Fur In The Paint

Last week upon returning from the art fair I popped out the next day to restock the house with sustenance. Still exhausted from a weekend of hard manual labor and sweltering heat and humidity, I was much too tired in the morning to cook my usual breakfast of a veggie hash with fat free ham and fruit. So I settle for a bread roll . . . plain, and prepare for a day of shopping. (Note: not a good diabetic breakfast, at all.)

About 4 o’clock I’m feelin’ a bit peckish (because all I’ve had is that roll for the past 8 hours) and so I head over to a common fast food stop. Since this is derogatory post, I won’t mention it by name. Let’s just call it Kenlucky Freed Chuckwagon, or KFC for short. (I could totally write code for the government.)

Now I should say that I am primarily a diet controlled diabetic, meaning that I don’t take insulin and so therefor I don’t have to worry about coma or anything from my low blood sugar. The worst thing that will happen if I starve for a day is that I’ll get cranky. Occasionally really, really cranky. (Yeah I know, surprising huh? I bet ya’ll thought I’m all unicorns and rainbows all the time.)

So I order and sit down and wait. I tend to be a very patient person in general. But in this instance perhaps I should have acted just a little more quickly. It took me until somewhere around the 12th customer who came after me and got fed, before I get up. By now I’m feelin’s some serious cranky come’n on.

Me: Goes to counter which takes a minute or so to get a cashier because some off-duty workers come in and are chatting with those on duty. I make eye contact with one and say, “So where’s my food?”

KFC: Huh?

Me: “I’ve been waiting for a long time and about a dozen people have gotten their food. What’s the hold up?”

KFC “Uh,” Turns to kitchen “Where’s this lady’s order?” Mumbling and a lot of shrugging occurs.

Me: “It’s been like 15 minutes” Crankier and crankier.

KFC: “We need to see your receipt.”

Me: Presents receipt with a bit more of a dramatic flourish than was necessarily warranted. All the while wondering to self if they are aware of the beast in me emerging like a Werewolf in a full moon.

KFC: Looks through computer log in state of confusion. Chaos ensues for an additional minute or two.

Me: Seeing that no one is planning on just filling my order, but rather are intent on figuring out the mystery of it all. I say “Just give me my money back.” Said really low in a threatening growl. (The rabid wolf is just barely restrained from lunging over the counter.) At this point I realize my attitude is is exceeding the severity of the situation. But for some reason I can’t quite rein it in.

KFC: cashier disappears into kitchen and fails to return. (Perhaps to find some silver bullets) A minute later another server appears and begins to refund my money.

Me: “I did get my soda so just refund the other stuff” By now I’m feelin’ incredibly stabby because nobody has once offered an apology for the problem. I didn’t need them on their knees begging, just a polite statement saying they regret my inconvenience.

KFC: Avoids eye contact (which is probably for the best because I am shooting him daggers with my eyes) Hands me my money and promptly dashes away without a single word uttered at all. Customer appears to my right.

Them: “Um . . . we didn’t order this.” Looks sideways at me and offers a small smile. Yup my long lost lunch. They stuck it in with someone else’s.

KFC: Takes tray from customer and holds it out in my general direction like “Here you go. Whew crisis diverted.”

ME: Looking incredulous.

KFC: Seeing that I am apparently not grasping the simplicity of her body language says. “Do you want this?”

Me: I remain verbally silent But look at her like “Seriously? It’s been setting out for over 15 minutes and someone else has handled it. are you dim or something” All the while my mind was pondering the various ways I could commit murder with the plastic cutlery at hand. Eventually I settle on the spork as my weapon of choice. (Oh yeah, I’m a great multi-tasker.)

KFC: “Well What should I do with this?”

Me: (I know right? What an invitation) Proof that I hadn’t completely shifted over into kill mode meant that I just turned around and walked out silently, while she still held the tray in my general direction.

The Happy Ending
I then go to Hardees. A place I pretty much never eat. The cashier guy was incredibly friendly and helpful. So much so I was wondering if he was hitting on me, or perhaps he’s just skilled with rangling Werewolves. At his suggestion I tried their hand-breaded chicken strips with beer battered onions rings . . . and it was heavenly.

I noticed when I first took my food I was a little shaky. More so I think from my barely averted spork killing spree than low blood sugar. But upon leaving Hardees I was almost back to being all unicorns and rainbows.

Almost.

Driving away, I glance down to my glovebox, secure in the knowledge that hidden somewhere in it’s depths, is a shiny, new plastic-wrapped spork.

NOTE: I understand that my reaction (and by reaction I mean rage) was a bit more than it should have been. Tired from the weekend’s event and not having eaten all day pushed me over the edge. I have worked in the fast food industry when I was in college and I know it’s not exactly a thrilling job. But still, I did not yell or scream (despite really really wanting to) so I am surprised at the lack of customer service on their end. Perhaps they were just crappy servers. Or perhaps I wasn’t controlling the crazy as well as I thought. Most likely it was a little of both.

Tags: About Me, rants

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