Illustration by Thisbe Wu
This piece received an honorable mention in the nonfiction category of the 2025 Wallace Prize.
Whenever anyone gets hired at McDonald’s, they’re usually told that “1 in every 8 Americans are employed by McDonald’s at some point in their life.” It feels oddly plausible. After all, no matter where you live, you’re likely within a fifteen-minute drive from your very own fluorescent-lit greasy haven. Working for the golden arches isn’t a bad gig. Plenty of celebrities and Fortune 500 magnates once donned the ketchup-stained uniform and attempted to fix the perpetually broken ice cream machine. Rachel McAdams, before becoming the quintessential mean girl, took orders for three years. Jeff Bezos was put on Saturday morning egg duty before becoming one of the richest men on Earth. Even Luke Skywalker was known to flip a few burgers before wielding a lightsaber. As for me, I consider myself lucky to be among the select few who have had the pleasure of dealing with boiling grease splatters, exploding ketchup bags, and the occasional health-code violation. My nearly four-year “McCareer” began in the winter of 2021.
I was sixteen and had finally passed my driver’s test. I had been dreaming of the escapades my hand-me-down BMW would take me on for months now. I was quick to learn a hard lesson that most American teens do: gas is expensive. With my savings account dwindling, I began the job search. My options were limited. Small towns in Pennsylvania aren’t known for their diverse job markets. I already had to drive fifteen minutes to find any viable options. I began searching in the nearby town of Ephrata, a borough in Lancaster County known for rolling farmland and Amish horse-and-buggies. After rejections from Goodwills and Walmarts, McDonald’s seemed to be my last hope. I was not a chef by any means. My culinary expertise did not extend past toast with the occasional scrambled egg. Luckily, McDonald’s is not known for requiring Michelin-star talent, so I was in the clear. Besides, this particular McDonald’s had already burned down once before, so the chances of a second blaze were statistically low.
The restaurant was located within the historic Ephrata Cloister, a small plot of land where the Seventh Day Dunkers had set up shop someMme in the 1780s. The German sect was known for their pious and rigid lifestyle, keeping watch every night from midnight to 2am for the second coming of Christ. Nowadays, the remains of their settlement mainly serve as Instagram backdrops for local highschooler’s prom photos. Set atop the hill, the McDonald’s overlooked the preserved stone barracks and beautiful greenery. I rolled into the parking lot ready to embrace my destiny. After handing in my application and doing a swift five-minute interview, I was hired on the spot. I like to think it was my confident stature and the smile that said, “I will dedicate my life to this restaurant,” but I think it was more so the fact that they were desperately understaffed.
I started out working the grill, dropping patties like a madman during the rushes and making sure all the fridges were stocked. I ran quality controls on the chicken McNuggets and cradled McRibs in a pit of coagulated barbeque sauce. I slowly worked my way up to “table person” which meant I made all the sandwiches. Not to toot my own horn, but I was pretty damn good at it. I could make and wrap a cheeseburger in under 12 seconds. Yet even as I mastered the art of assembly-line sandwich creation, I dreaded my least favorite assignment: the front counter. Here, the worst of humanity often reared its ugly, entitled head.
The McDonald’s uniform, although rather unassuming, seems to function as an invitation to hostility. To a disgruntled customer, the tattered red apron and mustard colored-shirt morphs employees into targets that are just begging to be verbally accosted. Every shift would have at least one scorned patron who would scream at us like we had set their house ablaze simply because there was too much lettuce on their McChicken. My coworkers have been told to kill themselves over a misplaced pickle. I’ve seen parents launch into full-fledged tantrums over flat sodas, their children oblivious behind the glow of their iPads.
