I love fast food joints. When I was employed many was the time I’d pop in and order an instant meal quickly and make it home in time for the 8:00 pm primetime tv shows. However I have noticed one drawback to utilizing the seemingly painless, efficient drive-thru window, the person taking the order. Now I know not to expect too much from technology. If there is one thing I learned from Rod Serling and Stanley Kubrick it’s that machines will fail and probably kill you. Now it’s downright silly to assume that the box you order through will pull out a switchblade and lunge at you like one of the Sharks from “Westside Story,” but if one particular burger spot does not hire someone who actually listens I am liable to raise some HAL.
Listening is not a difficult chore. In fact it doesn’t require you to speak, or move. You simply have to stop and open your ears to the person doing the talking. And yet, such an easy task is often mishandled for whatever reason. I don’t know why each time I venture at a particular fast food place my order is always wrong. Not to name names, but when I order a Famous Star with cheese, I do not want a chicken club with bacon. It’s not even close! I would understand it if I received an offshoot of the Famous Star name. And instead of a salad I get Criss Cut fries. Salad and fries are two distinct entities like breasts and cardboard. How is it possible to miss by such a large margin? I have this urge to park my car and walk in and speak to the person manning the drive-thru to ask if they even care enough to make a valiant attempt. Granted these places do get busy and the drive-thru folks are multi-tasking with speaking to an interior and exterior customer at the same time but for chrissakes manage one thing at a time. “Excuse me, sir, one moment.” That doesn’t seem too difficult to say.
I love that the last visit to this place the guy at the window asked if I wanted a combo with my fish sandwich and salad order. “No.” I said. I ride up to pay and then receive my order when he blurts out “what kind of drink do you want?” I said “Um, I didn’t order a drink.” “I thought you said you wanted the combo.” “No,” I said. “I did not want a combo. Where did I say combo? Not once did I use the word ‘combo.’ I said ‘sandwich,’ I said ‘salad’ and I specifically said ‘I do not want the combo.’” The guy looked at me dumbfounded. “So, you don’t want the combo?” “NO! No fucking combo!” I hate to curse but even Gandhi himself would have flung so many expletives at this guy it would have made a teamster blush. “I have your drink ready.” “Are you shitting me?” “Because I thought you said combo.” Right, the only combo I thought of was a combination of left jab and right upper cut to his chubby jaw. “FINE! Give me the goddamn combo.” So I took the combo and went straight home. When I settled to eat I looked into my bag and found that my sandwich had magically turned into a double-decker guacamole cheeseburger and my salad became Criss Cut fries. Why do I bother speaking?
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