CPP: "How about a Breast-Plus Box-$2.20, with tax." ($2.99 by summer's end.)

#2: "No. Given me some wings and fries, and a medium grape."

CPP: "We only have coke, orange, sprite, or Tab."

#2: "How' bout root beer?"

CPP: "No."

#2: "Just give me the chicken."

CPP: "That comes to $1.99, out of $2.00?"

#2: "Keep the change."

#1: "Can I get a little service; seems like I've been waiting all day."

Winning the cost-efficiency prize did not endear me to my co-workers, and interaction was often tense. Eight of us worked within 25 square feet, each slowly frying under the super-heat lamps designed for the chicken orders. I tried to avoid discussing the outside world:

Alex's Veteran: "You gonna work here full time?"

Alienated Rookie: "No, only until I go to school in the fall."

AV: "What school?" (Already hostile.)

AR: "College, up north."

AV: "Sounds cool. What school?"

AR: (To customer) "Can I help you?" (Aside) "Harvard."

AV: "Hey, I've heard of that place." (Sounds disgusted.) "Isn't that up north?"

The average matriculation at Alex's was two weeks. Standing for eight hours daily, with only one 30-minute break, provided little incentive for further advancement in the chicken world, particularly when you had to do a lot of "plugging."

With bare hands, you "plugged" a chicken, separating raw hearts, gizzards, necks, and livers from freshly killed birds. The only question was how many chicken you could separate before your stomach revolved a full 360 degrees.

After a morning with these fowl innards, employees hit the bricks, our ration of Alex's Plus in tow, and sought suitable trades with other food merchants. It's not that we didn't have pride in our own product-we downed plenty of it, as my weight will attest-but by mid-summer fruit-shakes, pepperoni pizza, and bran muffins were a welcome relief.