An average joe comes in
and orders thirty cheeseburgers and thirty fries.
I wait for him to pay before I start cooking.
He pays.
He ain't no average joe.
The grill is just big enough for ten rows of three.
I slap the burgers down
throw two buckets of fries in the deep frier
and they pop pop， spit spit. . .
pssss. . .
The counter girls laugh.
I concentrate.
It is the crucial point——
they are ready for the cheese：
my fingers shake as I tear off slices
toss them on the burgers/fries done/dump/
refill buckets/burgers ready/flip into buns/
beat that melting cheese/wrap burgers in plastic/
into paper bags/fried done/dump/fill thirty bags/
bring them to the counter/wipe sweat on sleeve
and smile at the counter girls.
I puff my chest out and bellow：
Thirty cheeseburgers！ Thirty fries！
I grab a handful of ice， toss it in my mouth
do a little dance and walk back to the grill.
Pressure， responsibility， success.
Thirty cheeseburgers， thirty fries