Ok. So I go to Wendy’s last night to pick up a chicken sandwich. This act alone tells you something about me and my lifestyle. Friday night and I’m getting food at Wendy’s.
There is no line in the drive-through, but I hate drive-throughs because I have a history with girls in the drive through. Not a good history. So I go inside.
This Wendy’s has a television. It’s tuned to some political talk show. At the back of the store is an older guy, standing, grinning at no one in particular. I learn later that he was waiting for a cab, but leaves before the cab arrives, which means that the cab company will no longer dispatch a cab for him. I learn this from the girl at the counter. (We actually had a conversation, which wouldn’t have been possible in the drive-through.)
There are maybe half a dozen other people sitting in booths including an old couple, which I realize are probably my age, except they look so much older than I do. (This little tidbit, in the parlance of writing, is foreshadowing, for those of you who may be taking notes.)
In another booth is another older woman (I’m pretty sure she really is older than I am) and a decidedly younger woman, who I notice by her blonde hair (which, for those of you who care about such things, had been chemically enhanced). So, you see, amongst all the older folks, myself included, this relatively young blonde woman stood out.
Now I’m standing in line. The woman at the head of the line is asking the cashier, Veronica (who later tells me about the old guy and the cab), about all the different toppings she could get on her sandwiches. For those of you taking notes, this is not how you order in Wendy’s. Surely you’ve been to Wendy’s before. It works like this:
Single, everything but cheese and pickles.
You get what you want, but you keep things moving. Plan ahead. That’s all I’m saying.
Anyway, this goes on for a couple of minutes so I start looking around the store again. The blonde lady stands and starts putting on her coat. Then she looks back at me. Stares at me. For a moment, I’m wondering if I know her. She keeps looking. I smile and turn away.
She was at least 20 years younger than me. But I’m a hip guy. I was dressed in my jeans and a sport coat, one day stubble on my beard. So yeah, it’s understandable that I caught her eye. Chicks still dig me. Cool.
The lady in front of me is still prattling on about toppings. I look around and the blonde lady is gone. Her elderly companion, probably her mother, is still sitting in the booth. Maybe she went out to her car.
And then I hear a hand dryer blowing behind me. The restroom is behind me. In fact, I’m standing directly between the blonde lady’s booth and the restroom.
Oh.
She wasn’t looking at me at all. She was looking at the restroom, charting her path.
The hand dryer goes off, she comes out. She makes sure she doesn’t look my way. After all, I smiled at her. She wants nothing to do with an old man creeper.
I was at the nursing home a couple of weeks ago.
A lady in a wheelchair stopped me and took me by the arm.
“You are such a handsome man,” she said. I thanked her and went on. Behind me, I heard her stop someone else and say the same thing. Doesn’t matter. I’ll take it.
Chicks dig me, man. There’s no getting around it.
Postscript: I am aware that the man who made the phrase, “Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” was Richard M. Nixon, not Richard E. Nixon. This is a joke within a joke. Bonus points if you can identify the source of Richard E. Nixon.
Joseph E Bird 