(I am so seriously behind on posts. There is one more coming up after this, and one that I originally planned but have now scrapped. Bear with me, please.)
At the fifth rest stop we hit up on the way to Toronto, our crew piles out, absolutely ravenous. We eye the crowd in front of McDonald’s with fear and, in my case, disgust. I can’t imagine why anyone would wait in line to shell out an unreasonable amount of money to eat processed, preservative-laden crap.
I line up at Original Pizza of Boston. The name should have been the first warning sign. I mean, you hear about New York pizza, Chicago pizza, but Boston Pizza? I just wikipedia-ed their company, and apparently, they’re based out of Canada, and have no affiliation with Beantown whatsoever. False advertising, much?
Anyways, the line is crawling at such a sluggish speed that I’m about to rip my hair out in frustration. Besides being understaffed, the few staff members move like we owe them our lives, and manage to find time to strike up a robust conversation amongst themselves. Aside from managing to ignore our scowling faces, chatting is their favorite pastime.
By the time we finally make it to the front of the extremely short line (wow, I really wonder why!), I figure we could’ve made it through the Moscow McDonald’s line four times and still had time to trot our way back. The restaurant’s only saving grace is the fact that the cashier/server looks JUST like Evangeline Lily from LOST, only skinnier and with thinner eyebrows, which delights me to no end.
“Are the wings spicy?” I ask her, as she glances at me with haughty, I-could-care-less eyes.
“No, I don’t think so.” I place my order, and she crams a few wings under the broiler rack.
“Oh my god, I can’t wait to get out of here,” not-Evangeline says to her co-worker. “I hate this place, I hate this job.” She pouts as she waits for the previous customer’s meal to heat up.
“Wow, I like totally demolished this woman’s pizza,” she says as she takes out the slice. I look and indeed, it looks like a truck ran over it and someone had tried scraping it off the road. She packs it up and unceremoniously shoves it at the woman.
Finally, I pay up, and she hands me my box of wings. They’re not bad, but it’s her lemons expression that kills it for me.
Somehow, working at DD has made me only expect more out of waiters, cashiers, and servers. If I can smile and look like my feet aren’t killing me, for six straight hours, so can they. Then again, this all is really judgmental. I don’t know anything about the girl except for the attitude she gave me during that one moment. Maybe her cat just died or she can’t afford to pay the rent. Whatever it may be, it ruined my meal. The weekend I got home, I smiled a little more at work, one for the customers, and one for all the waiters who, unfortunately enough, have lost sight of that.