A bad motherfucker waits his turn in line
Monday night mayhem at a local restaurant
The situation at Mendocino Farms is straightforward. The front door is closed. The side door has been turned into a pickup window. The line forms to the left of the pickup window. I know this because there are six signs, with arrows, instructing patrons to form a line to the left of the pickup window. There are also ten social distancing markers on the ground, spread out six feet apart, that create a visual guide for how a line should look. Plus, there’s an ACTUAL LINE, with seven people in it, including me.
But for some reason there’s a man standing to the right of the pickup window.
“Sir, I’m going to need you to wait in line,” the cashier says.
Line Cutter says something I can’t quite hear. Maybe it’s the distance, or the mask, or maybe Line Cutter is a mumbler. Doesn’t matter. The cashier repeats himself. Line Cutter pleads his case, but once again the cashier insists that Line Cutter start at the back of the line. Exasperated, Line Cutter throws up his arms and takes his place at the back of the line.
“Is this the line for Island’s?” the woman in front of me asks.
“No,” says the man in front of her. “That’s Island’s.”
I don’t want to be too harsh here, but between the surf boards, Tiki decor, and big electric sign that screams ISLAND’S, it’s difficult to see how Clueless could’ve gotten in the wrong line. But maybe the mask has fogged up her glasses. Masks will do that, you know. And anyway, Clueless is polite. She thanks the man in front of her, then departs our line for a shorter line outside Island’s, where the burgers have names like “Big Wave,” “Hula,” and “Pipeline.” Mahalo, Clueless.
I advance six paces, taking the spot previously occupied by Clueless. Line Cutter takes my old spot. The person at the front of the line pays, then leaves. We’re moving!
Except, there’s another Line Cutter, and this one is loud.
“I JUST WANT TO ORDER,” Loud Line Cutter says.
“You’ll have to wait in line,” the cashier says.
Loud Line Cutter looks at the line.
“THESE PEOPLE ARE PICKING UP,” Loud Line Cutter says. “I WANT TO ORDER.”
The cashier explains that there is only one line, that ordering can be done online, over the phone, or in-person, provided you wait your turn in line. I ordered over the phone. I spoke to Olivia. We had a lovely conversation about the superiority of the vegan Bánh mì to its pork belly rival, the seasonal salad options, and how I just can’t quit the curry couscous. For a moment, I contemplate sharing some of my experience with Loud Line Cutter, but from this distance and with my mask on, I might yell, “Talk to Olivia! She’s lovely. She has excellent opinions about the menu, and you can just tell from the sound of her voice that with Olivia on the job your order will be dead-on-balls-accurate, which is an industry term.” But I don’t yell. There’s too much yelling in this world. Also, I fear my suggestion, along with my praise for Olivia, will sound more like George Costanza than a helpful suggestion.
As it turns out, Loud Line Cutter gets the message without my help. He takes the spot behind Line Cutter. The cashier helps the patron at the front of the line, who pays, takes their food, and leaves. We all move forward one space, and right on cue, Line Cutter 3.0 enters stage right.
Now, I have questions.
What woodwork are these line cutters crawling out from?
Did their parents, teachers, and communities fail to explain the line concept?
Knowing that these line cutters exist, should Mendocino Farms install signs to the right of the cashier window that read, “This is not the line,” and “All are welcome, provided they wait their turn”?
My questions go unanswered, of course. But they do keep me cool while I wait and watch the cashier politely explain the fundamentals of living in a society to a parade of interlopers.
Finally, it’s my turn. But before I take my place in front of the window, I look to my right. I am not disappointed. My line cutter is thirsty AF, and refreshingly honest.
“I just want to order a drink,” she says. “Can I cut in line?”
The cashier turns to speak to Thirsty AF Line Cutter, but I hold up my hand.
“No, you may not,” I say. “We all have to wait our turn. That’s only fair.”
“So rude,” Thirsty AF Line Cutter mutters. But she’s all talk, and so she takes her place at the back of the line.
I step to the window, and give the cashier my name. He reads off my order, tells me the total. I reach for my wallet. But for some reason—maybe the nervous energy that always bubbles up inside me when I’m compelled to confront cheaters—the routine act of removing my wallet from my pocket is carried out with the strength of The Rock and the finesse of Inspector Clouseau.
My wallet leaves my hand, arcs over the plexiglass of the cashier’s window, and sails several yards into Mendocino Farms, where it lands, face up, on the cement floor.
Under my mask, my face turns as red as the chili sauce that flavors the the vegan Bánh mì. But that’s the beauty of the mask. Because on the outside, I am as cool as the cucumbers that balance out the spicy punch of the vegan Bánh mì.
And why shouldn’t I feel cool? I’ve done the democratic thing by waiting my turn in line. I’ve spoken up for the rule of law by rejecting a thirsty cheater. And for once, my klutziness has brought the narrative to a punch line so cool that I feel like Samuel L. Jackson waxing philosophic about right and wrong, trying to be a decent man in an indecent world, and maintaining that Fonzie vibe.
The cashier picks up my wallet, pauses. He checks the inscription, then looks back at me.
“Here you go, bad motherfucker,” the cashier says, returning my wallet.
