, however, how I would feel if she had taken a fatal dose. For one, I would be sad over her death, but would I blame myself? Would I assign unjust responsibility for having allowed her to make that trip to Walmart in the first place? These will remain perpetually unanswered, and, as time goes on, my memory of the events thin. The most significant question persists as well, and I will never find closure in an answer: Why did Clara down that bottle of pills?