Forty nine.
That’s the current record, set about a week ago. At Burger King.
The order was for two Whoppers, with fries and sodas. Which required forty-nine pokes on the cashier’s touch screen to process. Now, we did have a coupon. Which may have, admittedly, skewed the tally. Coupons at fast food places are what those electro-magnetic-emitting shark repellant prods are for great whites. They don’t make things impossible, but they confuse and disorient and Brian at the counter was paddling in some very fast currents already, just trying to helm the register and he started taking on water in a big way when we introduced the coupon to the night’s equation and so he called over the manager. Who poked a few more times on the screen and got things straightened out.
Which added up to forty nine pokes. We were counting. We count pokes on cash register screens. At the UPS store, when we’re sending a package. At the pharmacy, when we’re filling our prescription for a justly-achieved hypertension. And most amusingly, at fast food places, when putting in our order.
Sure, it’s an odd hobby. But we figure if we don’t keep ourselves preoccupied, someday, at some Long John Silver’s or Culver’s or KFC’s, it might go all hazy red for us. That guy in front of us is going to want to know why he can’t have the special sauce on his Filet-o-Fish (“Because this is Arby’s, sir”). Or the woman up at the counter whose choice of stretch-fit Capri pants is a testament to the ingenuity and commitment of the garment industry will ask, “Now, exactly what’s on the Big Mac?” And we’re going to do a Full-on Bill O’Reilly-worthy rant. (“Lettuce! Cheese! Pickles! Onions! On a Sesame Seed Bun! Just do it live!”) And so counting pokes is sort of a step toward maintaining mental health, which is to say it is a good way of keeping us from climbing up on the roof buck naked with a deer rifle, if you get our drift.
By the way, the fact we used the term “cash register” above should be a clue. If you’re close to our age, you remember the good old days. You went to your local burger joint or taco stand or pizza place and there was a machine on the counter and the cashier banged on its keys a few times; the change drawer changed! open and the job was done.
Yeah, well, guess what? Ike Godsey’s shuttered the general store up on Walton’s Mountain, pal. The “cash register” at your local McDonald’s looks like a console from the command post of the rebel forces from which Admiral Ackbar could launch a full-scale, coordinated attack on the Death Star.
And unlike in the Colonial era of your youth, when your order required at tops maybe five or six fingertip smacks on the register’s keys, today? We have used more keystrokes in writing a novel than LaTonya used to take our order, true. But while our goal was to produce a work of heartbreaking beauty and powerful introspection, LaTonya was just supposed to be securing our order for a Jumbo Jack.
There seems to be a matter of some territoriality, incidentally, in these touch screen registers. Once, at Hardee’s, after Amber was into the third or fourth paragraph of tapping, we leaned over to see just what on earth could require so much attention. Amber rocked back and gave us a look as if we’d just asked her to do something irregular with the honey mustard dipping sauce. So we figured we’d crossed some lines. From the glance we got at it, we could see it’s pictures, mostly on the screen. In a post-literate society, words and, you know, numbers and such stuff are antiquated. We do wonder, though, how the picture thing works.
Suppose you have it your way, at the King’s place, and your way involves no lettuce on your burger. Is there a picture of a little Whopper on the screen without lettuce? We have no idea. We do know that whatever information you give the cashier, you inevitably feel like he’s heard the first couple of items and then is lost to your further instructions. Instead, he’s focusing on that screen like we’re at Defcon 2 and he’s just waiting for the command to go green. And poking. Poking, poking, poking. Sixteen, seventeen, eighteen.
And you’re not sure if he’s taking your order or if he’s pondering a particular difficult passage of the Upanishads he’s struggling to translate into Mandarin.
We used to lose patience with this. “Hey, Dostoyevsky, when you finish up the final re-write on Chapter 97 there, could you do a little something to bring me a bit closer to a chalupa, two chicken soft tacos, and a Diet Dr. Pepper to go?”
Then we started counting key strokes to distract us from the fact that just trying to get a simple week’s supply of unsaturated fats, sodium, and high fructose corn syrup has become tantamount to signing up for Obamacare.
We do not wish to denigrate the job of fast food workers, it is important to add. And if you are one and you are reading this, please do not make any non-corporate-approved adulterations to our Quarter Pounder next time we come around. On the contrary, the much disparaged “McJobs” are a critical first step in entering the job market.
When we see you behind the counter, we sure as hell don’t see a loser. We see a person who had the initiative to get his butt out of bed and be responsible enough to get himself to work and that alone separates him from a sizable majority of his fellow citizens. And we see you fast food employees dealing with irritating managers and customers whose brain functions would, by comparison, make the average lounge chair seem like Stephen Hawking. Learning this kind of patience and social skill are, no matter where you go, a pretty damned good introduction to Life. Not to mention having to wear those uniforms.
Neither are we Luddites. Technology weaves its magic spell on us every time that woman’s voice in the self-checkout at Schnucks kindly reminds us to take our change. We are absolutely infatuated with the new soda machines in a lot of fast food places, the ones where it looks like you stick your cup into a portal to another dimension and just maybe you are because you’ve suddenly got a screen where if your heart’s fancy is most decidedly not a Cherry Coke and that no, to the contrary, what you would like, what would instead satisfy your heart’s desire is a Diet Vanilla Cherry Coke, then my friend, you got it. There’s something amazing about that.
So, we’re fine with guys doing the poking. And with the Jetsons technology that allows for it. And if those pokes are what’s necessary to keep those supplies of Chick-fil-As and Thickburgers, those Subway Meatball Marinaras and Wendy’s Frostys coming, why poke away, sport. Just know. We’re counting.
