Wing Stopped

My wife was under the weather Friday as a result of medical testing that accompanies persons of her age.  This left my daughter and I to entertain ourselves for the evening.  This was not a problem; we’d planned on going to see the local university’s final home volleyball match of the season.  The only change was that it was just the two of us.

The home team lost, as they often do when we’re in attendance, sullying an otherwise solid season. Still, it was nice to get out and to have my daughter captive and engaged in something non-tech.  After the game, she phoned my wife to find out if and what she felt like eating.  Agreeing on takeout represents a disproportionate section of our family’s time-spent pie chart.  Add to that my wife not feeling well and our daughter’s general intractability, this evening figured to be even worse. I was shocked when we reached a decision in under five minutes.

My daughter had been hell-bent on Wingstop all week and was intent on realizing her obsession.  My wife and I would get something from Chipotle.  Both chains have locations between the university and our home.  Ordering ahead, I calculated we‘d be home and eating by 9:oo.

Our first stop was Wingstop where the parking lot was uncharacteristically crowded.  Not concerned, my daughter showed me her iPhone, which showed her order would be ready in three minutes.  

I don’t know what it is about our local Wingstop but invariably, the condition of the tile floor is as though gravity doesn’t exist.  Standing still for more than thirty seconds is like getting caught in a glue trap.  Walking sounds like Q-bert hopping on a cube to change its color.  With the additional traffic, the floor muck was even worse. 

When we entered, the counter area looked like that of an airline shortly after a canceled flight.  Confusion, anger, and mild panic reigned. A family friend who had spotted us as we entered came over to say hi and give us the lay of the land.  She’d been waiting an hour for her order, and no one could tell her when or even if it would be ready.  She’d been sent out for party food, as people were gathered at her house for the Mike Tyson-Netflix debacle boxing match later that evening.  

Even on a good day, our local Wingstop will never be commended for efficiency.  Furthermore, quickness and communication do not seem to be among the core values. The fight night spike was only exacerbating these deficiencies.  The kitchen crew appeared to be overwhelmed, confused, defeated.  Still, they toiled with their large metal tossing bowls and cardboard serving trays. There was plenty of motion, but not much discernable progress. 

As I scanned the room, I noticed a trend.  It was that crowd.  Low-rent hipsters.  Dudes with big earrings and thick gold chains. Spoilers and glasspacks on Toyota Camrys. I moved two steps back and came out of my shoes.

There was a small collection of orders in paper bags on the carryout rack.  Despite what the app on my daughter’s phone claimed, hers was not among them.  The chaos in the front of the house was surpassed only by that in the back of the house.  The crew worked steadily if not quickly, casting glances that clearly said, “I don’t get paid nearly enough for this shit.”  One female employee left the kitchen area and did not return while we were there. Every so often, an employee would go to the carryout rack to recheck the orders, looking like an eager child at Christmastime checking presents under the tree.

A college football game of low interest was on a television in the back of the dining area.  Closer to us, near the soda fountain, was another television tuned to an NBA game.  Half of the screen had turned black as if struck by a blunt object. I can only imagine what happened, but it added to the restaurant’s overall aesthetic.  

The girl working the counter asked my daughter her name with the intent of checking on her order. It still wasn’t on the carryout rack.  When the worker went to the kitchen to inquire, my daughter tapped my shoulder.  With wide eyes and her mouth agape, she showed me her phone after realizing she’d sent her order to the wrong Wingstop. The app defaulted to the location closest to where the order was placed.  With the counter girl on a wild goose chase, or chicken chase, rather, we slipped out inconspicuously. 

My daughter was uncharacteristically contrite.  I could empathize; I’d done the same thing in the past.  It was Friday night and driving to the other location figured to only tack another twenty minutes onto our excursion. Besides, there was some question as to whether she would’ve gotten anything out of the location we were leaving.

We opened the moon roof, turned up the stereo, and enjoyed the brisk autumn night.   

She thought it would be a good idea to call the other location to make them aware of our mistake and that we were on our way.  By that time, it could've been on the carryout shelf as long as forty minutes.  When the phone began ringing on the car's Bluetooth, my daughter instructed me to do the talking.  The phone was answered on the second ring, cutting the debate short with me on the losing end.  The girl who answered the phone seemed to have no idea what I was trying to convey but thanked me for the courtesy.  We whipped across the street, collected the waiting Chipotle order, and made the fifteen-minute drive to our second Wingstop of the night.

