“You got time to lean, you got time to clean.” That’s what Roger, our manager at McDonald’s, barked at us all the time. “That’s right, Time to Lean, Time to Clean!”

When we turned 16, my identical twin brother Paul and I were hired at McDonald’s for $1.10 an hour. Back then, McDonald’s only employed male teenagers and guys in their 20s. The only older people were the owner, Dick Lutz, and our manager Roger, or as we all called him “Roger Dodger.”

Both the owner and Roger Dodger were cut from the Marine Corps side of life — crew cuts and square jaws, no fooling around, though Rodger, had a twinkle in his eye and a soft side. But the owner, Dick Lutz, always stomped around like a caged bull. One time I said “Hello Mr. Lutz. Nice day.” He stared at me like I was a buzzing mosquito.

A bunch of our friends worked at McDonald’s and we all jumped in with a gung-ho attitude to work hard, make money and have fun. We wore those triangular cardboard hats that made us look like carnival barkers but that was the price we paid for a paycheck.

We felt so jacked up about working at McDonald’s that we competed at the front counter to see who could book the most money during rush hours. The guys frying the burgers were two-handed gun slingers, flipping rows of burgers, laying them on buns and scraping the grill clean in seconds; true greaseball performance artists. Without doubt, the greatest burger gunslinger of all was Corky, the Hank Aaron of the grill. We’d watch in amazement at Corky’s dexterity as he flipped the burgers and laughed, a magician in a triangular hat.

###

For our lunch break we could concoct any burger we dreamed up. We’d stack two or three patties with cheese, chow down on a bag of fries and chocolate shake. Maybe an apple pie, too. It sounds like the expressway to heart disease but we were 16, so what did we care? We were all going to live forever anyway.

Our break room was located in the basement, basically a shaky card table surrounded by towers of burger boxes. In the corner stood a polished black safe and we fantasized about sneaking in at 3 a.m. picking the lock and escaping with a cool million dollars that we knew were stuffed inside that safe.

One day while clocking in and I saw a thick red line drawn through my friend Corky’s name on the employee list. The red line stretched across the page and ended with a red skull and crossbones.

I asked Roger Dodger, “What’s the deal with the red line through Corky’s name?”

“The owner saw him fooling around last night and he doesn’t work here anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, he’s a former employee.”

I couldn’t believe it. Corky, king of the grill, the hardest worker and friendliest guy, gone? That’s so wrong.

We investigated and found out that the owner Dick Lutz had parked across the street one night and spied on us with binoculars. He spotted Corky having some harmless fun and that was enough for the owner to Red Skull him out of a job. Gone like a hamburger wrapper in the wind.

My friend Mike Huck said “I bet he fired him because Corky was up to $1.85 an hour.”

“Oh, come on. You don’t think Mr. Lutz is that cheap, do you?”

“Yeah, I do.”

The next week, another guy with seniority was fired.

“They red-skulled Johnny Landaal!” Mike Huck said.

That day I walked downstairs and sat with a couple of my co-workers.

Mike Huck said, “I can’t believe Dick Lutz can get away with treating us like that. That sucks. Guess there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“Really? Nothing?” I said.

“No, we’re just lowly peons.”

I removed the bun from my burger and peeled off the pickle and stared into space. Then I jumped up and threw that pickle onto the sacred black safe, splattering mustard and ketchup all over it.

“Death to the Red Skull!!!!!!” I yelled.

We all ran up the stairs laughing like hyenas.

The next day Dick Lutz posted an ultimatum.

“If I ever find the guy who threw that pickle on my safe, he’s fired!” and signed it with a big red skull and cross bones.

From that day, on my break, I’d wait for the perfect moment and jump up and yell “Death to the Red Skull” and slap my pickle on Dick Lutz’s shiny black safe, mustard and ketchup flying and defiling that safe. Every single day I worked. My blow against the empire, my pickle shot across the bow.

After that I morphed into a very different worker than I’d been before.

I’d be standing at the counter and prop a handwritten note in front of me with an arrow saying “Next window please.” One time I crawled on top on the hamburger boxes and fell asleep in the middle of my shift. Or I’d stand behind one of the counter guys and yell over his shoulder, “Can I help you down here please?” and run back to my window

I became so brazen in goofing off that my lack of fear acted like a cloak of invisibility. For some reason the owner and Roger Dodger never saw my craziness.

My twin brother acted completely the opposite of me. He always worked hard, didn’t pull any stunts and kept to himself. He said to me one day,

“Are you insane? Are you trying to get fired? Mom and dad will be pissed. You’ve got to stop.”

I just told him, “The Red Skull must be defeated,”

###

One night a fellow worker came in on his night off and ordered a small coke. My brother handed him a large coke for the price of a small one, a difference of 5 cents. Roger Dodger saw the exchange and said, “How much did you charge for that large coke?”

My brother told the truth and said “a dime.”

Roger called the worker up at home and the guy lied for my brother and said he was charged 15 cents. So they fired my brother. I was outraged.

I wrote a note. “I quit. You can’t treat my twin brother that way,” and stormed out.

Roger Dodger called and asked to meet with me.

“Look, If it was up to me, I’d give your brother another chance but Mr. Lutz says we have high standards at McDonald’s. Even if it’s only a nickel, that line can’t be crossed.”

Then he said, “Would you please reconsider and still work for us? I think you are an excellent counter guy.”

I couldn’t believe it. How could the world be so upside down? My brother, the perfect employee and me, the pickle anarchist, and they’re begging me to keep working?

I said, “I don’t know, Roger, that’s my twin brother you fired.”

“I’m asking you to do it for me, as a way to say I’m sorry. ”

“Ok, Roger I’ll do it for you.” I put my cardboard hat on and walked out to the counter.

Roger yelled after me, “You got time to lean, you got time to clean.”

When I took my break, I ate my double cheeseburger with my buddy Mike Huck and when I finished, I started walking up the stairs.

“What, no pickle on the safe today? What’s going on? That’s the best thing that happens every day. I look forward to it.”

“No, I think it’s kind of immature and I was getting tired of it. Plus, Roger was really nice to me today.”

But then, a week later Dick Lutz drew a red skull through Mike Huck’s name and he disappeared, too.

Goddamn it! It never ends!

That day I sat in the break room with Jimmy, a french fry specialist.

I said , “Jimmy, do you think it will be like this at jobs when we grow up?

“What do you mean?”

“You know this whole “Time to Lean, Time to Clean” crap and Red Skulling people, firing them to save a few nickles ”

Jimmy said, “Nah. I don’t think so.” I think it’s just because we’re 16. It’s gotta be different when we’re working as adults. Don’t you think?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know. But you wanna know what I really think, Jimmy?”

“What’s that? What do you really think?”

“DEATH TO THE RED SKULL!!!” I yelled as I slapped that pickle on Dick Lutz’ black safe one more time, with gusto, ketchup and mustard flying everywhere, and I didn’t feel one morsel of regret and I never would.

###

Jeff DeMark is a writer and musician.