Recently, I went out to dinner with one of my gym buddies in celebration of his 22nd birthday.

After stepping into Texas Roadhouse to soak in the unique atmosphere and partake of those signature rolls with cinnamon butter, I proceeded to share the memory of the day I turned 22 and my experience of working at another fast-paced eatery.

Upon finishing up my final college credits with a summer course less than a month before, I was sporting a multicolored plaid shirt and matching brown trousers as I walked around Hardee’s parking lot picking up trash in Springfield, Missouri.

When I came home from work that day, my family gathered around and sang the melodic birthday tune with me sitting there in front of a chocolate cake and enough candles to start a forest fire.

Yes! My first official day of work was on the very same day which I marked another trip around the sun. I even have a photo to prove it.

Having squandered the small fortune I had put away for a rainy day from my time as a cafeteria worker on Evangel’s college campus, I was willing to accept just about any job as long as it paid minimum wage, which at that time was a minuscule $3.35.

I had spent most of the spring and early summer sending out over one hundred resumes and applications to acquire a teaching position as a secondary social studies teacher at one of the many high schools located across southern Missouri.

It wouldn’t have done me any good to sit by the telephone — because it never rang.

However, my big brother John was an assistant manager at one of the local Hardee’s; and he had worked there for the last couple of years making his way up the cooperate ladder of success while attending classes in between.

After he encouraged me to apply for a position at another area Hardee’s in town, I was told my first day of work would be on the very day of the celebration of my birth.

Happy birthday to me!

On that first day of work, I did a wide array of activities and assignments; but the one I cared for the least was when I was told to clear the restaurant parking lot of debris.

As I walked around the painted asphalt with a little dustpan on a stick and a miniature-sized broom — picking up cigarette butts and napkins haphazardly tossed about by our paying customers — I began to despise litterbugs, especially when things were laying right next to a trash receptacle.

It brought back memories of that horrible day in kindergarten when a local law enforcement officer accused me of being a litterbug when my carpool buddy refused to take his failing test paper as my mother drove away from the curb.

Nevertheless, I did the job I was required to perform without any verbal complaints; and I did it with a broad smile splashed across my face.

Inside the store, I was responsible for actually cooking the food, which was pretty scary in my humble opinion since it was the first time I ever worked at an eating establishment. I was required to toast and dress the buns (whatever that means), cook the burgers, drop the fish and fries (not on the floor silly) as well as a number of other things.

Basically, I was a jack of all trades.

Since we were located near one of the many universities in the bustling city of over 150,000, the foot traffic in and out of the fast-food joint was fairly heavy throughout the day.

Although college didn’t start for another two weeks, there was more than enough students involved in extracurricular activities that kept me hopping in the kitchen.

I was constantly worried that I would cut my finger on the roast beef slicer and draw back a nub.

But the final straw for my decision to hang up the spatula was when my hands almost went into the french fryer. After slipping on the greasy floor, I began to fall forward while reaching for anything to keep from hitting the floor.

If not for a co-worker’s quick reflexes, both my hands would have landed directly into the french fry grease which was heated to a bubbling 325 degrees.

Can anyone say third degree burns?

The manager tried with desperation to keep me on the payroll because he said I was a conscientious worker and did a bang up job in the kitchen.

Did he not see burgers and buns frying through the air on any given day? I must have thrown several hundred dollars worth of food into the garbage bin during my short tenure as a fry cook extraordinaire.

Although my boss gave me a much needed confidence booster, I valued my life and limbs over a happy meal any day of the week.

He even stated that he would put me on the day shift when they had several other workers in the kitchen; so I would only be required to do one job instead of all one hundred.

Although it was a nice suggestion, it would have never worked since I needed to have my days open for substitute teaching at the public schools where I taught teenagers how not to become a fast food worker after graduating from college.

I had worked there for two short weeks before giving the store manager my two weeks’ notice. My fast food career was over before it even kicked into high gear. That was, by far, the shortest job I ever had.

Of course, that wasn’t the last time I worked in the fast food lane.

You would think I would have learned after the first go-around; but when you’re desperate for a steady income that pays the bills, there’s always fast-food.

Mark S. Price is a former city government/county education reporter for The Sampson Independent. He currently resides in Clinton.