The Chill Line

There’s a line on the inside of each of the black tubs that they call “the chill line.” Well, at least, that’s what my manager told me it’s called. You’re not supposed to fill up the meat or vegetables past that line, and I guess I understood why. Any higher and the overflowing food wouldn’t be close to the refrigerated bain that stretches along the lobby of our restaurant, keeping everything nice and fresh even in the lulls in between customers.

It had been a month since my manager called me back after I put in my application, eager to find a minimum wage job at the start of my last summer before college would sweep me up.

A month – and I still followed my coworkers around like a lost puppy, insecure in my abilities to make a decent sandwich. Despite the abundance of knowledge floating around in my brain at any given second during a customer rush, everything went blank as soon as I stepped out the door at the end of my shifts.

And Subhero had been kind to me that summer. It was an up-and-coming fast food restaurant that was always looking for young new faces to make bland subs for the white middle-aged soccer moms who frequented the store, and I guess I fit the bill enough to become a part of it all.

“Alright, Oshie,” the manager had said at the end of my interview, a thick Southern accent upon her words despite us being in Chicago, “looks like you’re good to go, boy. Can you start tomorrow at noon?”

Ever so articulate, my mouth just kinda dropped open and I gawked, “Uh? Yeah, I can start tomorrow. I got hired?”

I didn’t know back then that it was one of the dumbest things I could’ve said. I had been in and out of far too many job interviews with managers who preferred kids who had actual work experience, rather than experience working with a local band at a few live shows – and even if that band was exploding in popularity, that kind of stuff just didn’t align with food service.

“Yeah, you got hired! You just gotta learn how to make the sandwiches, prep vegetables, stuff like that,” she went on, laughing heartily as we stood up from the tiny table in the corner of the restaurant.

That was it. I had gotten my first real paid job. My dad would be ecstatic to hear I was getting out of the house for the summer and making money, and I might have actually been able to have some wiggle room during college. Yet in spite of it all, I was honestly horrified.