This story should not be construed as critical of McDonald’s, a leading purveyor of fast food. McDonald’s imposes high standards on those who operate its franchise restaurants. Almost always, service is polite and efficient, kitchens sanitary, and the food delicious and nourishing. But...
A few years ago, I was traveling for business and found myself staying in a hotel in an unfamiliar city. The property had a restaurant on-site and I went there for supper. There was no hostess, but a girl at the bar in the back of the dining room told me that I could sit anywhere that I chose. There was no one else dining in the place. After a few minutes, she took my order for a drink and said that a waitress would come to my table in a few minutes. The restaurant displayed antique farm implements such as rakes and hoes on the walls and a placard in the elevator said that it served “hearty meals.” I finished my drink and the female bartender asked me if I wanted another. She said that there might be a slight delay. No one else came into the restaurant and the other tables were empty. After I had finished my second drink, the bartender came to my table and apologized – it seemed that the chef hadn’t come to work this evening and so food couldn’t be served.
I went to my car and used my cell-phone to locate a McDonald’s nearby. The hotel was in a river valley near a large freeway bridge. The place was rather isolated, surrounded by barren empty lots, warehouses, and trucking firms with silent fleets of vehicles parked behind chain-link fences. I followed the directions on my phone, driving under the span of the freeway bridge and, then, up a winding road that followed a wooded ravine to the hilltops above the valley. The neighborhood on the bluff seemed largely residential but there were small strip malls at the intersections and a McDonald’s with drive-through located between office buildings on a side street.
It was not late, although most people probably wouldn’t be eating supper at this time, around prime-time for television. There was no one ahead me at the drive-through, no cars waiting in a queue and no one pulled up behind me either. On the speaker under the illuminated menu, a voice sounded: “Welcome to McDonald’s, this is Dub. May I take your order?” I listed the items that I wanted. The voice was blurred a little with static: “Drive ahead to the first window,” the man said.
I drove forward, but couldn’t see any window opening onto the drive-through lane. This was baffling. I pulled ahead to the side of the restaurant and parked next to the sidewalk. Then, I walked around the building, but couldn’t find any windows through which payment could be made and food delivered. A car-length behind where my vehicle was idling, I found a door that opened into a small, dimly lit corridor. The place had a tile floor and there was a janitorial rig, a bucket with mop on caster-wheels, pushed into the corner. A little counter opened into a cubicle where a man was sitting.
The man was wearing a sort of sanitary turban. He was one of those unfortunate persons born with half of his face missing. On the smooth, featureless surface of the left half of his face, an eye with a solid black eyebrow had been either painted or tattooed. On his chest, I saw a name tag: Dub Devi.
“I just ordered,” I told Dub Devi. His real eye was big and dark. The fake eye was a black smudge.
“Yes,” he said. “I couldn’t find the first window. Is this the place?” I asked. Dub Devi gestured at the janitorial equipment in the corner. “Does this look like a drive-through window?” he said. “Actually no,” I replied. “Just drive ahead to the first window,” he told me. “But I didn’t see a window?” He shrugged. “You must not have looked in the right place,” Dub said.
I retraced my steps and went back through the door to the drive-through lane. My car had vanished. Again, I walked around the restaurant, but there was no sign of my vehicle.
Inside the restaurant, I asked to speak to the manager. “My car is missing,” I said. “Someone has stolen it.” The manager was a very young girl with freckles and red hair. “What do you want me to do about it?” she asked. “It was stolen right here, out of your parking lot,” I said. “I doubt that very much,” the manager replied.
I asked her what I should do. She suggested that I report the theft to the police. “Where is the police station?” I asked her. She gestured in the direction of the boulevard. “It’s about 12 blocks,” she said. “Can you call me a cab?” I asked. (I had left my cell-phone in the car when I went into the building to see Dub Devi. “No,” she said. “Cabs don’t service this part of town. It’s a dangerous neighborhood and they’re afraid to drive up here.” “So what am I supposed to do?” I asked her. “Walk down the street and talk to the cops,” she said. “That’s what I recommend.”
“But you said that it’s a dangerous neighborhood?”
“You’ll be alright,” she said. “Just stay on the sidewalk under the street lamps.”
I went outside and walked a half-block to the sidewalk running parallel to the street. After walking about six blocks, it became very dark. There were no more street lamps. I decided that I must have gone the wrong direction and so I reversed my path, returned to where the McDonald’s was located, and, then, continued, hurrying from street lamp to street lamp on the sidewalk. The street lamps made a buzzing sound overhead just barely audible to me.
The police station was a fortified concrete block building. Squad cars with sirens were coming and going. I went into the lobby for the public. It was a small room with pictures of law enforcement officers framed on the wall and there was a large window that opened into a dimly lit space where a couple of women were sitting in front of computers and speaking into microphones affixed to their headphones. One of the women noticed me and came to the window where there was a little port through which she could speak to me. I told her that my car had been stolen at the McDonald’s a dozen blocks down the boulevard. The woman blinked at me and yawned. She seemed to be very tired. “Have a seat and an officer will be with you shortly,” she said.
A few minutes later, the door buzzed and a policeman entered the room. He was a large man carrying a clipboard. I admired the gun strapped at his hip.
I told the policeman that my car had been stolen at the McDonald’s. “I’m sorry,” the man said. “But it happens all the time.”
“Really?” I asked.
“It’s a common occurrence,” the policeman said. “You shouldn’t have gone there to eat.”
“I didn’t know,” I said.
“It’s a bad neighborhood,” the policeman told me. He asked me for details on the missing car, but it was a rental and I couldn’t describe it at all.
“How do you expect me to help you?” the policeman asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. And I really didn’t know.
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