“That’ll be $5.39. Pull forward,” the drive-through intercom tells me through the static. Why is it that we live in the 21st century, but fast food restaurants still are using audio equipment that sounds like it was made in the time of The Great Depression?
So, I pull the car forward, all the while digging through my designated change console for the 39 cents. It turns out that I don’t have enough pennies for exact change. So a quarter, dime and nickel will have to suffice for the change portion of my transaction.
At the drive-through window I’m forced to wait patiently in idle while the attendant is attending to other pressing matters; chatting with the “soda jerk” about last night’s alcohol fueled debauchery at a co-workers party. My impatience turns to thoughts of what could possibly go on a Burger King party. Do people discuss the age old question: Whoppers or Big Macs? Or do they give each other tips on the best way to get grease odor out of their hair? Or do they secretly plot coup-de-tats on the King and his regal hierarchy?
Finally, the attendant reaches her hand to accept my money, but only as far as the threshold of her window. It’s as if there is an imaginary line that she can’t cross. In the land of Burger King, the serfs are not allowed to extend their hands farther than the bounds of the drive-through peninsula. This is an edict from the King himself, for the Burger King Empire has no authority after the window.
So, I have to stick half my body out the car window in order to reach her lazily extended hand and give her my money; a five dollar bill, quarter, dime and nickel. She hands me my bag of cardiac arrest goodness and shuts the window. The entire transaction conducted in silence. No “Thank you” or “Have a nice day” or “Please come back and visit the land of Burgers again”. All I get is a slam of the drive-through window.
As I check, the brown bag to make sure that my order is correct, I realize that I have been stiffed of my penny change. My order came to $5.39 and she was given $5.40. American math says I should have received a cent change. But she has neglected to give me my penny. Maybe math doesn’t work like that in the Land of Burger King. Or maybe she has forgotten. Perhaps, it is tribute to the King himself.
For a moment I contemplate asking her for my penny. The attendant stares out from window at me without an expression. Just stares from the sanctuary of her drive-through strong-hold. Eventually, reason and fear of the guillotine takes over my mind and I drive away.
In the safety of the rest of America, I replay this whole ordeal in my head. Did Burger King just steal a penny from me? Or have we gotten to the point in society that the penny is just not even worth it any more? Have we just fallen into the pitfall of the “Give a penny, take a penny” tray?
I read somewhere where some penny pincher had an adage about the coin in which Lincoln graces with his profile. “When I pick a penny up off the ground, I tell myself only 99 more bends and I’ll have a dollar”. I have to agree with that. The last I checked, the penny was still used as currency in The United States of America.
And since I’m a red blooded American, I say this to the entire people of The Empire of the Burger King: We will not sit idly back and let you tread on our penny and deem it unworthy. For too long you have acted behind the diplomatic immunity of your fries and Whoppers. No more, I say. Each one of us is a symbolic penny that makes up this weathered dollar bill we call The United States of America. We will have it our way!
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