who? (Trans Wilbur)

eight | boy-man, fast food superhero

warnings: karen (these poor fast food workers), misgendering, deadnaming

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Wilbur has this thing called poor impulse control. He got same-day delivery on his binder. Yes, it cost more, but he now had a binder to wear to his crappy day job. And on his application? He used his chosen name. He was fucking ready to be boy-man, fast food superhero. He would serve the shit out of anyone who wanted a shitty burger from eleven in the morning to seven in the afternoon. Then, a new shift would take over, and Wilbur would be closer to his payday.

With his binder and tasteless work uniform on, Wilbur realized that minimum wage jobs aren't the most appearance-based. Not that he was a stickler for good clothes, he wasn't, really, but he looked like a steaming shit. Albeit, a steaming male shit.

After settling his head under a beanie, he grabbed his phone and keys, then left. He didn't have a car, but he did have a dinged-up bike that he was nearly too tall for, and luckily, the place he worked at wasn't too far away.

When he arrived, he put the bike on the rack. He didn't have a bike lock, but was hoping that nobody wanted such a shitty bike in the first place. The bell tinkled as Wilbur opened the staff door.

He was greeted by the manager whose name he barely paid attention to. He was offered a nametag that was customizable, but he chose to leave it clean and plain. He thought it looked better that way. And what name did it read? Wilbur, not fucking Winnie.

Wilbur was also surprised they let him wear his beanie underneath the restaurant visor, but he wasn't complaining. Everyone seemed tired and depressed as shit, because most of them were poor teenagers, similarly to Wilbur, but they were nice enough.

After a brief training on the basics of a cash register and monitor, the manager gave him a pat on the back and abandoned him to fend for himself in the world of food retail.

Luckily for him, the first few customers came and went with no issues, some even offering a few smiles and thanks. The greasy food and overwhelming hot stench was more than enough to convince Wilbur that he could get his daily caloric intake just by inhaling the smell of his workplace.

After sending another order through, Wilbur rocked on his heels. He stretched his back and checked the time. It hadn't been very long, unfortunately.

"Hey, 'scuse me, yeah, you," a woman tapped the counter.

"Sorry, Ma'am," Wilbur apologized. He straightened his posture. "I was zoned out."

"I noticed," she intoned dryly. "Go on, Kyle. Tell him what you want."

An eight-year-old child looked heavily anxious to be ordering for himself, but still managed to stutter out a decently coherent request for a kids' meal with milk.

"And I'll have a double cheeseburger with pickles. And can I replace my fries with chili cheese fries?" she asked.

"Sorry, we don't have chili cheese fries," Wilbur replied. "We have normal cheese fries, though, if you'd like me to add that instead."

"What kind of fucking restaurant doesn't have chili cheese fries?" the woman hissed.

"This one," Wilbur sneered. "Do you want the normal cheese fries or not?"

"I guess I'll take some cheese fries, but I want them free for my inconvinience," she snarled.

"Okay, look, I can't do that," Wilbur said, shaking his head. "I also have a feeling that you knew we didn't have chili cheese fries, just to complain."