Fries, Lies, And Bye Byes
It’s a slow afternoon. I’m behind the counter when the door swings open.
Me: “Afternoon—oh, great…”
I mutter under my breath as I see HIM walk in, the same security guard who’s been milking us for discounts for months.
Security Guard: “Yeah, gimme the usual. Burger, small fry, small shake. And you know my discount.”
He slides a crumpled bill across the counter.
Me: “We only give discounts to law enforcement and firefighters. You’re not—”
Security Guard: “I keep telling you, I’m in security. That counts. You wouldn’t argue with a cop, would you?”
Me: “It… doesn’t count. And yes, I would.”
He smirks like he’s about to win an imaginary courtroom battle.
Security Guard: “Better just put it in. Don’t make this hard.”
I sigh, because normally I do just put it in to avoid the headache. Every time I have fought back he’s got the manager to do it for him so now I just don’t bother. I start to put the small fry in a bag.
Security Guard: “Nah. The fries can’t be in a bag. Gimme one of those burger boxes instead.”
Me: “Sir, it’s a small fry.”
Security Guard: “But I want it in a box.”
I sigh and slide the bag into a box.
Security Guard: “Fill it to the top, then. No gaps. Pack it in.”
I put in a few more fries.
Security Guard: “More.”
Me: “You know you’re paying for a small, right?”
Security Guard: “I’m paying for what I say I’m paying for.”
I’m holding back an eye roll so hard it’s giving me a headache.
Security Guard: “And the shake, put it in a large soda cup. Fill it to the top.”
For some reason, I glance over. A highway patrol officer walks in behind this customer in the line. Oh, this could be interesting.
Me: “Okay, you know what? No. No police discount today. No burger box fry fill-up. No soda cup shake. Just a regular order.”
Security Guard: “What?!” His voice spikes instantly. “You can’t do this!”
Me: “Prove you’re police or no discount.”
Security Guard: “I’m security! I’m practically police!”
He slams his hand on the counter for emphasis. The patrol officer behind him tilts his head, listening.
Me: “You’re holding up the line. Do you want the food or not?”
Security Guard: “You have no idea who you’re talking to! I could—”
Highway Patrol Officer: *Steps forward.* “Yeah, she knows exactly who she’s talking to. And so do I. You know impersonating an officer is an arrestable offense, right?”
The security guard freezes mid-rant, his face draining of color.
Security Guard: “I—I wasn’t—”
Highway Patrol Officer: “You just said you were ‘practically police.’ That’s impersonation. Want me to explain the penalties?”
Security Guard: “Uh… no.”
Highway Patrol Officer: “Good. Then here’s what you’re gonna do: you’re gonna walk out of here, quietly, before I decide you do need to learn them.”
The guard stammers something incoherent, turns, and bolts for the door like the floor’s on fire. The officer steps up to the counter, calm as anything.
Me: “What can I get you?”
Highway Patrol Officer: “A large fry. In a bag. Like a normal person.”
We both laugh. We never see the security guard again.
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