Traveling through American airports always provides great fodder for my incredulity. Although why I can still manage incredulity in the face of all I’ve witnessed . . . I dunno.
So, I’m in the DFW airport, fresh off one delayed flight, awaiting another delayed flight. I realized that I would probably be better off eating airport food than waiting until who-knew-when-I’d-get-home.
A Wendy’s salad sounded like the least dangerous option. As I approached the window, a fifty-ish woman set her bags down at one of the two small café tables near the line. We were equidistant from the end of the line, perhaps 4 feet, when Missy decides it’s a race and literally breaks into a trot to “beat” me to the back of the line.
Moments later, she has reached the front and it’s go time! Staring up at the board of numbered combos available, she says, “I’ll have the #8.”
Wendy’s: What would you like to drink with that?
Missy (testily): I don’t want ANYTHING to drink. I just want the sandwich.
Wendy’s: Uh . . . it’s a combo.
Missy: I just want the SANDWICH.
Wendy’s: Okay, so you don’t want the #8 combo, you just want the spicy chicken sandwich?
Missy (practically exasperated): That’s right.
Wendy’s: Anything else?
Missy (still clueless to the concept): I’d like a #5 . . .
Missy: JUST the sandwich!!!!
Wendy’s: No problem. So a spicy chicken sandwich and a bacon double cheeseburger. Your total comes to . . .
Missy: Can I get fries with that?