Though also busy, the second Wingstop was nothing like the first.  However, what it lacked in quantity, it compensated for in quality.  My daughter’s order, due nearly an hour ago, was not ready. However, seeing the condition of this restaurant offered hope that it might happen, if not soon. The floor was sticky but not as bad as the other store.  Both televisions were in good working order.  

Leaning against the counter was an older woman, late sixties, early seventies, perhaps.  Heavy set, short, tapered gray hair, liver spots, cankles.  She was wearing an oversized t-shirt, gym shorts, and Adidas slides on purple feet.  She emitted a heavy bitchy granny vibe. We assumed she was like the other dozen people in the room—waiting for her carryout order   When we arrived, she was haggling with the counter girls over fountain drink prices. I know the popular term for this type of person is Karen.  Think of this as Karen’s diabetic mother, Granny Karen, perhaps.  

“How much for the large?” asked Granny Karen.  “And the small?  I mean, the cups aren't that different."

Both proved to be more than she was in the mood to spend and after a half-assed attempt to get it comped, she amended her request to water.  Water was complimentary.  She asked for the largest cup they had.

We assumed this was another customer waiting for her order.  It would take time for the picture to develop but we watched her try to get a large drink for the price of a small.  This didn’t work but she was offered a cup of ice water.  She requested the largest cup they had. Moments later, she turned her attention toward the inventory of toilet tissue in the ladies’ restroom.

“You know, she huffed, someone’s gonna come out here with their pants around their ankles looking for paper towels if you don’t get that filled.  You don’t want that, do ya?”

“We might be out,” said one employee, looking to her coworker for assistance.

"Well, said Granny Karen, "I always keep 24 rolls in each of my bathrooms.  Twenty-four downstairs and twenty-four upstairs."

Evidently this woman has very active bowels.  I'm no dietician, but I'd guess her fast-food regiment is likely at the core of the issue. 

The drink negotiation managed to alert customers to Granny Karen’s presence.  By the time the toilet tissue matter was broached, everyone was watching and listening.  My daughter and I looked at each other with smiles that threatened to become uncontrollable fits of laughter.  The issue was unresolved when Granny Karen turned her focus to the state of the floor behind the counter.

“You’re gonna slip and fall if you don’t clean that grease up back there,” she cautioned. 

“It gets pretty messy back here when we’re busy,” said one of the workers. “That’s why we wear shoes with good traction,” she added, pointing to her Sketchers.  

“Not that good,” said Granny Karen, ostensibly just to be argumentative.  She would’ve loved the gravity’s seatbelt condition of the floor across town.  

On the other side of my daughter was a young woman waiting for her order.  Our eyes met and we exchanged expressions that were somewhere between this is hilarious and someone should tell that woman to mind her own damned business.

My daughter’s name was called and after seventy-five minutes and two Wingstop locations, she received her order.  We went over the fountain to fill her drink cup, still on the verge of laughing.  When we returned to the front of the store, Granny Karen was gone. The show was over. Normal operations had resumed.

On the sidewalk, returning to our car, my daughter and I saw it at the same time.  Granny Karen, leaving Little Caesar’s next door with an associate carrying her large pizza.

“Hello?” said my daughter, spotting Granny Karen at the same time I did.

"No way," I added.  I could no longer contain my laughter.  At that point, the backstory of Granny Karen began to develop.

Her car was parked on the far side of the lot.  It was a mid-90s Cadillac Brougham with widespread body damage though nothing significant.  It appeared to have been involved in multiple sideswipes.  It fit the profile.

“Just put it in the front seat, honey,” instructed Granny Karen, moving the driver’s side with her large cup of water.

“Wow,” marveled my daughter.  “She couldn’t even carry her own pizza to her car?”  And what was she doing at Wingstop?” 

From the inside of our car, we had a clear view inside Little Caesar’s.  A handwritten note was taped to the bathroom door.  NO PUBLIC RESTROOM.

It all made sense.  While waiting for her pizza, Granny Karen was denied a complimentary beverage and access to the Little Caesar’s shitter.  This prompted her to waddle next door to Wing Stop, where, as a non-paying customer, she most certainly carpet bombed the facilities and subsequently had become disproportionately concerned with the store’s toilet tissue situation.  In the process, she managed to finagle a free cup of water for her trouble.

“Textbook Karen,” observed my daughter as we shared a tear-inducing laugh.  Pulling out of the parking lot, I noticed that both sides of the Cadillac had creased doors and quarter panels as though Granny Karen had been beating and banging at Bristol.  For fun, I beeped the horn at her.  By being a pain in the ass, she’d made my daughter and me forget what a pain in the ass the last hour had been.  And for that, we were grateful.