My Drive Thru Bride

It’s ten minutes until my shift is over and I need to get this hat off. Beats me what these doofy hats are made of but it constantly feels like there are ants frantically crawling all over my head. As you can imagine, that sensation for a consecutive six hours is enough to drive any man insane.
The hat is my least favorite part of the job, but working the drive thru is a close second place. Everything about the drive thru sucks: the yelling in your ear, every driver’s inability to pull up close enough to the drive thru window, the impatience of snooty customer who is too lazy to get out of the car, listening to the one sided cell phone conversations, the irate customers stomping back after a mistake in the order.
The awkward distance between the window and the incompetent drivers was becoming a serious problem for me. I took it upon myself to rig up a device to give the fools their precious change back. That was back when I was a server. When the manager of this McDonald’s caught wind of my “brilliant invention” (wiffleball bat + ash tray) he promoted me to assistant server co-manager. For some reason my flashy new title wasn’t enough to impress my girlfriend so I’ll be flying solo for a bit. Sometimes I wonder if I’ll meet my new wife as she weasels her way out of cooking dinner. It is this thought that makes drive thru duty barely a notch above the hat-wear discomfort. Then again, you don’t find many Buffy the Vampire Slayer types with an appreciation for art shuffling through a McDonald’s drive thru.
Eight minutes left until my shift is over. I am currently staring at one of the strangest things I’ve ever seen. 90 seconds ago (I know this because the registers keep track of how rapidly we feed you your greasy McCardiac arrest burgers and French Dies) a man walked in sobbing loudly. His shirt has a picture of Yoda on it and he’s wearing an American Idol hat. Bizzare. Anyway, without even trying to compose himself, he ordered five McFish Killets. Oh yeah, and a Diet Coke. He is currently sitting in a booth, sobbing, cramming “food” into his mouth, while listening to Goo-Goo Dolls on a tiny set of speakers. I don’t know why, but I feel compelled to talk to this strange customer.
When I neared his table, he instinctively protected his remaining 3.5 McFish Killets before asking me: “Can I help you?”
“Hello, sir. I noticed you seem sad. Has your food been prepared to your liking?”
“Oh…yes, the food is fine.”
“Then what’s bothering you?”
“I just watched the LOST season finale. It was terrible. I practically worship JJ Abrams, I bought every season on DVD, and I consider Hurley to be my personal hero. And after the finale, I wish I never started watching it.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad.”
“I just wanted some answers!” he yelled as a piece of fishy “goodness” escaped mouth. “Don’t I deserve some answers?? Something…anything!”
“Sometimes you don’t get what you want. Not everything is as simple as asking questions and getting answers. You have to appreciate the journey.”
I don’t know where that came from but I think it made sense. It was enough to make my new hefty friend pause his sob session. Wait, he just started again.
“I’ve wasted six years of my life!” he cried as he buried his face in his greasy hands.
“That’s not true. Considering how many episodes there have been, you only wasted five DAYS of your life.”
“I’ve seen every episode three times, plus commentary.”
“Ok, so it’s more like twenty days. But if you decide not to eat those last two sandwiches I guarantee you’ll get them right back! Besides, at least you still have American Idol.”
“But Paula’s gone and it won’t be the same without Simon!”
As he collapses and resumes wailing, my boss calls me over.
“You know I hate to ask, but Stella just had to bail from her shift due to a family emergency. Can you stay here for an extra three hours? I’ll pay you double.”
Although I was anxiously counting down the final minutes of my shift, I could use the money. Also, this has already shaped up to be an interesting evening. The night shift is usually pretty tame, and maybe this will be the night my future wife stops by for one of our new Frappes. Realizing I’ve been thinking this over for a good twenty seconds now, I give my answer.
“Ok. But only if I can take off the hat.”