Page 143: Make That to GO!!!

Guilty, Your Honor. It's true. I get freaky at the drive-thru. But let me explain.

A long, long time ago in a Central Texas town in the hills far, far away, there lived a blond headed boy, I'm talking LOTS of blond hair nicely styled and parted down the middle, who slaved away at the local Burger King. And every cretin in town lined up their beat up clunkers for miles and miles at that drive-thru, grinning like bucked toothed buffoons while waiting to mumble their highly specialized orders through the microphone.  After placing that order, they would always say, "Make that To Go!" Really?  You sure you don't want to eat it on a tray right there in the window?  Yes, I was the blond guy with the head FULL of hair.

"I'll have a Double-Meat Whopper with Cheese with MUSTARD, no mayo, double onions, no lettuce, double tomatoes, and four pickles." I am not making that up: that was the exact order one imbecilic lady placed every week. Every order was a nightmare for us booth attendants, as we pushed buttons and pulled levers and yelled back to the kitchen trying to "get it their way." One thing you did NOT have to specify was the ritual stomping the meat patty was going to get on the floor, which was pretty much Standard Operating Procedure by the kitchen staff to reward highly picky customers. Don't ask what happened if you came in close to closing time. And all this while, our cranky, uber-pouty mouthed manager Tammy would run a stop-watch and bark out orders, as policy dictated that drive-thru customers were to spend no more than 3 minutes through the window.

So please understand, I have a LOT of baggage when it comes to drive-thrus, and that baggage is stuffed to the gills with unpleasant memories and gallons of sympathy for the poor kids manning the register for a nickel above Minimum.

So, thus it is when my dear family -- bless their hearts, and make a Catholic sign of the cross here, even if you're Jewish -- gets to the drive-thru and thinks they are the Belles of the Ball, I DO in fact go a little nuts.

"What do you guys want?" I ask, perhaps a bit tensely as we drive into the parking lot.

"Well, I don't know what they have here..." the family says, their voices trailing off.

"It's a Sonic. They have the EXACT same menu they've had since 1957. Not one thing has changed. What would you like -- sweeties??" I ask, forcing a strained smile on the last word. We arrive at the order station in front of the big menu, and I can suddenly hear the clock ticking like a time bomb -- the time bomb attached to my patience level.

The entire family is gawking at the menu board as if it just landed from another planet -- it's some alien thing they could not possibly fathom. Kathy speaks up. "That Number One burger looks pretty good, but I'm not really in the mood for a burger. Now, what is different on that Number Two? Oooh, is that... cheese? Well. I don't want any cheese. I wonder -- do they have a chicken sandwich here? Ewww, I wonder if it's fried. Sigh. Maybe a salad."

I can feel my second molars slowly being pulverized into tooth-dust by my rising industrial-level jaw tension. "IT...IS...THE...NUMBER SIX… GRILLED CHICKEN… NUMBER SIX… WHAT YOU ALWAYS GET HERE…N.U.M.B.E.R.S.I.X."

"Kirk, I don't know the menu here. Now, don't be a butt and rush us! Kids, do you know what want yet?"

Meanwhile, the driver of the car behind us has decomposed into a skeleton and the Order Taker at the drive-thru has gotten engaged -- twice. And maybe voted for the first time (absentee). I have to reset my watch due to a change in Daylight Savings Time. The stars move from Spring to Autumn positioning.

"Guys -- COME ON! WHAT DO YOU WANT?!?!?"

I close my eyes and go to a Happy Place. In my Happy Place, I have a megaphone mounted on my front bumper, one that starts playing a looped recording the very second you drive into the parking lot. "FIVE NUMBERS ONES WITH DIET COKES!!! FIVE NUMBER ONES WITH DIET COKES!" it booms. The window attendant hears it 30 seconds before we even get to the drive-thru, and the sun is shining and there is a redbird.

Back in the real world, The Family has finished reading and re-reading the menu board, so now it is time for some serious thinking.

"GUYS!!!!!!"

"Dad, you get really stressed out at the drive-thru," the kids inform me. I want to place a full order for a French Fried board and beat their little rear ends crimson.

"Kirk, we are deciding!" Mrs. Kathryn says. "Well. I think I'll just have a Number Six, grilled Chicken Sandwich. Now, I don't want cheese on it."

You know what would be damn delicious? FIVE NUMBER ONE'S WITH DIET COKE. Thank you, I'll pull right around. "Make that to GO!!!"