Back when I spent a lot of time in drive-thru lanes waiting for fast food that I didn’t order, I pondered the impressive mistakery. It was consistent, almost every trip. Checking the bag became a ritual. The order was wrong at least 7 out of ten times. You have to have hours of training to perfect such a FUBAR system.
“I’ll take a ham biscuit and a small coffee with one of those hash browned potato things.”
“That will be $6.78 at the second window.”
There are always two windows, by the way. The second window is where the slight of bag occurs. The first window is just there so you can see the storage room, which always stirs my appetite. Nothing like seeing stacks of cups and piles of corrugated cardboard to make you want to scarf down enough saturated fat to lube four Mustangs and a Prius.
The second window is where you realize that the fate of the entire multibillion-dollar, greasy empire rests in the hands of an eighteen year-old wearing a plastic bag on his head in a failed attempt to harness his greasy hair.
“Excuse me, this isn’t my order. I was supposed to get a ham bis –“
“That’s what it says here on my computer. A fish sandwich, fries and –”
“Maybe so, but what I said into the squawk box back there was a ham biscuit, potato lump and a small coffee. I’m sorry, but that’s not what’s in this bag.”
“It’s not a potato lump.”
“Compressed hash browns?”
“So you want a ham biscuit?”
“It’s 9 am. You don’t start serving lunch until 11 am according to the sign. A fish sandwich, fries and iced tea are lunch, don’t you think?”
“No. We serve everything all day.”
“I don’t want everything all day, just a ham biscuit, a pota –“
It’s called a ‘Breakfast Spud,” sir.”
“Whatever. That’s what I want. Here’s your fish burger and this other stuff I didn’t order.”
I hold it out towards him. It hangs in the void between me and the giant conglomerate that spends $500 million a year on advertising. The drive through human stares at me. He does not make a move, just rolls his eyes.
“I’ll have to get the manager to okay this.”
“You have to get your manager to okay giving me the right order?”
“It is called a transaction adjustment, sir. I have to get permission to do it.”
“You didn’t need permission to screw it up.”
“Sir, why don’t you pull up and I’ll get the manager. Better yet, can you come inside to deal with this? The other people behind you want their food.”
“Did the guy behind me order a ham biscuit, potato knob, I mean Breakfast Spanker and small coffee? Or did you give it to the woman who just drove away?”
“Sir, I can’t tell you what another customer ordered.”
He points at a sign on the wall with the heading, “Customer Service Bill Of Rights.”
“What’s that? The Junk Food Privacy Act of 2003? Come on, man. You have customer service rights? Are you joking? Do those rights include actual customer service?”
“I don’t know, sir. I have other orders to fill. Just come inside and I’ll get my manager.”
“I tell you what, go get your manager and tell him to bring a ham biscuit, a Spud Log and a small coffee.”
“Sir, you are being difficult.”
“Asking to get what you ordered is being difficult? No. Pulling you through the window and forcing you to listen to every chapter of The Historian on audio, that would be difficult.”
He walks away and shuts the window. Horns begin to blow and hand birds begin to fly behind me. I drive away with my cold fish sandwich.
I don’t go though drive-thrus anymore. My diet has changed considerably. I am ashamed to admit that deep down inside, I still would love just one little bite of a Potato Clod.