Drive-Thru Shame

I have a problem. I can’t for the life of me place an order at a fast food window.

I write for a living, so I like to think I know how to convey my ideas from my mind to those of others. But the minute I pull up to a fast food window, I become a bumbling, incomprehensible fool.

It often goes something like this: Over the crackling radio, the attendant says “Thank you for choswa wwawawo waazaorder?” and I answer “yes.” There is a pause, because I am (a) too embarrassed to be there, (b) too overwhelmed at the array of disgustingly delicious choices, and (c) trying too hard to cover up my shame by being funny in front of my wife to realize that this wasn’t meant to be a yes or no question. So we (the attendant and I) spend the next thirty seconds interrupting each other and saying “No, go ahead,” after which I spend a few painful moments asking questions about the products without actually saying their names (which for some reason feels even more embarrassing than being there in the first place). The charade is usually concluded by repeated requests for extra packets of sauces, etc, which are most often ignored.

By the end of it, my wife and I are either thoroughly frustrated or laughing hysterically, having driven the attendant one step closer to tearing his or her hair out and quitting without not even stopping to return their visor, polo shirt, or “Ask me About our Mega-Meat Meal Deal” button. This is probably why are given two fish fillet wraps with extra mustard and a rancid Caesar side salad instead of the spicy chicken sandwich and children’s meal without pickles and a Diet Coke (no ice) that we ordered.

I suppose that’s what my arteries and I get for going there in the first place.