Drive Thru

In America, everybody is in a hurry, and you can leave your house in the morning, go to Arby's, McDonald’s, or Wendy’s, and get a meal without getting out of the car. My first driving experience was connected with an observation of people chewing behind their wheels. The same people would do their banking without even having to take out a Big Mac or a Burrito out of their mouths.

As for me, I needed to see the face of the cashier who takes my money. I didn’t trust an ATM machine yet and was hesitant to use a drive-through to get my food. One day, I decided to surprise my son–for God’s sake, his mother is a modern woman.

I saw many times how people placed orders at McDonald’s, so I followed the “Enter” sign and approached the first dark container. I rolled down the window and said, “One cheeseburger, one hamburger, two drinks, and an apple pie.”

Silence. I saw a line behind me in the rearview mirror. I said louder, “One cheeseburger, one hamburger, two drinks, and an apple pie.”

Silence. Cars started honking. My car felt overheated. I began repeating my order and, suddenly, realized why there was no answer. The slot that I talked to happened to be a trash container, not an order station. Who in the right mind placed a trash container at the beginning of an ordering line? Do people finish eating right before they place another order? But that was the fact–the ordering station was next, and I drove closer.

People might think I was blond, but that was not the worse insult. I learned that sometimes it is less painful to be looked down on as a blond than as a foreigner. People can forgive a child for not knowing simple things, common rules, or not saying things right, but for an adult it is not acceptable not to know about McDonald’s. I ate at McDonalds only once in my adult life, but it was in Moscow, after standing in line for three hours. The food was not actually exotic at all, but restrooms were the cleanest in the whole Russian capital, so it was worth the wait.

 “Next, please.”

“One cheeseburger, one hamburger, two cokes, and an apple pie.”

“French fries?” 

Did she talk to me? I waited, still embarrassed about the trash container.

 “Ma’am, French Fries?” The voice became a little pushy.

 “I did not say ‘French Fries.’ I said, ‘an apple pie.’” I knew I neither ordered nor wanted French fries.

“Yes, this is what I said, French Fries.” What French Fries? My son wanted an apple pie! Panicking that I will get the wrong order, I said really loud. “No, an apple pie.”

“Is it not what I say, ‘French fries’”?

“Apple pie! I said, apple pie! Can you hear me?”

“French fries.” I noticed, finally, a young black girl in the window with her hands on the hips, looking down at me. Her English was no better than mine.

“Apple pie!”

“French fries?”

“OK, give me French fries.”

I gave French fries to my son and promised myself that from now on I will eat only inside to see the face of a person I talk to.