East Nashville is Too Stupid for McDonald's

Editor's Note: I wrote the first part of this post a few weeks ago, but then I calmed down and decided not to post it. Yesterday, East Nashville assured me I should go ahead and throw it up here. So I just opened the word document and tacked on yesterday’s experience at the end…

If the stereotypical East Nashvillian approached you in Kroger, you might be intimidated by the pale, unshowered, ritualistically-pierced gangbanger with his skinny jeans sagging beneath the weight of his marijuana, art supplies, and 9mm.

Given the aura my neighbors give off, you can imagine the line of fancy restaurants waiting to get into Inglewood might not stretch around the block. Or even around a Lego for that matter. While Morton’s and Ruth’s Chris sit atop their ivory towers barely within biking distance (because we all know east-siders love their bikes), I’m here to tell you East Nashville isn’t competent enough to handle McDonald’s.

I had plans to mow the yard today. Then, outside, it began to look like one of those old-timey pictures you get made in Gatlinburg. You know, all brown and murky and whatnot. So I opted for an extra study session at work in lieu of mowing the yard. Plus, I figured the rain would rinse the pterodactyl [didn’t even use spell check] poop off my car. [Seriously, the birds at my house must be emus.] Therefore, I could use the time I would have spent washing my car on Saturday mowing my grass.

Given the extended day at work, I didn’t really feel like preparing dinner tonight. Even for my definition of preparing. So, I decided to join the billions served. The McDonald’s nearest my house has a double drive-thru. Side-by-side. Thus, allowing the patron to pick a lane prior to ordering. This piece alone was almost too much for the guy in front of me to handle, but I waited patiently while he made the wrong decision.

I proceeded into lane 1, ensuring that I would be given the opportunity to order first. I ordered. 30 seconds later, the half-naked grandfather in the car next to me ordered. I pride myself in having a fair share of observance for my surroundings. As such, I was fully aware that, in order for the drive-thru to operate at its highest efficiency from this point on, I would need to arrive at the first window before Captain Beergut.

Once the person in front of public indecency left lane 2, I took my spot on their bumper. Then the shirtless genius proceeds to weasel his car into the 74 degree angle between my front bumper and the rear of the car in front of me. Cautiously assuming I was smarter than this guy, I chose to ignore his existence. Then he began to yell. Mind you, no one was moving, and I had my windows up.

Continuing my ignorance, he continued his. As he screamed at me to inform me he had ordered first, I decided pretending he wasn’t there was futile. So, windows up, I looked over at him. It was at this point I learned he was a grandfather. And that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. I couldn’t see pants either for that matter. As he continued to yell at my passenger side window, I stared. Blankly. No emotion. No words mouthed back. Just staring.

He stopped yelling. I won’t claim I intimidated him. I will claim there must come a point when a senior citizen wearing only skin realizes his son and grandson might not be keen on him continuing his tirade. He closed his soliloquy with, “Do you understand me?” My window didn’t answer him.

I didn’t contest his position, allowing him to continue on to the first window, where they charged him $4.25. Surprisingly, that was the total of my order too. What are the chances? Alas, all I was left with was the joy of smirking at him while he looked back in his side-view mirror.

You might ask, “Loren, was this story really worth 700 words?” Well, no, not unless that toddler survives the next few years of his life without a car seat and reads this one day, coming to the realization of what a feat it was to make it out from under the shadow of his pappy.

Next time it rains, I’m eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Never fear, today’s story is shorter. Big Macs are currently 99 cents. As such, I have been to McDonald’s more in the past 3 weeks than I have in the previous 2 years. What can I say? I’m a sucker for savings.

Anyway, yesterday, I ordered my Big Mac and pulled around. As I waited behind the minivan at the second window, everything seemed to be going smoothly. The McEmployee handed a bag of food out the window, and the van started to pull away.

Three feet later it stopped. The lady driving the van opens the door. [Note: Often in East Nashville, this is done at a drive-thru because the window doesn’t work. That was not the case in this event.] The lady driving leaned out and said, “He didn’t get his fries.”

I couldn’t hear the McEmployee’s response, but it was apparently not enough to make the van driver happy. She got all the way out, and reiterated, “He says he didn’t get his fries.”

Again, I can’t hear the response, but, if there was a response, it was very quickly cut off by the van driver’s claim, “[Expletive] that! I’ve got the grease! I’ll just talk to the manager.”

I thought I was semi-fluent in ghetto language, but I have no idea what it means to have the grease. However, to have it at McDonald’s is, at least, ironic.

The lady pulled up and waited to speak to the manager. That manager was, understandably, in no hurry as he was at the window when I pulled up, sharing a laugh with at least 3 other workers.

I’m ready for Big Macs to go back to being overpriced.