Through the Window | by Roy T. Bergold Jr.
A Quick-Serve Carol
Nobody wants a quick-serve operator to be a Scrooge.
Mr. Promotion was dead to begin with. No more cheeseburgers wrapped in dollar bills, no more Brandy Eggnog Shakes.
Mr. Pickle knew it. The restaurant was now all his. The profits were all his. And, to his franchisor, he was most certainly known as a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old owner-operator.
It’s the day before Christmas Eve and he’s in his tiny office. He never goes out into the store to talk to the customers about their experiences. His manager, Chuck Bratchett, comes in to ask him if they are to be closed on Christmas Day. “It’s a poor excuse to pick a poor man’s pocket every 25th of December,” Pickle replies. “We will be open as always.”
“But, sir, it’s Christmas,” Bratchett says.
“Do you like your job?” Pickle asks.
“Like it, no. Need it, yes,” says Bratchett, who has two ex-wives and a golf habit to support. Bratchett gives up but right behind him is the meat supplier. “We have to raise our price,” he says. Pickle looks at him and promptly says, “Then give me the lowest quality meat you have. My customers will just have to deal with it.”
And, Pickle figures, why treat the customers any better than his crew? They haven’t seen a raise in years, he stopped the meal program in 2008, and their uniforms are so old, they have the previous company logos on them. His motto: “Keep ’em scared.”
It’s time to close, so Pickle picks up one of the sandwiches that have been in the bin for hours and heads to one of his competitors to wreak havoc. He spreads ketchup on the door handle, steals all the toilet paper, and throws his garbage all over the lot.
To his franchisor, he was most certainly known as a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous old owner-operator.”
Going home to his pitiful condo with the weedy yard and snow-covered walk, Pickle turns on the one light he owns and turns up the furnace to a toasty 50 degrees. Picking up the newspaper he stole from his competitor, he stops to think about Bratchett’s request and promptly says out loud, “Bah! Humburger!”
At exactly this instant the phone rings. It is the recently dead Promotion. “Are you giving the crew Christmas off?” he asks.
“Bah! Humburger!” Pickle says.
“Then you will be visited by three operations consultants from the franchisor,” Promotion replies.
“How do I know this isn’t Chuck, or a bit of undigested hamburger, or a blot of mustard, or a fragment of french fry?” Pickle asks.
“I have to hang up, the long distance charges are killing me,” Promotion says. And he does. After saying “Bah! Humburger!” a couple more times and leaving himself a reminder to put fewer french fries in the package at the store, Pickle goes to sleep.
In no time he is visited by the first operations consultant, from his past. The consultant shows Pickle the store where he got started. Everything was brand new. Pickle followed the manual religiously. He wiped tables and gave performance reviews, crew bonuses, and supplier awards. He threw food away when it was old. He cleaned the bathrooms and made sure his value was the best. He loved to execute the promotions, particularly the ones that made kids happy. It was all so lovely, it brought a tear to Pickle’s eye.
“Well, I have to go,” the consultant says. “Got to get to a meeting. They’re considering a Dollar Menu, all sizes of soft drinks for $1, and a food giveaway, all at the same time. Great for sales.”
Almost immediately, Pickle is visited by the second consultant, from the present. He shows him Pickle’s store as it is now. Not remodeled, no ingress sign, garbage cans overflowing, windows a mess, tables sticky, music too loud, condiments not stocked, bathrooms unusable, the crew unhappy because they can’t explain the menu or the latest impossible promotion, prices too high, old food, no napkins, and a sign, “Open Christmas Day,” on which someone has written, “Bah! Humburger!”
“Gotta go,” the consultant says. “I have Christmas off and you need to see your future.”
And Pickle does. The store looks wonderful. Everyone, including the customers, is happy. But then the third consultant points to the office, where a beaming Chuck Bratchett sits. The consultant points to a framed letter on the wall: a letter of disenfranchisement addressed to Pickle. Bratchett is the new owner. “No, no, can I change this?” Pickle asks the third consultant. The consultant hands him his old manual.
Pickle wakes up. He throws open his window and asks the paper boy what day it is. “Why, Christmas Eve,” the boy says. “They did it all in one night,” Pickle says to no one in particular. He puts on his old uniform that he hasn’t worn in years and goes down to the store.
Bratchett is trying to convince the crew not to quit when Pickle walks in and announces, “We are closing at two o’clock today and we will be closed Christmas Day. Furthermore, there will be a Christmas bonus and raises for everyone. And, Chuck, you go get those new golf clubs you’ve wanted and make sure this restaurant is run strictly by the manual.
“Call the meat supplier and get the best meat possible. Donate a week’s proceeds to the grade school to help with the new computer lab, hire a customer-service rep, get this place remodeled, and don’t get married again. You’re my new partner. I need to call old Promotion’s family to see if they need anything, like a turkey, or maybe brandy for their Eggnog Shakes. And all of our customers eat free today. Merry Christmas, everyone.”
Pickle goes on to become the best operator in the system, winning every award. He helps train new operators and never asks the crew to do anything he can’t do. Sales and profits soar. He gets three new stores and his crews give him a Best Boss mug. And all through the store Pickle can be heard shouting, “Merry Christmas to all, and, would you like fries with that?”
Merry Christmas to All, Happy Trails and Peace from Kate, Hubcap, Latte, Cowboy, and Me.
Roy Bergold served as McDonald's advertising head for 29 years. He now lives in Payson, Arizona, on a horse ranch.
