I was the hungry corporate drone with barely any time to grab food and get back to the salt mines, waiting as patiently as I knew how for my turkey burger and salad.
You were the large-and-in-charge woman in front of me in line, holding a paper sack that–between the grease exuding from the burger inside and the violent shaking it underwent–nearly suffered a structural integrity failure.
I don't know what exactly your original complaint was–something
about a double Guacamole Bacon Six Dollar Burger that didn't measure up
to your lofty expectations from the minimum-wage employees of a
ubiquitous chain that doesn't need your business to stay afloat–but the
manager came over and replaced the burger for you.
You looked at
it (what I wouldn't give to be able to glare at a piece of meat, some
bread and some vegetables like that!) and demanded to know why there were
no onions on your burger, at which point the manager, whom you had so
artistically reduced to a whimpering wraith, had some onions put on, despite the fact that the burger you ordered does not normally come with onions.
daunted, you continued to berate the poor woman for a good four or five
minutes after she handed you the new burger. My blood boiled
sympathetically in anger as you described your frustration that it
wasn't done right the first time; my taste buds rose up in revolt when
you explained that your fries were now cold; when you got to the sob
story about your poor, aged mother having to sit in the hot car while
you resolved this issue, I nearly cried, right there in the middle of
the restaurant. (I didn't, though. It would have been extremely
embarrassing–though not as embarrassing as having a mother who sits
meekly in a hot car, unable to operate windows or doors while her daughter Saves the Universe.)
shared a moment, but I don't think you noticed. You certainly weren't
thinking about anyone else behind you in line, so I have to assume that
this connection was missed because I just couldn't compete with your lashing out at people who'd already tried to rectify the situation you were complaining about. I tried to capture your
attention by playing the air violin and whistling “Déjenme si estoy
llorando,” but you had flounced out the door, your futile jeremiad
Still, I'd love to see you again. I'll buy you another
2,200-calorie lunch and you can tell me all about the things that make
you angry, like those damn incompetent morons at the Carl's Jr. at the
Block who left the onions off the burger that doesn't come with them
anyway. I'll serenade you once again–maybe this time you'll hear it over the
nervous laughter of the abused employees.
- Location: Carl's Jr. at the Block at Orange
- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests