The Second Shift

The reverse of a superhero – going in more, and coming out less.

Chris Harper straightened his tie in the mirror of the dimly lit bathroom, the sharp lines of his charcoal suit crisp even under the flickering fluorescent light. He exhaled through his nose, rolled his shoulders back, and then, with practiced efficiency, loosened the knot and shrugged off his jacket. This was the part of the day he hated most.

With careful deliberation, he folded his suit, placing it inside a garment bag he hung on the back of the stall door. The white button-down followed. Then the slacks. He pulled on the McDonald's uniform, the fabric stiff, the colors garish against the refined neutrality of what he’d worn moments ago. The visor came last. A crown of submission.

Chris had spent years building his career as an associate principal, his authority extending across the hallways of Sterling High. He was the man who handed out detentions, called parents in for meetings, ensured order in the chaotic world of teenagers. Yet here, under the buzz of cheap lighting and the smell of fryer oil seeping through the air vents, he was someone else entirely.

"Just a job," he muttered to himself. "Just a means to an end."

Man, he thought. I sound just like my dad. 

Chris’s dad lamented work daily before he left and when he returned. Never a high school graduate, Norm had started at the bottom at the steel mill, but worked his way up as far as he could go. It was Norm who encouraged Chris to do differently – make it through and see it through. Norm wore the same clothes, every day – factory issued shirt, worn jeans, and an old cap. Lost in thought, Chris found himself rubbing his aching hands, as his dad did, as he packed his things. 

These hands clenched into fists as he stepped out of the bathroom and into the bright, artificially cheerful world of the McDonald’s dining area.

He didn’t look at the register first. He never did. He didn’t want to know who was out there.

"Harper, we need you on drive-thru," his manager, Luis, called from behind the counter. "Got a rush coming in."

Chris nodded, grateful to be tucked away with a headset rather than face-to-face with customers. But the universe wasn’t that kind.

"Yo, no way!"

The voice made his stomach drop.

Spinning slowly, he came face-to-face with Devon Peters and Derrick Liu, two seniors he’d written up just last week for skipping class. They stood at the counter, their shock shifting into delight as they elbowed each other.

"Mr. Harper?" Devon grinned, eyes wide. "Man, I knew you had a side hustle. We thought you was playin’ when you said school don’t pay enough."

Chris’s mouth went dry. He knew what came next — the snickers, the stories that would spread across campus by morning. He hated when the roles reversed like this. Nothing pained him more than the shift of power that was coming.

"Order or leave," he said flatly, adjusting the visor lower over his eyes.

The boys laughed but ordered their food. As they walked away, Devon called back, "See you in detention, Mr. Harper!"

Chris exhaled slowly.

"Don’t let ’em get to you," came a voice from beside him.

He turned to see Gloria, the overnight shift supervisor. She was in her late forties, thick curls tucked under her cap, her expression knowing. She’d been working here for years, pulling double shifts to help raise her grandchildren after her daughter was entered rehab. She was the kind of woman who could scare off an unruly teen with a single look, a skill Chris deeply respected.

"They’re kids," she added. "They don’t know nothing about what it takes to keep a family together."

Chris managed a weak smile. "Yeah."

"Besides," she said, ringing up an order, "I heard about what you did last week from my grandson. That kid — you gave him ISS instead of suspension so he wouldn’t miss his tests. You actually give a damn. Most of the folks running that school? They don’t."

Chris didn’t know what to say to that. He wasn’t used to praise, especially here. Anywhere actually. It was a lonely life these days. Olivia, his daughter, was at law school. Like his father, Chris had insisted his daughter make the most of her education and take advantage of every opportunity that came her way. As a teenager, Olivia liked to argue – and prove a point. She would be a natural lawyer, he thought, a smile tugging at his face. 

"Hey, man, fryer’s backing up!" someone called.

That would be DeShawn, a 19-year-old with a sharp wit and a quicker temper. He had a baby girl at home and worked full-time, though he swore to Chris in hushed conversations that he’d get out one day, get his HVAC certification and make some real money. For now, though, he was stuck here, same as Chris.

"On it," Chris said, stepping toward the station.

As he dropped another batch of fries into the oil, he glanced toward the dining area. Devon and Derrick were still laughing, still pointing. The old anger flared up, that sense of indignity. But then he thought about Olivia — his daughter, his reason for every exhausting shift.

She was in law school because of this. Because he refused to let his pride keep food off the table and tuition unpaid.

The first month had been unbearable. His pride fought him every shift. The idea that a man like him, who had spent years in education, in leadership, was reduced to slapping together burgers and handing out fries to the same kids who mocked his authority—it gnawed at him.

When he first accepted the job, he had been called into his superintendent’s office. He assumed it was a regular meeting of review, but as Dr. Evans asked him to shut the door, he knew there was more to it. Dr. Evans sat back, his delicate hands folded over his fancy, unwrinkled suit. Dainty was a word that came to mind, as Mr. Evans made himself comfortable (or at least tried to).

“Is everything okay, Chris? How’s Olivia?” Dr. Evans asked, leaning in. 

“Fine, good, actually. She got into law school – leave next month to move into an apartment and find a job.” 

“Well, I heard you had been looking for and took another job – McDonald’s? Is that actually true? And, I only ask, because, well, administrators usually don’t do that. There’s a sense of decorum, you know. A sense of superiority to our position. It starts to raise eyebrows when we begin mixing with the mortals, if you know what I mean.”

Chris felt his face grow hot, and his jaw clench. What a pompous ass, he thought – what an entitled imbecile. Chris was aware Dr. Evans probably never had to make a choice like this – an administrator from the beginning, who spent his days in his office, entertaining the community and board before his faux fireplace. But this – this was too much. Looking Dr. Evans over, Chris’s eyes rested on his hands, smooth and unblemished. Soft, he thought. Weak.

“Is it a problem, sir?” He asked, quickly, looking the man straight in the eye.

“Well, no – nothing in your contract against it. I just…I just wanted to be sure you understood there are expectations, and as long as you can maintain them – and not tarnish our image, there should be no issues.”

“No issues – I’ll keep that in mind.”

That night, Chris thought long and hard about this new wrinkle. Yes, he made enough for himself and Olivia, to keep a home and keep her in sports and activities. But, when she made it into law school, it became apparent that without some more – the loans would be insurmountable. There was no way he could say no to the little girl he still saw, who crafted her own diploma at five, proudly parading around like a graduate each day after school. The middle class had shrunk, but – where there was a will, there was a way, Olivia’s mother used to say. This was the way, and he’d have the will.

He’d see the numbers in his bank account. See the tuition bill for his daughter, Olivia, arrives with a note: PAID.

He’d see her texts:

Long day, Dad. Studying for finals. Thanks for everything. Love you.

And suddenly, the uniform didn’t feel as heavy.

He wiped down the counter, ignoring the laughter behind him, and thought about what this meant. He wasn’t just a man in a visor. He was a father ensuring his daughter didn’t have to do this to survive.

Pride was a luxury. Duty was not.

And so, as the next customer approached, Chris squared his shoulders, met their gaze, and said, "Welcome to McDonald’s. How can I help you?"