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By Allen Unrau
“ONE double-egger and a small orange juice,” echoes the teenaged girl wearing the headset. “That will be three dollars and fifty-seven cents.”
The green station wagon with faded wood trim sputters its way towards the
cashier’s window, blue smoke puffing from its wobbly exhaust pipe. It travels a full car
length past the window before stopping, its brakes squealing horribly.
The driver, an older woman with huge wraparound sunglasses and auburn-tinted
hair, gets out of the car and walks back to the window. She is wearing a maroon
silk dress with a gaudy gold-coloured brooch.
The woman leans her head in the window as it slides open. “I’m very sorry, young lady, but I’ve just discovered that I’ve forgotten my pocketbook this morning. If you’ll just give me a moment, I will search for the emergency cash I keep hidden in
my car for times like this.”
The cashier smiles politely. “I’m sorry, but you can’t do that. If you would just pull ahead and park in stall number…”
The old woman hasn’t heard her. She is walking back to her car, waving a white handkerchief weakly
to the drivers waiting behind her. Then she swings open the back door and lifts
up the floor mats.
It’s 8 am, and the drive-through line at Flip-n-Phil’s Restaurant is now stretching well into the parking lot.
A young mother in a white minivan begins to honk. The driver of a black BMW,
second in line, inches backwards, trying to stay out of the puffs of smoke now
building into a hazy cloud around the gigantic old wagon.
Another horn blows relentlessly as the older lady stretches over the back seat,
feeling into the side storage pockets of the rear luggage area.
An impatient man in a pin-striped suit gets out of his silver Nissan and begins
shouting at her. “We call this a ‘drive-through,’ lady, not a ‘drive-in.’ If you don’t have the money, stay home!”
She can’t hear him above the burbling of her car’s muffler.
His irritation bubbling over, the man rushes up to the cashier’s window. “I absolutely can’t wait any longer for some old lady with no money!”
The cashier calls as loudly as she can and finally gets the old lady’s attention. “Ma’am, please pull ahead and park in stall number four. I’ll hold your order while you look. Ask for Bridget when you come inside.”
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The old lady looks up, flustered, her right hand clenched in a tight fist. She
shuffles over to the driver’s door and gets behind the wheel. She manages to urge the sputtering wagon
several yards forward and get it halfway into the parking space before it
backfires and stalls in a cloud of blue smoke. She gets out and walks quickly
inside the restaurant without looking back.
The horns stop blowing, and the line of cars moves forward.
Inside the restaurant, the older woman moves to the far end of the counter near
the drive-through window. “Bridget, please,” she calls urgently.
Bridget motions for the driver in the black BMW to wait, then turns and steps
quickly towards her. “Did you find your money?” she asks.
The woman holds out a handful of crumpled hundred-dollar bills and says sweetly,
“Please allow me to pay for everyone’s order until I tell you to stop. I like to ‘treat’ people when I can, and I don’t often get the chance these days. I’ve annoyed some of these busy folks with my forgetfulness this morning.”
“It’s very kind of you to offer, but you can’t afford to pay for other people’s orders,” says Bridget.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” says the lady, gently touching her large gold brooch. “My dear George left me more than enough.”
Allen Unrau writes fictional stories about real-life issues. Comments? Email:
allenunrau@yourlifeweekly.com
October 2009
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