Last week, I made a late-night run to Wendy’s for a baked potato. I wasn’t necessarily in the mood for a baked potato; I was just in the mood for anything I could digest and convert into waste matter.
At the time, I hadn’t gone grocery shopping in approximately eight months and was beginning to eat things I found in the windowsills. My sheer laziness and apathy for all things foodal prevented me from driving the sixty yards to the market and filling up on whatever my hungry heart desired. Instead, it made more sense to waste money and eat garbage until my body could take no more.
Usually it was Taco Bell that got my business late at night, but tonight I was in the mood for a lawn bag full of french fries, handed to me by someone who spoke english.
I pulled into the barren Wendy’s parking lot with the intention of using the drive-thru. As I went around back I was recklessly cut off out of nowhere by a busted-ass minivan. The van had used the side entrance and floored it just to get in front of me. Certainly, this person was exceedingly hungry; far too famished to wait the extra fifteen seconds it would have taken me to grab my items and hit the road. I felt bad for him, in a way. You really shouldn’t have to wait so long for nourishment that it becomes a life-or-death thing, especially in a country that sells cheese in a spray can.
A little angry, but more confused than anything, I waited behind him as he slurred loudly into the menu box. Watching the reflection in the van’s side mirror, I saw that it was some mustached, 20-year-old turd, eyes glazed over by the gallon of gin he washed down shortly before taking the wheel.
Fantastic. Maybe it was better that he was in front of me.
I shook my head and reached down to grab my wallet when I saw my dashboard start to illuminate. I looked up just in time to see the van backing up towards my car. Alone at the time, my lips parted and I squeaked ‘whhaasaa?!’ as I threw my wallet down and fumbled with the gearshift to get the hell out of this guy’s way. I backed up about a yard when he finally stopped and went forward, ending up right where he started, just in front of the speaker.
I kept my distance. This man was so hungry he was clearly capable of anything.
I was just getting my bearings together when I saw the driver waving something out of his window. What could it be? A gun? A knife? A more focused glance revealed that it was a $20 bill, which he was thrusting towards the speaker.
Read that again; let it wash all over you. He was presenting his money to the magic voice in the box. I jest you not.
After about ten seconds of this, he must have realized that the menu display wasn’t going to take his money in exchange for food, so he pulled up to the window. By the time I made my order and got up behind him, an actual human being had finally confiscated this fool’s cash and hopefully his license.
I guess what the guy wanted was going to take a while, so the cashier told him to pull out front, and they would bring it out to him when it was ready. If he was as drunk as I thought he was, chances are he ordered the entire left quadrant of the menu, only to eat one fry and puke in the bag once he received his meal.
So, the cashier tells him to pull out front, the guy nods, rolls up his window and calmly drives away. Right out into the street and down the highway. Keep in mind that he already paid.
I’ll bet that sometime later in the evening, that guy’s going to say to his friends, “I’m hungry, we should go to Wendy’s!”