Anita Fajita

Anyone who's worked in a retail environment can feel for those still under the man's pressure to upsell the customer. My sympathy notwithstanding, the barrage of questions made it increasingly difficult to conceal my growing impatience at the drive-thru. Here's how it went down:

"Hi, welcome to Rosa's. Take your time and order when ready."

"Thanks. I'll have the No. 9 and… a large Coke. And that'll be it.*"

"A beef fajita plate and a large Coke? May I interest you in some chips and salsa or chips and queso?"

"Nah, that's alright.**"

"How about some of our carrot cake, sopapillas or any of our other dessert items?"

"No thank you. That'll be all.***"

"Would you like some additional sauces to go with your beef fajita plate?"

"No, I think that's all that I want.†"

"Can I interest you in some extra flour tortillas for your fresh fajitas? They're fresh too."

"No. Nein. Nyet. Fin. Seacrest out.‡"

*First attempt at finality.
**Slightly amused at the standard proposal.
***Bewildered. Also functions as "Isn't it too early for dessert, b***h?"
†The dagger/cross. As in pause to pray or break into psalm before you make a scene. The thought enters my mind that ordering from the drive-thru may have been Christ's 15th Station of the Cross.
‡Double dagger. Two daggers exit my eyes in unappeasable wrath and fury, aimed at the relentlessly petitioning box. Rosa's would erupt into flames were I to tap into my inner Charlie McGee.
«»Guillemets. Another handy, infrequently-used punctuation mark, apropos of nothing.

The endless offer of more food and drink items sounds completely ridiculous in retrospect. Suppose I was a witless yes-man who caved to any commercial inquiry. Would her brazenness see no end, when my simple lunch order for one miraculously transformed into catering for an impromptu rehearsal dinner? You know ma'am, I came here prepared to just tide myself over until dinner. But now that you've asked, I feel like building up my fat reserves in case humans start hibernating tomorrow.

"Hey Jim, this is Erik. What are you doing right now?... Yeah, right now... You're gonna come over to my place for food, that's what you're gonna do… Yeah, I realize there's nothing on right now… I don't care if you just ate. Look, just… Quit being such a baby and get over here. I've invited the entire office… Yes, Dwight will be here, but you don't have to talk to him… Why? Because I… felt like entertaining all my coworkers… all of a sudden… over the weekend… Look, here's the deal. I went through the drive-thru at Rosa's, and this girl had an affable tone and demeanor… She sounded as if I would crush her hopes and dreams if I said no to the tapas… I don't know, I think they're like taquitos but flatter… No, you're thinking of flautas. Those are fried, but taquitos aren't… They are not the same, douchenozzle... Why are you being such a twat over free food?... You know what, I'll remember this, you ungrateful asshat. Don't even think about calling next time you want to watch GameDay in HD."

The source of my tension here simply lies in an inability to be a jerk. You just can't say, "I DON'T WANT ANYTHING MORE THAN I TELL YOU, SO DON'T ASK!!!" I know it's just her job. And in her defense, how many brainless buffoons does she have to endure each day, who gaze aimlessly at the menu as if it will magically make up their minds for them sometime before the weather turns? But that doesn't make my experience any preferable to being someone's personal doormat. I'm the guy who welcomes the vacuum salesman into my home and apologizes for not having enough dirt on the carpet for his demo. I'll let the telemarketer assault me with her decision tree of prearranged responses, even throwing in an occasional "Oh really?" or "That's interesting." It's my way of letting them know their 9 to 5 isn't completely pointless. And I'd like to think that some bit of kindness plays its part in abating what could be a seething, ready-to-blow sociopath who hides beneath the veneer of a well-rehearsed shtick.