* * * * *
Scenes from a fast food drivethough
“Chzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzbrzzzzzzzzzelp you?”
“Yes, I'd like a number one—”
“Chzzzzzzo?”
“Number one!”
“Bzzzzzzzoke?”
“Yes, with a Coke.”
“Crzzzzuperduper size it?”
“No, I'll just take it the regular ludicrous size.”
“Bzzzzzzzour fourty-seven. Drive around please.”
“Thank you.”
I drove to the first window and hand over a $10 bill. The cashier makes
change, and hands it and the receipt over. I scan the receipt and notice that
it's not for the number one I order, but a number seven, megaduper humongous
size. “I'm sorry, but this isn't my order,” I said, handing back the change
and recept. The cashier looked puzzled. “I ordered a number one, regular
ludicrous size.”
“Oh,” she said. She called over another worker, and both started talking in a
patrois that I did not understand. The second one then started slamming on
the cash register and by the tone of her voice, I could only assume that she
was swearing in whatever langauge she natively spoke. She then called over a
manager.
He walked up, and between all three of them, in somewhat hushed tones and
slightly broken English, an explanation of what happened transpired. The cars
were backing up behind me. The manager furiously punched buttons on the
formerly abused cash register, recounted out my change, and handed it to me.
“Next window please,” he said.
At the next window, the fast-food worker held a bag towards me. “Number one,
regular ludicrous size with a Coke?”
“Yes, that's my order,” I said, taking the bag and Coke from her.
At least I didn't end up with a hamless ham and cheese without the cheese
sandwich [1].
[1]
gopher://gopher.conman.org/0Phlog:2000/11/04.1
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