Short story long ... Erin hates drive thrus.

Mama I'm comin' home. Maaaybe. I can't think of a single thing I'd rather do than drive eight hours by myself at night on a holiday weekend, but I'm fairly sure I'm gonna do it. Yup. I'm going home. Probably.

I'm going to make a confession, though. The trip, which may take a bit longer anyhow because it's Memorial Day weekend, is going to take longer than that because I'm not exactly what you'd call lucky. "No, I didn't see one cop." I'll see 15. "No, traffic wasn't bad." I'll sit in Chicago for four hours. Sigh.

And Mom didn't raise no fool. I still get goose bumps every time I hear Robert Stack's voice and that creepy "Unsolved Mysteries" music. I still hear it whenever I'm home alone, it's storming, and the aliens stop by. Kidding.

But I've watched enough "Law & Order" and "Cold Case Files" to know creepy people like to hang out around gas stations and McDonalds. (That's why I'm going to Wendy's.) I'm aware of the danger. I'm careful; I lock my doors and wear pointy-toed shoes and practice my screaming. I'm not really worried about that. It's the stuff you can't really protect yourself from that I'm really afraid of. You know what I'm talking about.

Drive thrus. Good god, that's got to be the worst part of traveling. There are so many opportunities to mess up, on both sides:


You pull up, struggle to get the window down (if it's sunny) or, later, to roll it back up (if it's raining).

"MMmwhaaammffff--shhhhhhh, (scratchm, bing!)."

You sit there, wondering whether you should speak. "Uh, I'll take a chicken sandwich, but --"

"Mmgghgsifsssshhhhtttt, one minute, shffhhhttttppp ma'am." (Yeah, "ma'am," which makes you want to throw up all over the place.)

Seven-and-a-half minutes later, you cough. "I said go ahead, ma'am."

"Oh, sorry. I'll take a chicken sandwich, but I only want ketchup on that, and--"

"What? Speak up, ma'am."

"I'll take a chicken sandwich, but I only want ketchup on that, and--"

"We don't put ketchup on that, ma'am," the drive-thru attendant has to argue. In that snobby, drive-thru manner. That "I have a visor that matches my shirt and loafers" kind of way.

"Well then I don't want anything on it; and I want fries," you yell.

"You want tomatoes on that?"

You stare at the screen. "Uh, no."

"No tomatoes? How about onions? Lettuce? Mayo? GGGhmmmmsfff."

"No, nothing. Please. Nothing. Just the plain sandwich. And fries."

"You want a drink with that?"

"Apple juice."

"Do you want the meal?"

"No. Just the sandwich and the fries and the juice. Can you read that back to me?"

"(Unintelligible) Sandwich-two-fries-and-a-drink-that'll-be-$4.47-at-the-first-window-please-pull-up."

"No, I only want one french fry," You stammer. People behind you honk and yell. Some scary, drunk looking guy peers in your passenger side window.

"You said two." Snobby. Loafers. Matching visor.

"FINE."

You pull up, try to dig around for change, and don't have it. She's standing there at the window, taking someone else's order with her hand out. You hand her the money, dropping some. She looks at you like "I ain't gonna get it, ma'am." So you have to get out of the car, and of course you pulled too close to the building because you're only 5'1" and can't reach out of the window otherwise, so you hit the door against the brick, leaving a good couple layers of paint behind. And the stupid dime's under the car, anyhow. So you get back in and pay with a $20, and of course she'll only have ones and nickels, so you end up weighing down your purse with nickels.

She takes your money and doesn't say anything, until she looks at you a few seconds later. "PLEASE PULL UP MA'AM."

Then you ease forward, and notice the drunk guy's staring in someone else's window behind you, and you think "Ah ha! I'm just about done!" and you reach for your drink as the second-window man hands it to you, and the lid comes off, and you look like you wet yourself. And the cup won't fit in the holder. And she hands you stuff too fast so you get all discombobulated and don't know whether to mop up your messy lap with the single napkin he gave you or grab the straw and bag he's practically jabbing you in the eye with.

You ask for ketchup, and he gives you one. And it's sticky. And you ask for napkins. And he gives you one. And it's sticky.

You sigh and pull away, and have to make a left turn, and after five minutes of waiting you finally get out, and pull on the interstate, and reach in the bag, and of course it's not chicken at all. It's a Whopper. And it's got mayo and pickles. And the fries are cold.

And that, my friends, is what I'm truly afraid of. And that's why I'll be packing PB&J sandwiches.


(Insert "Unsolved Mysteries" theme here.) ROBERT STACK: "And that's how, somewhere in Indiana, Erin lost it. If YOU know ANYthing about the story you just saw, please, call our hotlines at ..."