Would you like a side of Thorazine with that?

Sometimes when I think about this story, I don’t trust my own memory. Surely I’m leaving something out – a crucial detail that will actually cause the whole thing to make sense. But then I remember how I felt that morning – that I’d never-in-my-whole-damn-life felt this confused, baffled and downright stupefied by another human being.

Until I went back to work in customer service / hospitality, of course. I get that feeling basically daily now.

I used to work in fast food. If you’re reading this, you know me and you know which particular fast food chain employed me, but I still hesitate to name names. Weirdly enough, I kind of enjoyed it, which might be how I ended up working in a restaurant again. That’s the Circle of Motherfucking LIFE, y’all. 

Unfortunately, I can remember very few worthwhile stories. I guess I’ve either A) repressed those few summers or B) nothing all that noteworthy happened (my vote’s for B).

Except this one time.

10:00 am, we’ve just opened. A car pulls up.

I greet them via my headset:

Julie: Welcome to [name of restaurant] my name is Julie. Would you like to try an order of  [some kind of fried shit whose name includes the word “poppers” and that we couldn’t pay people to take off our hands] ?

Lady: I need to speak with a manager.

We didn’t get this request often. In person, at least. Sometimes people would call up to tell us the food they just took home was still frozen / raw / alive / bleeding in the middle.  I scope the sitch a little further.

J: Of course, may I ask what this is regarding?

Lady: I was there last night…

J (thinking): Oh God, you have food poisoning, don’t you?

Irate Lady: …and something is wrong with my drink.

J: I’m sorry? Your drink? From… last night?

Irate, Crazy Lady: Yes!

J: What was the problem?

Irate, Batshit-Crazy Lady: The ice is melted!

J (after a long pause): The… ice? You… When you got your drink last night the ice was melted?

Irate, Batshit-Crazy Motherfucker: No, now. It’s all melted. My drink tastes terrible.

J: I… You… What?

Irate, Batshit-Crazy Motherfucker Who Is A Terrible, Terrible Con Artist : I want my money back.

J: For your drink… that you purchased here… last night…

Irate, Batshit-Crazy Motherfucker Who Is A Terrible, Terrible, Cra-Cra Con Artist: YES. I WANT A FREE DRINK.

I honestly can’t remember how the rest of the exchange went, though we did give her a coupon for a free drink that she might have redeemed immediately.

I’m pretty certain that we left out the ice second time around.

 

 

 

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