A true story about the drive-thru fast food cheese that would just NOT go away.
by James Jarvis
Colonel Kurtz in Apocolypse Now couldn't have expressed the anguish I feel any better when he whispered, "The cheese! The cheese!"
Jack In The Box. 3:30 a.m. I’m looking at the picture of the Jack’s Spicy Chicken sandwich combo, number 4 on the drive-thru menu, price: $4.59.
“Wecometajockinabosh, mahyatakaorders?” the intercom voice drones. He might as well have said, “Yeah, whadda JOU want, pinche gringo?”
“Number Four, please,” I answered. I wanted just the sandwich and not the artery-clogging combo fries, but I learned a long time ago not to try to order anything from Jack in the Box at night by its given name. Nope. Not gonna do it. Too many bad memories of what happens when you do that: communications problems, language barriers, cultural differences, name calling, shots fired. Nope, don’t order by name. Keep it simple. Order by number.
“Numbero Four?” the intercom voice repeated, “$5.49. Drive through.”
I did as commanded. When the angry window clerk shoved the night window tray out to collect my money, I asked:
“Ninety cents tax on $4.59?”
“Jou want cheese?”
“No.”
“Jou want cheese?” he repeated.
“No.” I repeated.
“Jou want cheese?” he repeated again.
“No.” I repeated again.
“Jou want cheese?!” he repeated louder.
“No!” I repeated louder.
“JOU WANT CHEESE!” he barked.
“I SAID I DON’T WANT (no stinking) CHEESE!”
“Jou want cheese?”
“NO!”
“$4.72,” he grumbled.
What in the high holy hell does this borocho have about the GUDTDAMNED cheese, I wondered. Is he getting a special commission on cheese? Cheese on a chicken sandwich? Blech! How repulsive. And why is it that Jack In the Box can only hire angry Hispanics to work their night shifts?
I got back to my security guard post and opened up my Spicy Chicken Sandwich and there it was: the cheese, the cheese.
Tags: cheese, city, culver, feltch, film, marquisdejolie, zardoz
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