Among these moments of madness, one interaction sticks with me to this day. I was a senior in high school, riding high after my college acceptance was finalized and rejoicing that my days at this establishment were numbered. It was a typical, busy afternoon when she arrived. She was your textbook “Karen,” the queen of entitlement who was never happy but always ready to tell you why. Clutching a crumpled bag and visibly shaking, she unleashed a verbal onslaught that would only be allowed to be replicated in an NC-17 movie. She roared how she had wasted her entire day waiting on a Big Mac that had turned out ice cold. I was confused. She had only placed her order six minutes ago (I checked) and I had watched them make it with a fresh tray of patties. I apologized and asked if it was the meat or the bun that was the problem. She spat back that the bottom of the bag wasn’t hot, which meant that her food was ruined. It turned out that she hadn’t even taken a bite of the sandwich. For those of you who don’t know, the transfer of heat between two objects by direct contact is called conduction. Even at its freshest, a Big Mac will not retain enough heat to pass through the cardboard box to warm the bottom of the bag. I assured her that if she checked the sandwich itself, she would see it was hot. She stared in disbelief as she accused me of disrespecting her intelligence and how corporate would be hearing about this unacceptable behavior.
By this point, the entire restaurant had grinded to a halt to watch this show. Families stopped eating, teenagers put down their phones, and the world stood still as this volcano of a woman continued to erupt, spewing molten insults at the workers who tried to intervene. My manager made her way to the counter and took over, assuring her that we would make this right and that there is no need to call corporate (besides, we are a franchise store so calling corporate is essentially useless). We remade her Big Mac and, through clenched teeth, apologized for such an egregious error. She grabbed the new sandwich and felt the bag to make sure it was hot (my manager had thrown the new bag into the microwave for a few seconds to ensure this). She left, leaving behind an audience of bewildered onlookers and exhausted crew members who were just happy it was over.
I collected myself and began to resume my position of taking orders, praying to God that there weren’t any more crazy people on the way to the restaurant. 15 minutes went by, and a woman with two young kids came up to the counter. I started the whole “Welcome to McDonald’s” script when she interrupted me with an “I’m sorry.” She explained that she had seen the whole debacle unfold and she couldn’t fathom how grown adults could act so ridiculous. She recounted her own tales of customer vulgarity, the countless “Karens” she had dealt with during her stint as a Wendy’s employee back in the 90s. She told me that if people gave each other more “grace” then everyone would be nicer to each other and the world would be a better place.
Her words lingered. What does it mean to give someone grace? Is it forgiveness and empathy? Or, is it simply pausing before reacting. I’ve come to see grace as something quiet but radical — a refusal to dehumanize, even when it’s easy. It’s the pause before the eye-roll, the softening of your voice when you could raise it. It’s choosing to see the person behind the uniform, behind the mistake, behind the moment.
Grace is a misleadingly simple concept. I struggle with it to this day. I still feel a twinge of rage every time I get stuck behind a slow driver or must endure being placed on hold with my bank. In moments like these, grace is a deep breath or a kind word. It’s not always about excusing mistakes, but rather recognizing the person on the other side is trying. Give grace to the fry cook who has been on their feet all day. Give grace to the cashier struggling to keep up during a rush. Give grace to the frantic teenager fumbling your order. Grace is not just a gift for them, it’s a gift for us, a reminder to act with kindness even when rage begins to fester.
And in this day and age, grace isn’t just important. It’s essential.
We live in a Mme of constant friction. It’s easier than ever to be cruel from a distance. Behind a screen, one can get away with intense cruelty behind the shroud of anonymity. Outrage spreads faster than understanding. Everyone’s on edge. Everyone’s on edge. Everyone feels as if they’d just worked the dinner rush. Misinformation, polarization, economic pressure — it all adds up to a world where empathy feels in short supply. But grace interrupts that cycle. It’s a choice to de-escalate. To connect. To remind someone, “I see you. I know this is hard.”
Grace doesn’t solve everything. It won’t stop injustice or fix a broken system. But it can build a bridge, however small, between two people who might otherwise only see each other as obstacles. It’s a seed you plant, in a restaurant, in a conversation, in a moment of tension, and hope it grows into something kinder.
I clocked out of the Ephrata McDonald’s for the last time on March 21st, 2024. Like a soldier going home from war, I took off my apron, scrubbed the grease from my hands, and put in my customary post-shift order: a chocolate shake and an order of small fries. As if on cue, the ice cream machine broke (like it always does), and my lactose dreams melted away in front of me. I took a deep breath, smiled, and walked out of the lobby with fries in hand.