There were developmentally disabled kids working with us. We had two– one guy, Bob, who was very mildly retarded, just slow– he looked normal and came from kind of a white trash background, and was probably retarded because of his Mom’s prenatal drinking or some shit. The other, Brian, had Down’s, so he really looked full-bore retarded; him they put up front on the Filet-o’-Fish fryer so they could show him off.
Brian had it good. Running the Filet station was easy: you just drop the Filets out of a bag into the fry basket and then into the oil, and when the correct light and chime goes off you take them out and hang them up. The sandwiches are uncomplicated toppings-wise; the only really hard thing is that the Filet-o’-Fish buns have to be steamed, but it’s a moot point because nobody really orders Filet-o’-Fish. Brian would be up there smiling while his little chimes went off; when someone ordered his sandwich it was a big event and you could tell he felt excited and satisfied.
Bob, on the other hand, always got the “schwag” work: mopping, hand-cleaning the greasy implements that the dishwasher couldn’t handle, etc. He was miserable. The dish room especially would just crush him; the manager would send him back there and he would let out an awful sigh– you’d walk past him to the freezer and he’d be muttering and groaning sadly, wrestling with the giant snaking metallic steam-hoses in his big rubber gauntlets.
I wonder what happened to Bob. I wonder where he is now. Happier than me, probably. But still. He was at the exact opposite of a “sweet spot.” Where Brian was never anything but smiling his ass off, Bob was just emotionally sophisticated enough to be despondent.
I laughed at Bob then; we all did. You’re a teenager making Quarter Pounders with a bunch of other cruel Boston jerkoffs and you are around a retarded person, you laugh at them. But now I’m Bob. Now I’m scalding myself scrubbing down cruel sharp grill implements to an impossible standard of cleanliness, with enough mental gifts to feel how much it sucks but not quite enough to do anything about it.
delicioustacos 
I liked this post a lot. When I read developmentally delayed, I thought it would be an unpretty post but this was kinda nice
I kept waiting for some asshole comment, but it never came. I agree, this was nice.
I too expected some assholery on the mentally handicapped. good for you delicious tacos
I also think it might be better to be just completely mentally retarded because then u don’t know any better, like if people are making fun of u. But let’s say u r mentally
fine but have cerebral palsy or something and kids are calling u names and making fun of your motor skills or whatever. That is just totally depressing. I am sitting in carvel right now with my toddler, we are sharing pistachio ice cream. A group of men walked in and I actually thought they were from a developmentally delayed group home kinda thing and were having an outing but then I heard them talking and I realized that they werent delayed at all, they were just sloppy and unpretty. That is really more depressing than any of the above. I’m not trying to be
mean or anything. I am just telling u what I
saw. I will write this in my next email soliloquy. Am I allowed to call you by first name in these posts? Or no? Is this anonymous? Do I just call you delicious tacos? Last night I had delicious tacos and tamales for dinner btw.
oh god, are you banging him too?
jesus.
Lmfao, no, I’m just an email penpal of his. I just bother him a lot everyday with nonsense but I think he secretly likes it
what you didn’t think you were the only one did you?
Sorry for my mood-ruining comments on your blog. I think I was just in an unfun
mood or something when I wrote them
why the fuck are you apologizing on the comment section of a blog?
Ugh…sorry about my comment on your comment. I actually do feel like a jerk and I wish I’d apologized sooner because, coming after another commenter asking why you’re apologizing on here you’re going to think I’m being sarcastic but I’m not. So…sorry!
Bob moved on to greener pastures:
Eat my vagina
One of my kids’ middle name is Dewey, after my ex’s close friend Dustin. Dewey was Dustin’s nickname. But he only got that nickname because in high school they went on a trip and stopped at a McDonald’s and there was this retarded kid working there named Dewey who looked like Dustin. So, my kid is named after a retarded guy who worked at McDonalds. I whisper this to my kid when he’s sleeping.
I knew you were from Boston when you mentioned jimmies. So am I.
That term isn’t a Boston colloquialism. I think it’s pretty common all over the Northeast.
OK, I knew he was from the Northeast, then. Whatever.