The Receiving End

June 17, 2010 at 8:20 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  Or maybe it’s a cautionary tale for me, or a wee dose of irony for me to swallow.  Nonetheless, it made me happy.
  I just got a new second job, yay for me.  It’s a pizza delivery chain.  I’m sure I’m going to write about it–
  However, in keeping with lessons previously learned, I’m going to give the place an alias.  I shall call it…Pizzarama.  When I was drawing a cartoon strip, that was the name I gave the place.
  But I don’t start for a few days–I have to wait until my shirts come in.  Hopefully by this weekend I can jump right in and immediately start regretting this decision.  So tonight, I was home, and I cooked some bratwurst on the grill–
  And ended up going to McDonald’s.  It’s not my fault; for some reason these were just bad–spoiled.  And we had tried this brand this way before, and they were bad.  So, no more of these.  I drove to McDonald’s.
  I have a list, and I rattle it off.  We’re feeding several people from the value menu.  At the first window I paid and got the receipt, and I examine it as I pull up to the next window.  The glory hole.
  Well, it’s my lucky day; the manager is working the hole.  She hands me a tea not in a carrier, and tells me this is the sweet one.  Then the carrier with two more teas.  The damn things are big.  Why are there no normal sized drinks in fast food?  Don’t get me started!
  She then hands me a bag and said that these are just the fries.  I tried to tell her about the discrepancies on the receipt.  You see, I ordered three McDoubles with no pickle and no onion, and one more McDouble but that one is plain, and it doesn’t look like that on the receipt–
  Well, her version is that I must have said no pickle no onion and plain, which is basically the same thing (it isn’t).  What I said doesn’t matter.  What is on the receipt is what matters.  She waved me off, dismissing me, and turned away.
  Oh, you think you can out passive-aggressive me, bitch?
  I had already decided I was going to pull over and check the order, but I had pulled up a few feet and hit the brakes.  Detroit’s caramel sundae was not here.  I started to back up, then looked behind me.  Okay.  I’ll pull forward like I planned.  But I wasn’t wearing shoes, so I was going to have to drive around again.
  I pulled up to one of their waiting spots and started looking through everything, and a young man working came out.  He asked me if I was missing anything.  I guess attempting to back up, and then pulling over is one of those subtle little signs.
  "Yeah, I’m missing a caramel sundae so far, and I’m going to check everything else.  I told your manager there was a problem and she just brushed me off."  He waited while I did, counting against my list.  Finally, I said, "Okay, I’m missing a caramel sundae and a Mcdouble, no pickle no onion."
  "Did you want nuts on the sundae?" 
  "No, probably not."  Well, he was a nice young man.
  The manager was the one who brought the food out.  Nice!  Well, this is service, I thought.
  She said, "Okay, so you ordered four McDoubles but you wanted another one?"  She’s drawn a line in the sand, she has.
  "No, I ordered four, but I only got three."
  "Okay, can I see your bag, please?"  Really?  You have to check my bag?  You can’t just take my word for it because I’m white?
  I handed it over and said, "I have one over here that I pulled out, and the bag has the other two."  As she looked, I added, "At the bottom is a plain hamburger."
  "Oh, and you didn’t want the hamburger."  She is trying to make this my fault; she believes that what I wanted and what I ordered are two different things.  Actually, what I ordered and what they heard are two different things.  I’ve done this shit before.  And I have a list.  This is not my first time in a fucking drive thru.
  "No, I *did* want the hamburger.  *And* the other McDouble that is missing."
  "Okay, so I’ll give you the McDouble, and it’s a dollar-seven for the sundae."  She had the burger and the sundae in her hand, and I had the rest back in the car.  I was tempted to drive off, but I decided that right here, right now, I would draw a line in the sand as well, and take a stand for all the little guys that got fucked in the drive thru.
  "Are you really going to give me a hard time about this?"  This was more of a personal question, where I was reaching deep, trying to feel her motivation, and get under her skin a little.
  "The sundae is not on your order."  She had come out to my car prepared, with her copy of the receipt, to prove her points.  Time to pull out the customer service card.
  "Is this customer service?" I asked innocently.  "Is this how you take care of the customer?"
  She shoved the food in my hands and said, "Have a nice day," and stormed off.
  What a pushover.  And I was prepared to battle for the sundae.

  I swear that whole episode just made my day.  Food for thought, I’m sure, if I was deep enough to contemplate it.  Special sauce for the goose is a McDouble of another color for the gander– You know my history of customer service. 
  But I fought the man, and I won.  I was practically whistling all the way home.

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