A Burger, Fries, and Frustration

Small town America is supposed to be a bucolic abode of bliss: a sort of Brigadoon, far removed from the frantic pace of the outside world.

Don't believe it.

With a deadline today, and an editor (hi, boss!), breathing down my neck, I needed a break, and a meal. I had about fifteen minutes for both. The solution was obvious: go out, get a burger and fries, and eat at my desk.

There was a line at the drive-through, which I'd expected.

Then, whoever was in the car ahead of me opened a meaningful dialog with the checkout guy. It must have been complicated. The driver grabbed several different pieces of air, apparently showing how much coffee or pop she wanted.

Then menus started changing hands. I counted three different sheets that the guy at the window handed out, and two booklets. I'm pretty sure one of the sheets was the children's menu.

I was checked the clock. I had another five minutes before I had to be back at my desk.

Some sort of decision seemed to have been reached. Two menus and a booklet went back inside. The checkout guy's profile disappeared from the window.

Time passed.

I now had three minutes left.

Finally, her order got handed out. From the size of the package, I think she got a burger and a small coffee.

I made it back to my desk, only two minutes late.

With stress like this, I might as well be living in Manhattan.