The weirdest and worst things I experienced as a Cook Out employee

In September of 2013, I left my job at Subway in Bristol, Va for a job at the North Carolina-bred fast-food chain, Cook Out, that had recently opened in our area. I mostly worked the drive-thru, but occasionally would work in the lobby, being showered by Christian radio and the seemingly-always-empty sweet tea. I worked an average of close to 40 hours a week by the end of my time there, while going to school full-time as well.

To give you a little background, if you aren’t fortunate enough to have one in your area, Cook Out is a fast-food restaurant serving burgers, hot dogs, nuggets, wraps, corn dogs, french fries, amazing barbecue, etc. They’re famous for their Cook Out Trays (a combo where you can pick one main, two sides, and a drink all for the low price of $4.69 before tax) and their shakes that are practically just ice cream – if you had hopes of drinking one with a straw, you’re going to be disappointed. Cook Out’s drive-thru is also open until three in the morning, making it a favorite amongst the hard partiers.

I loved the fast-paced aspect of the drive-thru because it made for a seemingly quick shift. You do collect some interesting stories while working in the drive-thru, especially in the South. So, without further ado, I present to you, with Friends-esque section heads, my craziest stories from working at Cook Out.

The time someone gave a coworker a half-smoked joint and gram of weed

I typically pulled the evening to late night shift on the week days and doubles on the weekends, so I’d often spend the last 30 minutes to an hour with the closers. The closers/night-staff are an interesting breed anywhere you work. They’re typically tougher individuals, having to put up with the night-time crazy and adjust their sleep schedules to strange hours.

This particular day I clocked in at 10:30 am and didn’t clock out until 11:30 pm, so it had been a rather long one for me. When the drive-thru closer came in, I was beyond relieved, because it meant the shift that felt like it would go on forever was finally drawing to a close. As I was stocking up the straws, bags, napkins, and cups for her, she told me of the interesting experience she had had the night before.

It was about one or two in the morning and she said she could smell the car before it came to the window. When she asked for the money, she saw him ditch the half-smoked joint into a cupholder and decided to mess with him.

“Is that for me?” she asked, chuckling. She told me the man looked at her confused before she added “it’s my birthday.” He handed her the joint and said, “that’s yours,” then proceeded to dig in his car for a second before producing a baggy.

“Happy birthday,” the guy said before he took his food and sped off.

One of the many times people pulled up to the window drinking beer

If you didn’t know, it’s illegal to have open alcohol containers in a vehicle while driving. This does not apply exclusively to the driver, but it should apply especially to the driver. However, in Southwest Virginia, this isn’t always the case. People like their beer and they tend to not like the government telling them they’re too drunk to drive when they think they’re perfectly fine.

The car pulled up to the window, a few minutes after the car in front of it pulled away. It was during the dinner rush, so I was focused on my job and moving quickly. When I smiled and told the man his total, he returned a bottle of Bud to his cupholder and responded, “hol’ up there, sweetie. Lemme git muh dollas out,” almost slurred past understanding.

His food was ready before he had gotten his “dollas out,” and my team was getting impatient as our time continued to go up because this man was too drunk to get his money out of his pocket. At one point during his scavenge, he almost knocked over the beer and asked me to hold it for him.

“I’m sorry, Sir. I’m not allowed to take anything but money through the window,” I returned, struggling not to laugh.

“Oh, oh. I gotcha, darlin’,” he slurred, followed by a strange set of noises as he finally freed his “dollas” from his pocket.  He took a swig of his beer as I retrieved his bag from the counter and offered me a sip as I handed it to him.

“I’m good. Thanks, though,” I responded as I hoped he wouldn’t hurt anyone on his journey.

The time someone stuffed their pants in the back of the toilet

One day, when I came into work, I had a coworker rush up to me excitedly, insisting I had to hear about what happened last night. She was working the lobby register when a customer came up and told her there was “a flood or something” in the men’s bathroom. Scared to find out what “or something” might be, she went to get one of the male employees to make sure there were no men in the bathroom (typical protocol) so she could investigate and, hopefully, clean. He gave her the all-clear and she braced herself for the horrors to which she might be exposed.

She said the smell was something awful and there was water all over the floor. She went in one of the stalls to find a toilet overflowing, but no mess. Relieved and counting herself lucky, she pulled the top off of the back to investigate the problem. She jumped at the sight of soiled pants stuffed in the back of the toilet. She ran out to get the male worker waiting outside, determined she had seen wrong or something.

