[...] After Mustard Lady, some part of me finally accepts that you need walls between you and the customers to survive here, and I start building them. I still do everything I’m supposed to, of course. I just… stop caring. Caring makes you vulnerable.

It’s actually hard to break the habit at first. But going the extra mile just doesn’t make sense. The extra energy it takes for me to do a very good job benefits the customers, our franchise owner, and the McDonald’s brand—and I get nothing but exhaustion in return. Good-faith effort is just too complicated to measure, and therefore doesn’t exist to the fingerprint time clock and staffing algorithms. Even if I were gunning for a promotion, managers barely earn more than crew members. The only reward is in owning a franchise, not It’s actually hard to break the habit at first. But going the extra mile just doesn’t make sense. The extra energy it takes for me to do a very good job benefits the customers, our franchise owner, and the McDonald’s brand—and I get nothing but exhaustion in return. Good-faith effort is just too complicated to measure, and therefore doesn’t exist to the fingerprint time clock and staffing algorithms. Even if I were gunning for a promotion, managers barely earn more than crew members. The only reward is in owning a franchise, not working at one.

[...]

But empathy is a two-sided coin. The shield protects me from screamers, but it also appears to filter out any satisfaction I used to get from making people happy. Without that, and without much opportunity to form friendships with coworkers, my shifts become hour after hour of mechanical movement at top speed, saying the same words and performing the same motions over and over and over. I start really dreading my shifts.