A Coffee at Every Single McDonald’s

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Hi there! Today I’d like to take you on a slightly sentimental journey back to the days when I worked in industrial robot servicing. I really enjoyed that time—it shaped me as an engineer and left me with a toolbox full of stories. One of them? Well, it starts with a service call and somehow ends with seven cups of coffee from seven different McDonald’s. Curious? Let’s dive into a typical, not-so-typical day on the job.

The work of a service technician is like being a hero in a tragicomedy. You leave the base filled with hope, much like a knight embarking on a crusade, except instead of a horse, you have an old station wagon packed to the brim with tools, and instead of armor, you wear grease-stained work clothes. You believe you are saving the world, or at least the production of cookies or screws. In reality, you mostly save yourself from frustrated clients' wrath.

Every trip begins with a phone call. Always nervous, always with a touch of panic. "The robot is down," you hear, picturing a battlefield scene with a robot fallen like a soldier. In truth, it’s less dramatic, though hardly less messy. Thus begins the ritual of gathering equipment. You pack your tools meticulously, like an artist arranging brushes, keys, bits, hammers, and screwdrivers you’ll never actually use. It's similar to packing for a vacation; you always take too much, and there's never enough room left for underwear.

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On the road, life takes the shape of a gas station hot dog. Eating, refueling, coffee—a trio that repeats like the chorus of a pop song. Once, a colleague and I stopped at every McDonald's on the A1 motorway because they offered free coffee before eight in the morning. After the seventh coffee, we felt like American commandos before a landing, though with a less heroic ending. By the time we reached the client, we were buzzing with caffeine, and our bodies begged urgently for a quick visit to a secluded spot.

At the client's premises, the first obstacle is always the gate. Scenes unfold here worthy of Kafka. The guard at the gate politely informs you they’ve never heard of Mitsubishi Electric, while Krzychu, the man "in charge of the gate," makes you wait. He decides everything, including how long you'll linger in the waiting area. Once, a lady at the gate, hearing that I had arrived "for the robot," asked, "But what kind of work exactly, because everyone has a different job?" Philosophically, she wasn’t wrong.

The most critical step is the backup, a mantra repeated by technicians as if reciting a prayer. If you don’t do it, it's akin to entering a dark forest full of venomous snakes, barefoot, without a flashlight, and blindfolded. I made that mistake once. The result? The client was displeased, and I had to pretend I knew what I was doing, though I might as well have been guessing lottery numbers.

Repair itself resembles a board game. Draw a card: gearbox failure, motor damage, oil mist. Roll dice to loosen a bolt. If you roll a one, you strip the bolt and lose three hours wrestling with a wrench. Most commonly, access is the issue. You feel like the robot was designed by an engineer who dreamed of maximizing the technician’s suffering.

Then come the tests, a ritual akin to awaiting medical results. You think you've done everything right, yet anxiety lingers. Until this moment, you're in control. Afterward, the clients take over. A seasoned operator is essential here, someone who knows the machine better than a mother knows her child. They know exactly where to hit, kick, or press to get it running. Without one, you’d better start praying.

You return at night, exhausted, dirty, but feeling you saved a small part of the world. No bonus or promotion can replace that satisfaction. In office work, success takes a long time, but in service, gratification is immediate. You leave a functioning robot and feel like Dr. Frankenstein who brought his creature to life. Except this creature now makes money for some company near Wroclaw.

Sometimes, there are unexpected twists—a call immediately after leaving because something still doesn’t work. You turn back, fix it again, and leave again. This loop can repeat multiple times until either you or the robot gives up.

Despite occasional complaints, challenging clients, unfriendly entry gates, and stubborn bolts, a technician always finds some meaning in the absurdity. After all, life isn’t an Excel spreadsheet, and repairing a robot is never just another job.

Cheers, Jacek !