He laughed hysterically as he reached in for the pants, paper towels covering his hands. “OH GROSS! THERE’S SHIT ALL OVER THESE!” he yelled through the laughter. They disposed of the pants and the story was the talk of the staff for a little while.

“I just want to know who managed to walk out without pants on,” one coworker said.

“Or got someone to bring them new ones. Can you imagine that awkward phone call?” another speculated.

The time someone played the Halloween theme song through our speakers

I should explain how the speaker works at Cook Out for you to better appreciate this story: unlike other fast-food joints, Cook Out doesn’t use headsets. They have a speaker at the drive-thru window (that I spent a lot of time with my ear pressed against, trying to understand over the loud environment) and one that plays it over the kitchen so they know what to get started before the order is sent back.

This particular night was Halloween and I was rather bummed that I was missing seeing the trick-or-treaters. It was about 10 pm, and my shift was nearing it’s close. I heard the all-too-familiar beep sound from the speaker, letting me know a customer was waiting at the drive-thru.

“Welcome to Cook Out, may I take your order please?” I said, expecting the customer to proceed the way they always did. Instead, I was greeted with a few seconds of silence followed by the piercing notes of the song that played in the Halloween movies when the villain, Michael Myers, appeared. The customer never said a word, only played the song. He stayed until the song finished and then drove off, never stopping at the window. My night was made.

The time two really drugged-up guys tried invited me to ‘party’ at the window

I should preface this by saying that, at the time, I wore very large glasses that, though they resembled the fake frames you could purchase at Claire’s, were in fact real, prescription bifocals (pictured below).

A white SUV pulled up to the window and I said hello and gave them their total as always, but instead of smiling and handing me the money like usual, I was greeted by two dazed-looking gentlemen with bloodshot-red eyes.

“Where’d you get those glasses?” the driver asked. I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or not.

“The eye-doctor,” I responded.

“You mean those things are real?!” the passenger yelled.

“Yes, I need them to see,” I said quickly before repeating their total. They shuffled around to get their money together, but when the driver handed it to me he said, “wait a minute,” stopping me from closing the window like I had planned.

“Where the parties at?” the driver asked. I’ll remind you that this is Bristol, Va during the school-year – no parties were going on within 30 minutes of the place.

“My guess would be Johnson City. You won’t find what you’re after around here,” I decided I’d be semi-polite. If they were just out-of-towners and not messing with me, I didn’t want to be too mean.

“What? We want to party now, though!” the guy in the passenger seat whined. (And yes, I do mean ‘whined.’ His tone resembled a two-year-old that recently was told they couldn’t do something.)

“It’s Tuesday,” was all I could think to say as I stared at the spectacle in front of me.

“Well, what are you doing after work, baby?” the driver said.

“Driving 20 minutes to my boyfriend’s house,” I said, promptly shoving their bag into their hands. “Have a nice day, now!” I said as I shut the window.

When everyone demanded free food 

I couldn’t tell you how many times people tried to get free stuff from us. Free food, free money, free drinks, you name it, they asked for it. This particular situation ensued during the lunch rush. The person had paid for his small bill with a $20–I remember because I didn’t have to mark twenties to check for frauds–and I had given him the change accordingly; he received his food and drove away, or so I thought. A few minutes later, one of the girls working the lobby registers came rushing over to the window, “a guy just came in here and said you shorted him change. He’s really pissed.” Confused and intrigued, I sent the lobby worker to get a manager because we were too busy for me to leave my post. I continued working and a few minutes later I heard yelling.

“I gave that dumb girl a $50 and she gave me change for a $20!” I heard the man I had just served yell.

“Sir, please calm down. I will check her register, just a minute,” my manager said before walking over to me. He asked if I thought I short-changed him and I told him that I distinctly remembered not having to mark the bill. He opened the register to, sure enough, reveal absolutely no $50 in sight.

He returned to the now angry customer in the front.

“Sir, there weren’t any $50s in the register. I assure you you received the right change,” I heard the manager say.

“She must have hidden it! Kept it for herself! I gave her a $50, dammit!”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I really don’t think she would do that. I could review the tapes if you’d like.”

“I DEMAND A FREE MEAL! YOU SHORT-CHANGED ME AND I WANT MY MEAL PAID FOR AND A RAIN CHECK FOR MY NEXT ONE!” After hearing the customer say this, I stepped over to catch a glimpse. His face was the reddest I’ve ever seen an individual’s face become naturally.

“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” was all my manager said before returning to the kitchen.

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Working at fast-food is no picnic, but at least, in the end, you have some great stories that will stay with you forever.