“Are those fries fresh?” he asks.
“They’re the best,” I reply.
“But are they fresh?”
He snatches the bag and pulls foward.
“Those fries were three minutes past sell time,” I tell my coworker, Jill.
I see the man park, not yet fully out of the drive through.
Now, he’s coming inside, a scowl written across his thick face.
I rush to the back and yell, “Jill, cover for me!” I’m hiding behind our supply of ketchup.
Jill rolls her eyes then puts her customer service face on.
“That skinny kid in the drive through gave me old fries.” The man shoves the paper bag filled with old fries in Jill’s face.
Her happy expression doesn’t change, even with the bag inches from her nose.
“I’m so sorry about that, sir. Let me get you a fresh carton, they’ll be up in less than a minute.”
The man says nothing and grunts, letting out a labored breath.
Jill scoops up the new fries into a carton one size larger than the one the man had ordered.
The man’s face relaxes a bit as Jill hands him the bag of fries, the bottom darkened from the grease already seeping through.
He manages a muffled “thanks” and turns away from Jill whose customer service smile has already disappeared.
Once the man is gone for good, I emerge from my tomato-based condiment sanctuary.
“I wish I was good at the right kind of lying like you Jill,” I say.
She nods her head, acknowledging my stupidity and affirming her own deceitful charm.