I traded lunch shifts with another volunteer this month, so instead of being paired with my usual partner (Dr. Moody Alexander), I got to serve at Highland Park High School yesterday alongside Darian Reichert. She was in charge of the chicken fingers and fries, while I handled the burgers.
During the third and final lunch period, we were approached by a trio of boys, one of whom asked, “Is the chicken fresh?” As I thought to myself, “Dude, was it ever fresh? It’s processed fried chicken,” Darian replied, “Yes, sir. We just brought it out five minutes ago.” Apparently, that wasn’t fresh enough. The trio moaned, threw up their hands, and walked away.
But wait — one of them almost immediately executed a second 180, because he was hungry enough to eat our “stale” chicken. The other two tried to assure him that he was making a mistake, but he begrudgingly requested a paper boat’s worth of sustenance.
A few minutes later, the other two knuckleheads appeared in front of us again. The shorter of the pair ordered some chicken, as if the earlier encounter had never happened, while his taller friend — let’s call him “Chief Knucklehead” — hollered, “Dude, it’s not fresh!” The tall one’s protests had no effect.
Toward the end of our shift, Darian took a break, so I was manning the tongs. Easy enough, since there was barely any chicken left in the bin. That’s when Chief sheepishly approached the counter alone. Without acknowledging that this was his third visit to the serving line, he asked, “Could I get just chicken?” (as opposed to chicken with fries). As I put four pieces in a boat, he said, “Is it hot?” I assured him it was, but I offered no guarantee of freshness.