Someone, or something, had raised hell last night at the Burger King drive-through. That much was clear. The sign that does double-duty as both the menu and the intercom for placing your order had been knocked off its cement and steel pedestal. The plastic shield covering the sign had been cracked and splintered by the violence of the fall. Whatever mystery force had laid siege to this hamburger monarch’s castle might have crippled the next morning’s breakfast operations had it not been for the determination of the Burger King’s loyal serfs. Armed only with scotch tape and beige napkins, the morning crew had plastered the shattered remains of the sign with hand-written notes assuring patrons that the drive-through was, despite all appearances to the contrary, open for business. Right away, three questions raced through my mind.
How was I supposed to read the menu with scores of handmade signs covering the every item?
Where exactly in this heaping mess of signage would I find the intercom so that I could place my order?
What the fuck had happened to the sign?
I should’ve focused on questions one and two. But my mind, which has been known to wonder off in wild directions, especially in the face of unexplained calamities, chose to meditate on question number three. Several possible, albeit implausible, explanations emerged.
An Antifa sleeper cell had struck a blow for democracies everywhere by attacking the burger monarchy.
Radiation from an abandoned missile site in the nearby Santa Susana Mountains had turned a pack of coyotes into mutant beasts that use their glowing green eyes and super-charged sense of smell to hunt for blood and burgers in the San Fernando Valley.
In an homage to the East Coast–West Coast hip hop rivalry of the 1990s, In & Out and Shake Shack boosters selected the neutral venue of the Chatsworth Burger King to settle their beef, once and for all, with a Bloodsport-style Kumite.
“Welcome to Burger King! Can I take your order?”
Normally, I’m not one for doing annoying grammar jokes. They’re elitist and boring. But in this case I really did wonder if they could take my order?
“I’m having trouble reading the menu,” I said.
“Can you speak up? I’m having trouble hearing you.”
“I can’t see the menu because it’s covered with napkins,” I shouted.
“Yes, we have napkins,” came the reply.
“I can’t see the menu because… your sign is all messed up!”
“Take your time.”
I sighed. Normally, I order a combo meal by its assigned number, but it’s not like I have the combo numbers memorized, which is why I always check the menu first. But then I thought about Christina’s usual order. It’s a breakfast sandwich on a croissant, and it has sausage, I think, and probably cheese, too.
“Can I get a sausage egg and cheese on a croissant, but make it a combo meal?”
“You want two croissants, one with sausage and one with egg and cheese?”
“No, I want one croissant with sausage, egg, and cheese. And make it a meal, please.”
“Two combo meals?”
“No, one combo meal.”
“Which combo meal do you want?”
“I don’t know the number because I can’t read the sign.”
“That’s OK. Just tell me what you want.”
I felt like I was stuck in an Abbott and Costello routine. The problem was I had been cast in Abbott’s role.
Eventually, somehow, I placed my order. Then I pulled around to pay, confirm the accuracy of the order, and find out what the hell happened to the sign. There at the second window, I hoped, I would experience a drive-through denouement. But as I found out, life isn’t as exciting as it looks in the movies.
“Hey, can I ask you to confirm my order?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s a number one.”
Here we go again, I thought.
“OK, but what’s in a number one?” I asked.
“It’s a sausage, egg, and cheese croissant with hash browns.”
Holy shit, that Abbott and Costello routine was more productive than I initially thought. I handed over my credit card. As we waited for the charge to go through, I brought up the topic of the fallen sign.
“What happened to your sign?”
“Huh?”
“Your sign. It’s all messed up. What happened to it?”
“The wind.”
“The wind?”
“Yes, the wind knocked it over.”
The wind!? That’s all. No Antifa, no mutant coyotes, no unsanctioned martial arts battle for burger supremacy? A wave of disappointment washed over me.
“Oh… I was hoping for something a little more… cinematic,” I said. “The wind is… kind of… basic.”
“Sorry, dude. Just the wind. Here’s your croissan’wich combo meal.”
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I went to the McDonalds drive-thru on New Years Day morning once. There was a paper taped to the menu sign with the photo of the local high school gym teacher and the words, "This man rapes kids." Or something like that. Like that sign of Dwight from an episode of 'The Office', but this may have been before that episode every happened. Coincidence? Either way, the gym teacher had been arrested for raping girls at the school the week prior. I don't think the staff of the McDonalds were aware of their amended menu sign, though.
That must have been some mighty strong wind!