The McDonalds Maid

The panes of glass were scratched and stained with dirt. The rows of tiles covering the floor were caked with mud and rust, dotted with catsup smiles and translucent lettuce leaves. An old woman bent to pick up a French fry with her gloved hand, half hidden behind her mop and bucket. I disliked McDonalds but I went because they had the best light to write by, and I could sit there as long as my stomach could take the smell of soggy French fries and the sour insides of babies’ stomachs, provided I bought a cup of 99 cent coffee.

Marlena the McDonalds maid’s life was in this building. She had been there since the building opened in 1973. She had been a secretary for the law firm that constructed the building. Every morning, she had brushed her long blonde hair for twenty-six minutes to make it shine, put on a crisp white oxford shirt and popped three breath mints before heading to work.

When the law firm went bankrupt, they put in a Chi-Chi’s. Marlena worked as the pretty hostess. She wore shorts and she cut her hair shorter to match, bleaching it bright blonde. But that went under, too.

She worked bagging groceries when they put in a grocery store. Her hair turned greasy and she hid her body under her big red apron. She painted her nails bright and grew them out so they clicked on the keyboard when she stood at the cash register.

When the grocery store closed, they opened the McDonalds that Marlena and I have known for the past ten years. Marlena started out as the premier fryer, making batches and batches of fries, chicken nuggets, and burgers. After a few years, the smoke and grease began to play on her eyes and her eyesight left her. They took her away from the fryer for fear she would burn herself or else fry something plastic. So she started to clean the McDonalds and her skin turned into ammonia.

Marlena was working her way to a dumpster funeral out back.

The people in this town were not destined for greatness. That was why I always came back to Marlena – crusty nametag and all. Marlena had it right, in this life. Whatever it was. She lived a simple life, in a simple town. She woke up, put her uniform on, washed her hands and went to work. At night she sat up with her television and went to bed by ten. Uncomplicated.

I’d come to this McDonalds once a month for the past eight years but I had never tasted the food, not once. This time though, Marlena’s look from the back booth as I stepped up to an open register was too much to bear. I ordered the hash browns.

I know, nobody eats has browns any more, particularly at two in the afternoon on a Monday – but I felt obligated. I carried my tray to a seat by the window and stared at the cold slab of deep-fried potato in its cardboard bed. Now I remembered why.

I turned to Marlena. She looked at me, waiting. I took a bite, then another, and another. The hash was gone, and I was filled with a warm, comforting feeling. Marlena beamed, shuffling over to remove my empty tray.

Maybe she led a small life, but Marlena’s looked pretty great to me. There were no spoiled children, or deadlines or torturous divorces. There was no fighting or bankruptcy or credit card bills. She never had to worry about dying parents or college funds or meetings.

I couldn’t write, so I packed all my papers into my backpack and headed home. In bed that night, Marlena’s face haunted my ceiling – her greasy, dark hair, her mad smile with tobacco-stained teeth, her grimy fingers washing, washing, washing the McDonalds’ bathroom. Not a bad life.

My back ached. I turned onto my stomach and curled into a ball like I did as a child. I fell asleep with my face in the pillow and dreamed that Marlena glowed, bright purple and yellow; her hair was curled and black. Her face was brilliant, her teeth gigantic. She stretched her arms out to me. She began to dance, spinning around me, faster and faster.

When I woke up, I had grown wings.