avatarAmy Sea

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Abstract

I feel bad for the guy, but I also know that if he married someone else, he’d be bored. Like Joan Didion said, “we tell ourselves stories in order to live” and I’m sticking to that one.</p><p id="fc00">I only go to drive-thru windows because my husband loves them. Loves. Like it’s out of proportion to the transaction. I think he had a bad childhood and drive-thru windows provided some kind of release for him that made all the pain disappear for a moment or two.</p><p id="2ad9">I’m angry at the person who takes my order even before she starts to speak. Those aggressive little speaker holes covered in spittle stare me down like a playground bully. I don’t know why I’m so angry, but I think the speaker woman might be Satan, so you can see where I’m coming from.</p><p id="0734">“Can I take your order?” She asks. No, I’m just window shopping, driving past all the outdoor menus thinking, ‘what if?’</p><p id="afe3">As soon as she talks, my husband starts laughing. This causes the speaker person to raise her voice. “If anyone other than the driver is ordering, I can’t hear you. Please speak up!”</p><p id="6d78">I’m thinking there should be two speakers. One to take my order and one to help me calm down. I’ve seen crazy things at the drive-thru window. Yesterday a woman cut me off, then changed her mind and cut someone off two cars ahead of me. The third time she drove out of line, she jumped her SUV over the island separating the Starbucks drive-thru and the McDonald’s one. I think their coffee’s cheaper.</p><p id="ac5a">Thanks to Rachael Ann Sand and BOF for editorial mastery.</p><p id="68da"><b>Wouldn’t you rather be laughing? Follow <a href="https://medium.com/muddyum">MuddyUm</a> and subscribe to our <a href="https://medium.com/muddyum/newsletters/muddyums-the-real-dirt">newsletter</a></b></p><p id="9d4a">Want more Amy Sea?</p><div id="0384" class="link-block"> <a href="https://aculberg007.medium.com/subscribe"> <div> <div> <h2>Get an email whenever Amy Sea publishes.</h2> <div><h3>Get an email whenever Amy Sea publishes. If you want to laugh or read about breasts, I'm your writer! By signing up…</h3></div> <div><p>aculberg007.medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/0*zC7KkErJvTkbv2Hq)"></div> </div> </div> </a> </div><div id="7e81" class="link-block"> <a href="https://readmedium.com/dear-17-year-old-cashier-i-acted-weird-in-front-of-fea8cb6555e3"> <div> <div> <h2>Dear 17-Year-Old Cashier I Acted Weird in Front Of</h2> <div><h3>Acting cool in front of teens when you gotta pee</h3></div> <div><p>medium.com</p></div> </div> <div> <div style="background-image: url(https://miro.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:320/1*51yoRrpGZwD-3E_KGOJs-A.png)"></div>

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SPEAK SOFTLY BUT CARRY A BIG ORDER

Hiring — Therapists for Starbucks Drive-Thru Window

Lines aren’t for everyone

Women on the verge of a nervous breakdown in Starbucks drive-thru made on Canva by author and woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown at Starbucks drive-thru. “I don’t only write about these things. I live them.”

My husband says I don’t know how to behave at Starbucks drive-thru windows. He’s correct. It’s too much pressure. I rarely want anything on the menu because they have stupid food and having grown up on $1.25 coffee, I can’t get my mind around paying $4 for coffee and having someone hand it to me through a dirty window.

Of course, there’s also the tip, so now the large paper-cupped coffee costs $5. I worked in food service too long not to tip. I used to be so jealous of my stripper friends' tips in college. I would’ve loved to join them but I don’t like it when people put dirty dollar bills in my underpants. Fifties would be okay.

But one-dollar bills are overused and unsanitary and I can’t look at those stripper poles without imagining a dog humping a tree, which makes me hysterical. If I stripped, I wouldn't be able to keep my body in a sexy position because I lose my stripper pose when I laugh too hard. Everybody who's ever watched Seinfeld knows the difference between sexy naked and not-sexy naked. They’d throw pennies at me.

I had a stripper friend who made me show up on her first night on the job. She had enormous breasts and was really nervous so she kept dancing over to me and sandwiching my face between her boobs. I’d eaten something that didn’t agree with me so the smothering kept making me burp.

She noticed my little burps and she said it took the pressure off. She felt like she was burping a baby. It calmed her down. My friend got great tips — hundreds of dollars nightly.

As a barista, my college job, I got chump change, gum wrappers, errant cigarette butts, and occasionally a business card with an invitation. I hate nickels. They're worse than pennies because you endure these pathetic moments when you’re thinking, four of those make a dollar. Nickels are posers.

I always tip even though I believe, if I’m going to pay four bucks for a coffee, I should be able to sit in a booth and smoke all afternoon. I don’t smoke anymore but I did when coffee was $1.25. Free refills.

My husband doesn’t understand why I insist on saying large instead of venti when I order. He says it confuses the drive-thru window people. Do you know what venti means? I asked him. He shook his head. Do you know what large means? I persisted. He nodded. What if venti means something gross, like ballsack? I asked.

My husband’s married to me. Sometimes I feel bad for the guy, but I also know that if he married someone else, he’d be bored. Like Joan Didion said, “we tell ourselves stories in order to live” and I’m sticking to that one.

I only go to drive-thru windows because my husband loves them. Loves. Like it’s out of proportion to the transaction. I think he had a bad childhood and drive-thru windows provided some kind of release for him that made all the pain disappear for a moment or two.

I’m angry at the person who takes my order even before she starts to speak. Those aggressive little speaker holes covered in spittle stare me down like a playground bully. I don’t know why I’m so angry, but I think the speaker woman might be Satan, so you can see where I’m coming from.

“Can I take your order?” She asks. No, I’m just window shopping, driving past all the outdoor menus thinking, ‘what if?’

As soon as she talks, my husband starts laughing. This causes the speaker person to raise her voice. “If anyone other than the driver is ordering, I can’t hear you. Please speak up!”

I’m thinking there should be two speakers. One to take my order and one to help me calm down. I’ve seen crazy things at the drive-thru window. Yesterday a woman cut me off, then changed her mind and cut someone off two cars ahead of me. The third time she drove out of line, she jumped her SUV over the island separating the Starbucks drive-thru and the McDonald’s one. I think their coffee’s cheaper.

Thanks to Rachael Ann Sand and BOF for editorial mastery.

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