The Drive-Thru

“You’re welcome.”

“Yeah—no, actually I didn’t thank you,” after a few moments the driver blurted clarification, “you weren’t thanked, sir.”

Knowing he had just started something he wasn’t sure he’d willfully continue, he drove on to the next window shaking his head. Why, oh, why did his mouth always get the best of him. It was a long 17 feet before the drive-thru window slammed open.

A tall lanky guy stuffed the intercom below his chin. His boney fingers slammed into the keys of the computer with a breathy sigh. “$7.71,” his hand stuck out the window palm both up and impatient.

Tossing and shoving ice into a large cup behind him was a dry-faced ghettoish girl that was heavily made up. There was nothing more than a smear of bright silver eyeshadow across her lids.  Her bright pink lipstick was lined with a very, very dark brown. She was something unique to be seen. Her greasy hair was up in what I’m assuming was a ponytail.

I’m so writing a bad review.

The cashier shoves the bag through the window essentially dropping it through the drivers grasp. “Here.”

And calling the 1-800 number.

The driver rustled through the bag. “No, no, no—I said the deluxe burger with no pickles. You gave me a fish sandwich.” Will these people ever get their shit together?

“Oh yeah,” the cashier inquired with a smirk resting his arms on the ledge of the window, “that’s funny ‘cause when I read it back I said fish sandwich meal, extra pickles,”

The driver spat his drink.

“Oh—and DIET coke,” he grinned slamming the window shut.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

“Alright you damn asshole. You give me a reason why I should pull over and ring your damn neck,” the driver forced from under his tight upper lip.

“It’s a crime,” the cashier fired back handing him another small brown bag with grease stains all over the bottom.

“What the hell did you just say?”

“Maybe even a felony. Kind of depends on the circumstances Sir.

“Give me back my damn card you son of a bitch—shit,” he glanced at the clock right before snatching his card from the clerk’s hands, “I’m going to be late.”

Stepping on the gas the driver’s drink spilled all over his lap.

© Kyanna K.

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