It had been one of those days. In rapid succession our server, our website, and our office manager had suffered meltdowns. By the time sanity was restored it was after 9 PM and I had not had dinner or my own meltdown. Since I am responsible for dinner on Tuesdays it was going to be a take-out chicken kind of night.
I drove to Pollo Tropical and, wonder of wonders, was the only car in the drive-through. This was not a good sign. I rolled down my window and prepared for the worst: The microphone at the drive-through is always faulty, and the order-taker’s comprehension is usually faulty, so what I order and what I get are often wildly different. The only reason I return to this store is because the whole chicken dinner will provide Brian and me with two lunches and two dinners for under $20; not a bad deal in times of recession.
Mildly apprehensive, I pulled up to the speaker and ordered the whole-chicken family dinner. There was a pause. “Ugh, we have no whole chicken dinners right now,” said a Voice. “We only have half chicken dinners.” Quite reasonably, I said that was fine, to just give me two half chickens. There was another pause. “Ugh, we can’t do that,” said the Voice. In a noticeably less reasonable voice I said, “Why?”
The Voice sighed. As though explaining to a small child, the Voice said, “I told you, we have no whole chickens, we only have half chickens. Would you like two half-chicken dinners?” I did not. The two half-chicken dinners are more expensive than the full chicken dinner and don’t come with the same side dishes. “Look,” I began, “just give me two half chickens. Two half chickens are equal to one whole chicken.”
There was yet another pause; I imagined the Voice was trying to do the computation longhand, and not faring well. “Well,” said the Voice, “I don’t know about that.” Telling myself that a career in fast food must have stresses unimaginable to the rest of us, I asked to speak to the manager. “I am the manager,” said the Voice.
Since the odds of my ever getting dinner seemed remote, I changed tactics. “Do you have any quarter-chicken meals?” I asked. The Voice answered in the affirmative. “Fine, then can I have four quarter chickens? How about 8 thighs? 16 wings?” The Voice was clearly annoyed. “Why are you fucking with my head?” it demanded.
In the end the Voice won. I had suffered through too many meltdowns that day to be responsible for another, so I ordered the two half-chicken meals. Demoralized, I paid my bill, got my food and drove home. Starving, I opened the bag and stared, apoplectic at the contents. Rice? Check. Beans? Check. Rolls. Check. Chicken? Chicken? No chicken. Not a quarter nor a half nor a thigh nor a wing. I never got dinner that night, but I did have my meltdown. A whole one, not a half.
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