So if the girl at the Wendy's in Chesapeake blogged (which would require proficiency in her native English, which is highly doubtful), I would be a subject. She would blog, sitting at a friend's computer, guzzling her Dr. Pepper and chain smoking Salems and trying to spell words like "asshole" and "customer" without benefit of spellcheck. Somehow I picture a toddler balanced on her knee, too (although I'm unsure in my mind if it's hers or the friend's and does it matter?).
As no particular friend of fast food I just wanted something to eat on my last trip home from DC. This Wendy's is new'ish, not in a scary area, and easy-off easy-on from the toll road. I decided to craft my own meal, mostly from the $.99 menu. And I will say that the food at Wendy's tends to make me less ill than the food from most fast food places, so kudos to them. My meal building went like this: two Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers ($.99 ea.), a regular fries ($.99), and "Value Soda" ($.99), and a small chocolate Frosty ($1.39 and, by the way, "Chocolate Frosty" is redundant, like "Gin Martini"). So in my head I think Burger - Burger - Fry - Soda - four bucks. Add Frosty, low fives. Add some tax, upper fives. I pull around.
When my sweetly-plump chain-smoking (that's an assumption, but really, come on) window girl greeted me she confirmed what I thought I'd heard through the speaker, that my total was in the upper $6 range. My brain was curious as to how we arrived here in the upper sixes when we had been expecting a little fling with the fives.
"Hi," [smile]. You don't want to startle them. It's like encountering a strange neighbor's dog. "Umm... I was just wondering how my total got to be Six Something [smile]. I'm not mad or anything, juuuust wondering [SMILE]."
"Well you ordered a Jr. Bacon, a drink, AND Fries so I upgraded you to a combo because it's a better deal."
"Uhh.. I'm sorry, but how can it be a better deal if it costs more?"
I could end this story here, and you could just guess the rest and you'd probably be right.
"Well you get a bigger drink and bigger fries with the combo," she says. I see her sensing that things aren't going to go well, just like how I could tell those dogs were about to chase me when I delivered the Washington Post on my bicycle when I was 14. It's still scary.
"ALSO," she says, "you got a Frosty. That's $1.39 PLUS TAX." Ahh, tax. Thank God she taught me about tax. I'd had no idea there was such a thing.
"Ok," I sigh. I also know that this is not going to go well, like when you convinced yourself that you could learn what you'd been ignoring in Calculus on the bus on your way to school on the day of the test. "I know there's tax. But if what I ordered is about $5.50 or so of food, how can a combo that adds up to $6.79 be a 'better deal'?" Perhaps I should have tried "Your babies are ugly," or "The south really did lose the war, didn't it? HAHAHA," or perhaps "I hate Dale Earnhardt." Any of those would have worked out better, I suspect.
She stopped in her tracks, mid-upgraded-soda pouring. She shot me a look that expressed every ounce of why she hated me, her job, and her life. She set my now-half-filled-upgraded-soda on the window ledge, spun around and screamed "RHONDA!" as she walked away. Rhonda, a much more pleasant seeming woman, appeared at the window. "Sir," says Rhonda, "The combo is a better deal."
"Hi," [SMILE]. "I really don't want to be difficult [SMILE]. I just ordered five bucks worth of food, she changed my order so that it costs me six bucks and change, and I don't think that's a 'better deal' at all." I so can't believe that I'm doing this.
"Sir a small Frosty is almost two dollars," says Rhonda. Yeah. If that tax rate is actually more like 50%.
"You know, Rhonda," I say, "It's ok. I don't care. I'll take the combo. It's not a lot of money. I have no desire to be difficult. I just asked why it cost more than what I ordered. But it's ok. Give me the combo. Mostly I just want to eat and I want to go home. Please."
But Rhonda will not have it. Rhonda is now re-ringing up my order to see how much it would have cost without the "better deal." Cars pile up behind me. Glaring drivers wish me dead for slowing them down. Children cry. Fire rains from the sky and animals in the forest scamper away to safety. Salem Girl is pacing around the counter area Jonesing for a smoke and some more baby making. A cute high-school-aged black girl leans out the drive-thru window and says, "I like your car." This is surreal. "Thanks," I murmur. "They all hate me in there." "Yeah," she agrees. "I bet it goes fast. How fast have you driven it?" I glance around for Rod Serling but don't see him. I don't understand life at all at this moment.
Rhonda again. "Did you want a VALUE soda?"
I'm a prisoner of war. I hope the torture is nearing its end. "Yes," I sigh.
"And you wanted SMALL fries?" (Perhaps the fact that I ordered a value soda and small fries is starting to creep into her consciousness now).
[Sigh] "Yes."
"Five sixty two. Here's your change." Death stare from Rhonda.
Out the window from behind the death stare comes my change, two drinks and a bag of food. For the first time in my life I worry about what may have been done to something I am about to eat, but even after all this I am simply too hungry to care. The black girl smiles at me. Salem girl is at the counter talking to mean-looking boys who may-or-may-not-have-fathered-children with her and surely drive big pick up trucks with big rebel flags and gun racks and hate stored under the seat like a box of ammo. I leave, thinking that the one who liked my car would surely have enjoyed how fast I drove away.
