Blooming 18
Much like a centipede, I teemed with anticipation for tacos as I writhed my way down the road. I could first peer at it from the vantage at the junction of Highway 5 and Powers: The Bell. It was befitting to the moment that Ace of Base blared from my crappy car speakers. For indeed I saw the sign, and it opened up my eyes: “DRIVE THRU OPEN”, mocking me with its unlit nature. I would be living without tacos for at least nine more hours.
In some ways, I knew they would be closed. How else could “Blooming 18” have directly followed “The Sign” on the playlist to which I was listening? Taco Bell’s early closure was burned into the CD, and the music’s emanation from my speakers only amplified my depression. “Blooming 18” dragged me into a dismal reality.
The morose situation slowly sent my brain into action. “This is depressing,” I mused. “Dave Thomas is dead, that is also depressing.” This birthed a neural pantheon - a frenzy of brain activity. Wendy’s would be a perfect Taco Bell substitute.
I peeled out of Taco Bell’s parking lot. The city was deserted, so I abandoned my normally fastidious driving practices. Racing past the then-closed Subway, I could smell the crackling grease waiting to satiate my late-night hunger.
My nerves calmed upon entering the shopping complex, where Wendy’s sat stranded on an asphalt island. I sailed my way up to the order box, contemplating the quantity of my order. “Uhhh…Three medium Frosties, a spicy chicken sandwich and a large Coke, please.” The frequent practice has left me droning these oft-spoken lines to the friendly clerk. I flew past the first drive through window; my credit card piloted a record-breaking round trip between me and the cashier. I halted at the second window.
The order of three medium Frosties always resulted in second-window lag. I dragged through reality, waiting for the portly manager to hand me a drink tray filled with trophies. The window cracked, and I cracked mine.
“Here you go…” she stated.
“Thanks.” I replied.
“See you later!” she added.
“…see you later?”
I didn’t actually say this audibly, but I realized that I had become that guy. She’s seen me enough times. That guy. He orders a lot of Frosties. It struck remorse in me that I had become a “that guy”. Considering that I trot the fast food globe, to become a “that guy” at any of my frequented establishments is disturbing.
I peeled out with the food.
In some ways, I knew they would be closed. How else could “Blooming 18” have directly followed “The Sign” on the playlist to which I was listening? Taco Bell’s early closure was burned into the CD, and the music’s emanation from my speakers only amplified my depression. “Blooming 18” dragged me into a dismal reality.
The morose situation slowly sent my brain into action. “This is depressing,” I mused. “Dave Thomas is dead, that is also depressing.” This birthed a neural pantheon - a frenzy of brain activity. Wendy’s would be a perfect Taco Bell substitute.
I peeled out of Taco Bell’s parking lot. The city was deserted, so I abandoned my normally fastidious driving practices. Racing past the then-closed Subway, I could smell the crackling grease waiting to satiate my late-night hunger.
My nerves calmed upon entering the shopping complex, where Wendy’s sat stranded on an asphalt island. I sailed my way up to the order box, contemplating the quantity of my order. “Uhhh…Three medium Frosties, a spicy chicken sandwich and a large Coke, please.” The frequent practice has left me droning these oft-spoken lines to the friendly clerk. I flew past the first drive through window; my credit card piloted a record-breaking round trip between me and the cashier. I halted at the second window.
The order of three medium Frosties always resulted in second-window lag. I dragged through reality, waiting for the portly manager to hand me a drink tray filled with trophies. The window cracked, and I cracked mine.
“Here you go…” she stated.
“Thanks.” I replied.
“See you later!” she added.
“…see you later?”
I didn’t actually say this audibly, but I realized that I had become that guy. She’s seen me enough times. That guy. He orders a lot of Frosties. It struck remorse in me that I had become a “that guy”. Considering that I trot the fast food globe, to become a “that guy” at any of my frequented establishments is disturbing.
I peeled out with the food.