The Raging Elitist

I like to claim that the Wendy’s near our home, the one on the corner of Houston Northcutt and 17 North, is the slowest Wendy’s in the world. I generally budget a half-hour wait time when using the drive-through to get my kids’ cheeseburgers. It’s fully worth it. Wendy’s is the burger against which all other burgers are measured in our house, and the inconvenience of the wait is easily eclipsed by the lack of grocery shopping, meal prepping, and dish washing. One can get frustrated, but if you want your Wendy’s, you’re at the mercy of those who would supply it to you.

Sometimes, I’ll put the car in park while the line doesn’t move for six, seven, eight minutes at a time, and I’ll wonder how I could have got so lucky to have ended up with this particular store near my house. I’ve never worked in a Wendy’s, but I have been driving through for decades and witnessed that faster order fulfillment is indeed possible. Maybe the problem is with the people driving the cars in front of me. What the hell are these people ordering? Surely, they aren’t asking for obscure items like “apple pecan salads” or “loaded nacho cheeseburgers,” and even if they were, I don’t think those salads are really “fresh made” or that the act of throwing a pile of nacho crap on top of a regular burger would cost that much extra time. No, tempting as it may be to blame the people who will get their greasy bags before I do, this explanation doesn’t quite fit. Again, I have never worked in a Wendy’s, but if I had to bet on why this one is so slow, I’d put my money on chronic staffing issues. My Wendy’s must be understaffed.

This staffing problem is not good for anyone. Ownership struggles to fill shifts, has to close the dining room, and loses customers; employees have to do extra work and encounter more attitude from impatient diners; and patrons suffer from elevated blood pressure while waiting on food that will exacerbate their elevated blood pressure. What’s worse, staffing problems can lead to closure down the road, and I can’t speak for ownership or the employees, but I like having that Wendy’s there. When we’re in a pinch, and the kids are hungry, I can count on my Wendy’s, slow as it may be, to deliver.

As such, I pride myself on being a model drive-through customer. When the attendant’s voice comes through the speaker at the ordering station, I’m prepared, and I speak clearly and directly: “Two singles with cheese and ketchup only, a large fry, and a small chocolate frosty, please.” I know that soon I will be face to face with this remote person wearing a headset, so I only speak when spoken to, I deliver the minimum number of words required, and I always remember to say “please” and “thank you.” My drive-through ethos boils down to efficiency and respect. If I want my Wendy’s to continue to deliver for me, I have to do my part.

On my most recent visit, I was surprised to find no cars in the line. This is a total anomaly, and it couldn’t have come at a better moment. The kids’ whining was building to a crescendo in the back seat of the van. They’d spent the day frolicking at Cartter’s season-ending basketball game and the ensuing after party, fort-building in the park, and being part of a raucous crowd at a College of Charleston game, which we had just left. At the sound of their pathetic mewling neediness, my primordial hunting instincts kicked in and directed me straight to my Wendy’s on the way home. I gave my order with expert-level efficiency, drove to the window, paid, and collected our feedbag in probably less than three minutes. If this had been my first ever trip to the Houston Northcutt store, I would have thought, “Wow, this Wendy’s is super fast.”

All this was deeply satisfying, but the best part of the whole experience came at the window where a young man with short braids falling about three inches above his shoulders handed me the kids’ food. I paid with plastic as always, and in between accepting the various items he passed me (frosty, card, receipt, bag), I leafed through the bills in my wallet. Finally, after he gave me the bag, I stuck out a five-dollar bill, which he instinctively took before turning to look behind him, like he thought there was something there I expected in return. I gave a straight-faced thumbs up as he looked back to where I sat behind the steering wheel, and it was like watching a fog lift from in front of his eyes as he was snapped out of robotically performing his duty. His smile mixed with confusion, and I recognized the familiar local accent I first heard when I moved to Charleston as a kid over 30 years ago.

“Tup?”

Straight face. Thumbs up. Slight nod. All business.

“Thank you, SIR!” came the answer. “I appreciate that!” The feeling was mutual.

Hopefully, the Houston Northcutt Wendy’s will be around to help me get my kids through high school. I plan to continue to visit it regularly and to keep a supply of five-dollar bills in my wallet for those occasions. I don’t care if the wait’s a little long. I’d be a miserable soul if my respect and generosity didn’t even go as far as my Wendy’s.