Arby's, the working place for the future working American.
It is the place of employment. The color red
spreads throughout the lobby. Stains call out
to the eye. The front counter welcomes you with a warm shine.
The communication between the shoes and the floor greats you as you walk to the back.
Behind the counter is where the magic happens.
the smell of roast beef and burnt buns fill the air, tickling your brain.
The annoying, screeching, pounding, beep of the
drive-thru says hello to the right ear. Unsatisfied customers complain how they
need to wait an extra minute and blame the guy who doesn't even make the stupid
sandwich. It's the guy's who wears the neon green uniform with a smile on his face,
thinking about how much he hates you while making smart elect comments under his breath, fault.
The floor is glazed with shiny well spread grease, and you can hear the shimmering
sound of the fryer cooking the food for its next victim.
After putting down the Side Kickers in the fryer, you shut the freezer door expecting
a welcome of a cold chill on your finger tips. Instead, it's a
flaming punch to your fingers as if you were grabbing the inside door of an oven,
which you are.
Battle stations, its Sunday lunch hour, and church is out. You see them walking,
creeping, walking aimlessly to the door, slowly.. Old People.
They try to scam you for Senior discounts and
claiming they didn't get a receipt after they
put it in their purse two minutes ago. Its the guy's, behind the counter looking like a complete heartless monster, fault. Oh yes, always his fault...
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