Herman Cain Made a Pass at Me, Too!

08 Nov 2011 17 Comments

by ermigal in humor, Uncategorized Tags: Burger King, garbage sauce, Herman Cain

At last count, presidential candidate Herman Cain, former CEO of Godfather’s Pizza, also business wizard of Pepsi Cola and Burger King, has been accused of sexual harassment and worse by four women. The most recent, Sharon B., is Number Four.  She spilled the beans today and it looks like Herm is just another dirty old man who used power to get his jollies by intimidating women. Game over, Herm.

Now I must add my voice.  I can’t keep my secret any longer:  I was Number Minus One.

    It hasn’t been easy to keep this under wraps but it happened so long ago that I had buried the memory deep down in my  psyche.

The year was 1968, and I had landed a part-time job after school at the brand new Burger King in North Syracuse.  It was a relief to find gainful employment, as I had been let go from Skinner’s Five & Ten Cent Variety Store in Mattydale following the previous year’s Christmas season.

Already creating a checkered employment record at fifteen, I surmised that Mr. Skinner put me on the downsize list after I dusted off a four-foot high stack of stale candy canes that accidentally toppled over, landing at his feet. I can still feel his x-ray eyes on me.

When I reported for work the next day and checked the work schedule, my name wasn’t there.

“Mr. Skinner, my name isn’t on the schedule.”

“Oh, yuh, we had to cut back.”

Smooth, Mr. Skinner. Hope you enjoyed your later years working at the Thruway toll booth.

 

Anyway, I was elated to become a part of the Burger King Team. Wearing a white, button down the front Atlas Linen uniform that was about four sizes too big for me, I learned how to grill and dress burgers, put a basket of fries “down”, draw shakes and sodas and wait on customers.

My uniform had short sleeves and was a lot longer.

In those early days of BK, all burgers were topped with what we called “garbage sauce”– a mixture of ketchup, mustard, and chopped onions. We made it ourselves, and I dreaded garbage sauce making days because I had to peel dozens of onions and then load them into a giant chopper.

The smell stayed with you for years, and on more than one occasion my sister refused to give me a ride home because it would smell up her precious Mustang. That’s OK, I’ll walk–it’s only three miles.

Anyway, the job was hot, smelly and exhausting, and once summer hit, grill duty was torture. My BK teammates clued me in on a little trick of the trade: when you can’t stand it anymore, pretend to get some supplies from the walk in cooler and stretch it out for a few minutes.  It was a wonderful respite from the flame-broiled assembly line, and we were “cool” about havin’ each others’ backs on this. The manager never caught on.

Anyway, one steamy August day, a Thursday, the grill station must have been about 110 degrees; my white linen frock was pasted to my back, and my hair was frizzing around my face. I thought about a cooler break, but just then Mr. Cruikshank, the BK manager, came through the employee door in the back with another man. They were both carrying clipboards and smiling about something or other.

Mr. Cruikshank and the man walked up to the front of the work area, near the customer counter, and waited for us to notice and stop working. It must have been around three in the afternoon, the dead time, and there weren’t any customers.

“This will only take a minute, everyone. I want to introduce Mr. Herman Cain, a visitor from Burger King Headquarters in Minnesota. Mr. Cain is the new director of the company and is reviewing procedures in each location–all two hundred fifty-six of them. He might ask you some questions or just observe, he’s here to help us, so just pretend he’s not here,” said Mr. Cruikshank in an official voice.

Herm Cain wants to be King--I mean President.

The conveyor belt on the grill was still moving, and the flame was flaring a good two inches high, even though there were no burgers on it.

“Thanks, Jim,” said Mr. Cain enthusiastically, and he scanned the little work force, all five of us, looking each person straight in the eyes in turn.

“Folks, we are a team–a winning team! Our product is not only the best flame-broiled burgers in the world, no, it’s YOU–The Team Members! I look forward to helping our team achieve its goals. I’ve been waiting to meet and congratulate each of you on your best efforts as we move up to being the  top-performing food service establishment in the country.

Now, don’t be nervous, just go on about your normal duties and pretend I’m not even here,” he said with a huge smile.

He seemed really likeable, and I didn’t feel nervous. I knew what I was doing, and the candy-cane incident had made me a lot more careful on the job. But it was unbearably hot and I couldn’t stop thinking about a minute or two in the cooler.

“Need some tomatoes,” I yelled over my shoulder to my teammates, and headed to Nirvana, even if only briefly.

Once in the sweet chill that the lettuce, onions and tomatoes were enjoying, I sat on a box of frozen burgers for a minute and closed my eyes.

I jumped up to a standing position when I heard the heavy metal door open, and looked directly into the big brown eyes of Mr. Cain.

“Oh, hi, I was just getting more tomatoes for the — the dinner rush,” I stammered.

“Uh-huh, that’s nice. I think you’re a cute little tomato yourself. Is it okay to squeeze the tomatoes, darlin’ ?” he said smoothly.

“Uh, Mr. Cruikshank will be wondering where I am. Gotta go!” I said, and tipped a large box of lettuce in front of Mr. Cain, giving me a chance to zip past him and back out to the cooking station.

A few customers were at the counter, and I automatically scanned the assembly line to see where I was needed. There were only two orders of fries stacked up, so I lowered a waiting basket of spuds down into the bubbling grease.

The smell of garbage sauce assailed my nostrils, and it was good.