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Life, actually…
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SCRAMBLING ME UP SOME SQUARES AND PADS
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“We ain’t got no scrambled eggs.”
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This statement comes straight at me from a small speaker beneath a stoic security camera. I’m in an almost-fast-food drive-through, hoping to cuddle up with a single-handed breakfast during my drive to work. I’ve just requested an order of scrambled eggs and hash browns.
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I say to the invisible basso-voiced employee, “No scrambled eggs?” The pictorial menu filling the view from my driver-side window lists “eggs” several times. I know they’ve never served poached or boiled or fried eggs.
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Basso voice repeats his ain’t-got-no statement.
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No reason to argue, I reason. I put a smile into my voice and say, “Well, what do you have?” since no alternative is being volunteered.
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“We got some squares,” the operatic tones intone. He’s gruffing up, impatient with a customer who cannot read his mind.
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I get it. This fast-foodery calls scrambled eggs Squares. Got to use the correct term or I won’t be fed this morning. I give in.
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I start over, “I’d like one order of square and one order of hash browns.”
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Something goes clickety-clickety, basso names a price, and I drive forward to my unscrambled destiny.
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Later in the week, I try another drive-through where employees are generally friendly.
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“Good morning,” I emote to the metal speaker. A surprised voice returns my greeting.
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“One order of scrambled eggs and one sausage patty.”
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“We don’t have scrambled eggs.” this pleasant voice replies. Silence. No offer of alternatives. The menu stares “eggs” at me.
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“Well, what do you have?” It’s deja-vu all over again.
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“We have egg pads.”
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My brain quickly processes this as, “We have scrambled eggs in the shape of soap bars.”
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I order, using the correct term, and all goes well.
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Yet another time, I’m doing a quick run to an appointment, pull in to a nearby drive-through, and order a small Diet Coke.
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“We don’t have small Diet Coke.”
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Silence, while I read the words Diet Coke on the large menu before me.
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“No Diet Coke?”
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Impatience again, “We have Diet Coke but we don’t have small.”
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Hard to fast-process this thought, so I re-boot to my fallback question, “What do you have?”
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“We have medium, large and extra-large Diet Coke.”
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“Er, give me the smallest you have.”
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“You want a medium?”
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“Yes,” I enthuse. “Please.”
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Clickety-clickety.
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I drive away unscathed and wiser, waxed paper cup of medium Diet Coke in hand.
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“We don’t have sliced tomatoes.”
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I am breakfasting at a sit-down diner, meeting with friends. I’ve just ordered sliced tomatoes, eggs and bacon and grits to warm up my tummy.
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This particular server looks no-nonsense and frowny, so I skip the sliced tomatoes.
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When our meals are served, my companion’s omelet is filled with fresh tomato chunks.
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My buddy grins and says, “Here are your sliced tomatoes, Jim.”
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My head spins, I laugh. If I’m ever here again, I’ll order tomato chunks.
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All I can deduce from these encounters is this: I am out of touch. I know I am out of touch, have been all these years.
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Being totally out of touch means I get to learn something new each day, as I play the game of never-quite-catching-up.
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It’s kind of like being from another planet. I just beam down and start taking notes
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© Jim Reed 2022 A.D.
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