Can I take your order please?
Woohoo let’s eat to the beat!
McDonald’s! McDonald’s!
Kentucky Fried Chicken and a Pizza Hut!
– The Fast Food Rockers
It’s half past 11 p.m. here in beautiful downtown Remus, but in my cerebral cortex, it’s only 8:30. This is because I flew into Grand Rapids last night on a hellish connecting flight from Denver, after spending two weeks commiserating with my West Coast kith and kin and I’m still on California time.
I confess, I had to look up the definition and origin of “kith.” Most you probably knew this, but, for the one or two uninformed, it’s from the Old English, “cyth” which is of Germanic origin, related to “couth.” Originally the meanings included, “knowledge,” “one’s native land,” and “friends and neighbors.” Later, simply one’s friends and relatives.
As usual, I digress.
I left LAX around 4:30, Michigan time, had a scheduled 45-minute layover in Denver, that got stretched to an hour and a half, then, after boarding and sitting motionless on the tarmac for close to an hour, we finally launched and after hurtling through what was undoubtedly, at least the third worst storm of the century, came bouncing down at Gerald R. Ford, close to midnight.
My wife, who had driven 65 miles to pick me up at 10:25 was not amused. After 10, the Gerald Ford pretty much shuts down — no open newsstands, restaurants or bars, so she couldn’t even drown her frustration with a $15 Bloody Mary.
I hadn’t eaten all day, so as we passed through Ionia on the way home (this sounds counterintuitive given our destination but never mind), we spied a McDonald’s open at one-something in the morning. We already had beverages so all we wanted was to order a couple gut-bombs and be on our way.
We pulled into the “ordering zone,” whereupon Deb requested a “regular hamburger” (probably the first person to do so since 1989) and I, confronted with a dazzling array of options shining down from a sign the size of a small store-front, ordered a “Pico Guacamole Artisan Burger.” I was going to go with a humble double-cheese burger but Deb egged me on to be more adventurous.
“We don’t have those,” squawked a tinny, disembodied voice.
“But it’s right here, practically in the dead center of this magnificent display,” I replied.
“We don’t have those, sir, she repeated. “We’ve replaced them with the ‘Smoky-Swiss-Bacon-Hoo-Hah Burger’.”
“OK,” I answered, dejectedly, “I’ll take . . . the Smoky deal.”
We pulled around in the direction of the payment window, behind an SUV and a pickup truck, with whom, the owner of the tinny voice, appeared to be carrying on, judging from the enthusiastic fluttering of her hands, an animated discussion. A l-o-n-g animated discussion.
After 10 minutes, I exclaimed, “Sweet Mother of God, what’s the hold up? That’s just the payment window.” This was rhetorical at best, as we were 20 feet from the window. “Maybe they’re debating the existence of the “Pico Guac Burger.” Deb offered.
Ten more minutes ticked by. I’m not kidding. Three vehicles behind us pulled out and left. I started to step out, in order to find out what the hell was going on.
“Stay in the truck!” Deb hissed.
Finally, the truck moved to the next window and the car in front of us paid up and moved forward as well.
“Sweet Mother of God . . . ?” I repeated, to the young woman taking Deb’s six dollars.
“There’s only three of us here,” she answered glumly.
“Well, tell your manager to schedule more people for this shift next time.”
We rolled forward to the pick-up window and waited. And waited. And waited. “This is insane,” I growled, “Two burgers?” Reaching over, I laid on the horn.
Later that same night, a woman appeared with our order.
“Tell your manager,” Deb began.
“I AM the manager.” The woman blurted. “We’ve had . . . some issues.”
Deb, who has a preternatural hatred for the ubiquitous use of the word, “issues,” snatched the bag and we peeled out with acceleration I was unaware that our truck possessed. Down the road, we tore into our burgers.
They were cold.
And so it went.
Don Negus writes a weekly column for The Morning Sun. Email: dhughnegus@gmail.com