Have It Your Way

Three cars up the burger clerk passes a bag through the window. The driver moves along and the car ahead pulls up to the mic. You consider asking if you can order with them, while the mic’s working, but they might think you’re crazy.

“A separate order,” you can say, to assure them you’re not crazy. Maybe they’re crazy. Maybe they’re armed and crazy. You don’t approach.

The burger clerk passes another bag to another driver and now the car in front of you pulls up to the window. You ask the mic for a Whopper. The speaker remains silent. There’s no car behind you, no way to place your order, the last customer of the night.

Another bag comes through the window and you follow close behind as the car drives off. The burger clerk has the window half shut when he decides that he sees you.

“We can’t serve you,” he says.

“I’d like a Whopper please,” you say.

“I said we can’t serve you.”

“This is the home of the Whopper, isn’t it?”

“This is a drive through.”

“I don’t have a car.”

“I can’t serve anyone without a car.”

“I just want a hamburger. Make it a Whopper, Jr.”

“This is a drive through. You don’t have a car.”

You don’t expect to be called sir in a situation like this, but it irritates you that this bearded, end-of-shift, tired clerk doesn’t call you sir. He doesn’t offer an alternative for getting a hamburger.

“Whatabout ‘B.K. Have it your way’?”

“That’s a jingle.”

“It’s a slogan. It’s your policy.”

“It’s against our policy to serve pedestrians.”

You don’t see yourself as a pedestrian. “Don’t think of me as a pedestrian. Think of me as a customer, a hungry customer who wants a Whopper. Cash or credit, whichever is easiest.”

“It goes against the policy and it isn’t safe.”

“You’re concerned about safety? A pedestrian is a much smaller threat than a vehicle. What if I was driving a cyber truck? I’d be crazy, right? A madman. What if I was driving a cyber truck filled with explosives? How safe would you feel then?”

“It’s our policy and it’s the policy of every hamburger place around.”

“Wait. You’re hiding behind the policy of other restaurants? You’re Burger King. You’re the royalty of burger joints. Have some pride in your own policy.”

“I’m calling the police.”

“Call the police. Tell them a hungry man wants a hamburger.”

“That’s not what I’m telling them.”

“Can I have a Whopper?”

“I can’t serve you in the drive through if you don’t have a car.”

“Well, I tried the lobby and it’s locked.”

“We lock the lobby at nine.”

“Is that for safety too?”

“Yes.”

“I just want a hamburger. Just pass a burger through the window and I’ll walk away. Nobody will know.”

“I’ll know.”

“I want to speak to the manager.”

It surprises you that the tired burger clerk disappears somewhere behind the window. It surprises you even more when he returns. He’s accompanied by a clean-shaven, shiny-faced youth. He could be a teen, a mere boy. He’s the manager of the tired, bearded burger clerk and provides the same policy and safety responses. He even finishes by telling you he’s going to call the police.

“Please, call the police. There’s a starving man out here who can’t get a burger. It’s a crime.”

“You really need to move along.”

“I’m going to call your corporate headquarters.”

“I appreciate that. They’ll be happy to know we’re following policy. We’re closing now.”

“How are you getting home?”

“I’ll drive,” the manager says.

“Let me borrow your car. Then I can drive through the drive through and you’ll feel like you did a kind thing today.”

“I can’t do that. I’m calling the police.”

“Do you think they’ll let me use their car?”

“No chance. I’m closing the window.”

“Have it your way,” you say, and walk away through the night emptyhanded.

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