My Corona Diary (Take II): No Go (At The Drive-Thru A Go-Go)

<"Drive-Thru a Go-Go (Take I)": The Reckoner>

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We'd been idling in line for five minutes now, but the monster truck with the battleship-sized tailgate still hadn't moved. Theoretically, we should have been well on our way to picking up our Mexican takeout. 

After six long weeks, our favorite taqueria had finally reopened, and The Squawker and I were looking forward, respectively, to some burritos and guacamole, and a couple chorizo tacos and fries, the first such fare we'd since this pandemic panic revved up in earnest. When the apocalypse hits, you take your pleasures where you find them, right?

Except...we were out of cash, so we had to stop at the bank, whose lobby is currently available by appointment only. Well, it shouldn't take long, right? I assured myself. 

Five more minutes ticked by, and I could feel Squawker growing ever more restless. "What's with that guy?" I could feel The Squawker shifting beside me, barely apparent at first, then rocking slightly back and forth in the passenger's seat.

"Let's just hope it isn't one of these people who has five bank accounts, and needs to do something with every damn one of them." I shuddered aloud. "This bank has quite a few of those customers, as I've found out from some of these 'standing in line only' experiences."

"Oh, yeah, that's right, I forgot. Lots of rich boomers in this town." I watched Squawker's face crinkle in disgust.

Just then, the truck's brake lights finally blinked, and the driver pulled out. We shared a quick laugh, which rapidly dissolved as the next car -- a mustard yellow SUV, no less garish, no less oversized than its predecessor -- pulled up.

The elderly gent got out, because he apparently couldn't reach the pneumatic tube that he needed -- we all needed -- to send the container whizzing to the tellers, safely tucked away behind their own refuge of thick shatterproof glass.

I watched him lean against the column housing said pneumatic tube, grab the container, fiddle with it, and finally send it whooshing back up the pipeline.

"Hmm, this seems to be taking a bit longer..." I checked the dashboard clock: 1:45 had rolled around, some 15 minutes after we'd called in our order, the same one they were going to have ready in 10 minutes.

"I don't believe this! Honk your horn -- maybe he'll get the hint!" Squawker's face's had now hardened into a take-no-prisoners frown.

I'd seen that same frown, whenever we'd parked on the phone waiting for a human at the IRS, or struggled to work out the faltering bedknobs and broomsticks rattling the state's jerry-rigged unemployment comp site -- any one of those "hurry up and wait" situations designed to annoy, and wear you down to a resigned frazzle.

The line had now swelled to three or four cars apiece, across three of the four drive through lanes. "I could honk all day long," I sighed, "but I don't think it'd get this anywhere, at this point."

"But what we do now? We don't want them to think they've run out on us..."

"Tell you what, dear old Squawker," I suggested. "Hand me your phone."  The time had now ticked ahead to 1:50 p.m.

<"Drive-Thru a Go-Go (Take II)": The Reckoner>

<ii.>

I did the natural thing. I dialed the number, and let the taqueria -- the same one, in fact, that beckoned across the street -- that we'd be later than we expected. "I'm still stuck here at the bank," I explained. "You wouldn't think the drive through would get so overrun, even on Friday, but..."

"Sounds like one of those days," the cashier responded. "No problem, it'll be here for you."

"Just keep it warm for us. Thanks." I handed the phone back to Squawker. "Relax now, it's all done and dusted."

"Maybe not yet." The Squawker gestured ahead, where the same elderly gent had gotten out a couple more times, leaning against the same column for support, as he painstakingly got out whatever slips he needed to sign, and signed them, ever so slowly.

Finally, the gent pulled away, but one more truck still loomed ahead, one about half the size of its tanklike counterpart. Even so, it still boasted an impressive tailgate.

The time now stood at 1:55 p.m.

"Here we go again," I sighed. "Hmm, do you have any money? Maybe we could pay cash, or use your debit card, and come back."

"Afraid not," Squawker responded. "Look." The wallet looked forlorn and empty. "I gave you the last of my cash for the laundry, remember?"

"Oh yeah, now that I think of it..."

We felt the minute hand moving like yesterday's molasses, the same molasses that couldn't feel bothered to slide down the wall. Unlike the last customer, this particular driver didn't feel the need to get out.

But we couldn't work out what was taking him so long. From the looks of it, the guy's rear window hadn't encountered a drip of water in, well, quite some time. Three weeks or four, who could tell, exactly? But it doesn't really matter, does it, since the local car wash is shut down, too.

"I can't believe this, now..."  When I hear the Squawker audibly shudder, it's not a pretty sound. It's the sound of the lit fuse, steadily fizzing, until it goes off with an almighty ka-bang! "What is he doing, anyway?"

A couple more minutes drip, drip, drip away, before Oversized Truck #2 finally pulls off. Well, not exactly. He parks near the bank, where his truck is taking up too much room for us to nudge past him.

Now it's my turn to audibly shudder: "Oh, Jesus, now what..." 

Thankfully, he's pulled away by the time we finish withdrawing our money, and signing the slip for it. Thanks to all these lines, we've fiddled away a good 25-30 minutes. At least our food still feels warm when we get it...right? 

Maybe that's why we elect to go home, and eat it there -- never know when you need the microwave, right? -- instead of heading straight to the park, as we originally planned. Well, we do make it there later, but only we've had a chance to clear the jangle out of our nerves, and our brains.

Today's unsolicited adventure at the drive-through leaves a question mark hanging in my head. An off day at the races, or the shape of things to come? We'll find out soon enough, I guess. --The Reckoner