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.
