A feeble male voice floats into my ear and requests tenders, with a side of cheddar sauce. “How much cheddar sauce is in a container?” he worries, worried over the related 80 penny charge. The appropriate response is two ounces, and he is all in all correct to stress. It’s a sham. After I answer him, my headset goes calm for a moment. At long last, his voice crackles. “Do you offer cheddar sauce by the gallon?
A man orders two steak burgers and two pints of custard. Minutes after the fact, he achieves my window. I lean out to assume his acknowledgment card, just to meet the warm tongue of an old pooch. The man apologizes: “She simply cherishes your eatery.” I take a gander at the puppy, her nose extending of the auto and laying on the window sill, at that point take a gander at the request he had given me. When I give him his sustenance, the puppy sniffs one of the pints. “No!” he denounces. “Simply after you have your supper.” He sets a burger between her paws and afterward dashes away. I can’t comprehend the request. However, I realize that whoever is talking is from New Jersey. Tommy, articulated “Tahmee,” apparently has hypertension. He arranges fries.
They pull up to the window. The man, clad in a Hawaiian shirt, pushes a folded wad of trade out my hand. The ladies drive him back. “Sorry!” she apologizes, “However we’re lost! Never been to Virginia – we’re endeavoring to discover Lynchburg! “It is 9:30 PM and Lynchburg is three hours away. We give them an additional side of fries (no salt obviously) and headings to a close-by inn. For these brief minutes, I am a piece of their lives: in their autos, they are at home. Their waste encompasses them and tuning in to their music, hitting the dance floor with their companions and crying alone, absent to the more interesting taking their request.