Saturday, January 21, 2012

Bad orders at Burger King



Here is an essay I wrote 10 years ago for an Article and Essay class.

She stood, her back towards me as I entered.  I saw the others scurrying about, but she was a fixture.  Although I knew better, her hands on the hips posture oozed command.  Her delusions of grandeur were shattered, however, when her manager pointed out my presence.

As she slowly turned towards me I felt the contempt building from behind her black-rimmed glasses.  I was an inconvenience.  She strolled towards her post, staring me down, hoping for my demise.  “Welcome to Burger King, would you like to try a Whopper Value Meal?” she dutifully sung to me.

I tried hard not to reciprocate her hostility.  “Can I have a Double Whopper…”

“Would you like cheese with that?” she interrupted.

“Please. And a large fry and a Coke.”

“For here or to go?” she boringly responded.

“To go.”

“That’ll be $6.03.”  I handed her the only money I had, a twenty-dollar bill.  “You don’t have three cents on you?” she asked as if fully expecting me to.

“No, sorry.”  I shook my head to reaffirm.  She breathed an exasperated sigh as she counts my change.  “I’m sorry, can I get no onions on my Double Whopper if its not already too late?” I ask.

Her return gaze made me shiver.  She turned her head towards the grill and yelled, “Did you make that Double Whopper order yet?”

“Counter or drive-through?” the young, high school age grill person responded.

“I am on counter, why would I ask for drive-through?” she snapped in return.  “Of course I need counter.”

“No, I haven’t made it yet,” the grill person’s tone began to match hers.  I worried for my food, hoping it would get to me safely.

“Well, when you finally get around to the Double Whopper for counter, I need it with no onion,” she commanded of the grill person.

“Whatever,” came a muffled response.

After her exchange with the grill person, she slid a large cup in my direction.  “Coke is over there,” she gestured in the direction of the soda fountain.

I walked over to the fountain, filled my cup, found a lid, and returned to the counter.  “Excuse me, can I get a straw?”

“There aren’t any over there?” she replied, as if questioning my eyesight.

“Nope.”

“Here.”  She whipped out a straw from under the counter and laid it in front of me.

I thanked her as she walked over to the fry station to assemble my large fry.  She nonchalantly tossed the fries into the bag and collected my burger a second after the grill person finished making it.  Carelessly, the burger joined the fries in the bag.

“Thank you.”  I walked out, sipping my coke.

When I got home, there were onions on my Double Whopper.