I Snitched at McDonald’s Once, Too

When I witnessed a McCrime, it was my duty to serve justice a Happy Meal.

The anonymous McDonald’s employee who called the cops when they spotted Luigi Mangione going to town on a hashbrown has been catching a lot of hell online. They’ve been called a lot of bad words, chief among them “snitch.”

Well, I want that anonymous tipster to know that they’re not alone. I, too, was once a McDonald’s employee. And I, too, snitched.

Only difference is that I snitched on myself.

Picture this: Long Island, 1990. The air was filled with possibility and mullets. I was just finishing up my first two weeks behind the register (and mopping the toilet bowls) at the local McDonald’s. I was intoxicated by the thought of making my own money. And probably high on whatever the hell chemicals they spray on the patties to make Big Macs last a thousand years. I’m still trying to get that smell out of the wisps of hair that remain attached to my skull.

Anyway, I witnessed two crimes while I worked at this establishment. The first involved a drive-thru customer snagging their bag of food and driving off without paying. One of my fellow employees, a guy I went to high school with, was not happy about this. He took that shit personally.

And so when he noticed that the hamburglars pulled over their getaway car, like, 15 feet down the road to munch their plundered quarter pounders, he whipped himself up into a McFlurry of ass-whooping. He grabbed this giant iron rod thingy that we used to open massive metal containers of pickles and ran outside crying vengeance for Ronald.

He may or may not have smashed in their window. I don’t remember the details. But I do remember that he was thanked for his service and asked to never step foot in this building again you fucking psychopath.

Now to my crime. Look, I didn’t get into the burger-slinging biz because I wanted to Clog America’s Arteries Again. I did it for the cold-hard cash.

So I remember distinctly at the end of my first two weeks being handed my first-ever paycheck. I tore open the envelope, contemplating if I’d use my funds to buy a CD, a video game, or a new Porsche. I had little concept then (and now) of how money works.

But when I saw the dollar figure on that check, my heart sank — what the hell are “taxes”? And then it soared. Instead of the $3.80 an hour I was supposed to be making, I was getting $3.95!

I couldn’t believe it. How did this happen? Did the hiring manager see something in me that told him, He’s the one. I imagined him furiously dialing corporate. “We can’t afford to lose this kid — budgets be damned, give him 15 cents extra an hour!”

(In case you are wondering about inflation, 15 cents back in 1990 was like, well,15 cents today.)

Or was that extra 15 cents a mistake? Did my McManager Mc-mess up? Was I robbing Ronald blind? Would I be locked up in the Hamburglar prison in the indoor playground when they learned about the extra pickles in my paycheck?

I was raised Catholic, which means two things: I will reflexively stand if someone says “And now a reading from Luke…” within a five-mile radius. And also I am constantly racked with guilt. About everything.

And so? I took my still-warm check to the manager’s office (a desk squeezed between the fryer and the freezer) and reported my super-sized salary.

He didn’t say “You’re an idiot” but his face said, “You’re an idiot.” I guess most people don’t request to be paid less? He informed me that the difference would be taken out of my next paycheck, or I could pay him back now. I gave him 60 cents and we called it even.

So yes, I snitched on myself. And I paid the price. But oh, I would have my revenge. Only not with an iron pickle can opener like that psycho.

Back then at McDonald’s, when you worked a four-hour shift, you could pick one of a selection of pre-set free meals for your break. One of the choices was a 6-piece chicken McNugget and a small fry and a small drink.

Without incriminating myself about any specific crime, all I will say is that the cardboard six-piece McNugget container can hold A LOT more than six McNuggets. Doing the quick math, over the next few months of my career at Mickey Dee’s, I must have shoved about $12,000 worth of McNuggets into my maw while just out of sight of Ronald’s watchdogs.

I never got caught. Ha! They say that “snitches get stitches,” but not me baby! However, given the grade of meat goo that comprises McNuggets, my guess is that sooner than later, instead of stitches, statins will be on the menu for this snitch

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