Burger King After the ER

I realized that my son, at ten-years old, is closing in on his first job. Yesterday, he injured his finger, and I took him to the ER for an x-ray. After, we drove across the street for lunch.

We live in Chile, so BK always feels a little off. The tables were covered in crowns; country music was blaring on the radio and the WOWcamole burger seemed to have incorporated some of Chile’s avocados. I ordered a WOWcamole combo, put on a crown and sat down to talk about the potential economic contribution my son might make in the coming years.

“Dylan, think you’d like to work at a BK in a few years? You get an employee discount.”

“Yeah I’d probably like to be a cashier.”

“And you could work your way up to manager,” I suggest, feeling the power of the BK crown resting on my balding head.

“Nope, Karens always ask for the manager,” he reminds me.

“Does Chile even have Karens?”

“Yup.”

“Do you even know what a Karen is?”

“I think so,” he claims under a tilted crown while chewing on a fry.

“I’m not so sure, but you’re right. They’ll ask to speak to the manager.” And I think it might just be all of them – the hard to serve – the ones who expect something more – the free hand outers – the “this bandaid in my food is a crime of traumatic cosmic proportions” – the refunders- they’ll make his first job hell. Some of them might even be his classmates at his fancy private school. And he’ll be better for it. He might even be able to meet his first Karen in the eye as she is retrieving her camera from her purse and say, “¿Estás seguro de que no quieres papas fritas con esa actitud?”