Occupy Sonic

I am boycotting the local Sonic.

The out-of-the-way Sonic I will still patronize. But not the one on my way home. I'm putting my food down. Down on the accelerator, as I speed past and glare out the window of T-Hoe.

I am not averse to tipping. The rumor that I choose the drive-thru to avoid tipping is totally unfounded. The drive-thru is quicker. And easier than parking my wide mirrors between the menus in a speaker slot. I used to tip a drive-thru gal regularly, because she made the best Diet Coke with Lime, just the right amount of ice, extra lime wedges, and she always brought it out so I didn't have to wait on a carload of corn-doggers. But there's a new dude at the window.

New Dude is some kind of freaky throwback. He wears SKATES! Sweet Gummi Mary! How long has it been since Sonic carhops wore SKATES? Granted, his are in-line skates. But still skates. New Dude is overly familiar on the speaker. No matter what you order, he pushes another item. Enough is enough. I can understand if you're just ordering a soda. But when you order a grilled cheese, a Sprite, large tots, a Route 44, and a Junior Deluxe, I think it's a bit greedy to try and tack on other items. Maybe that's the policy. But it rankles me.

Aside from being excessively gung-ho, New Dude seemed fairly harmless. Until yesterday. I was alone, The Pony having wangled a night at the home of his grandma. I stopped for a soda and a junior bacon/cheddar melt. The tally was $4.21. I had three ones and a buttload of quarters. But I opted for the five dollar bill, two dimes, and a penny. Because you can never have too many ones.

I drove to the window. New Dude was practically skating in circles. He didn't seem at all nonplussed that I had rebuffed his offer of a strawberry shake. He said, "That'll be four twenty-one, Miss." He took my money. He shoved my soda, straw, and paper sack out the portal. "Thank you, you come back." And he slammed the window. Then rolled off to the grill area.

That no-good slimy sidewinder! He kept my dollar! I was sputtering like Porky Pig. I think I stopped short of shaking my fist at him. If darkness had not already fallen, and my blood pressure not been rising like the red column of alcohol in a thermometer placed in boiling water, I would have driven back around to a bay and called him out. But who's gonna believe me once I leave the window? I was in no mood to sit there and be pointedly ignored.

Genius says it was my own fault for tacking on the twenty-one cents. That New Dude assumed I was giving him that dollar. No other worker has ever done that. And when I give a tip, I say, "Here's five twenty-one. Keep the change." I think that little scammer knew exactly what he was doing. I wonder how much he rakes in during one shift by employing these tactics.

I will be pointedly avoiding this franchise for a while. I am not his cash cow, the aphid to his ant, a sugar-momma to put him through roller derby school.

I am OH SO GLAD that I did not hand him a twenty.