Real Life Tales

waiting-for-fries“It’s 12:00 noon for crying out loud. What do you mean; I’ve got to wait for my fries? How can you be out of fries…at this time of the day,” I asked the young woman barking orders behind the service counter at BigBuckle’s, where they boast over 30 billion served.

BigBuckle’s Burgers and Fries Fast Food are nearly ubiquitous as pine trees or television evangelists. This one is a low rise affair, (BigBuckle’s Architectural Floorplan #15) strategically located on an out-parcel of a recently renovated shopping mall in a middle class section of Marietta, Georgia. BigBuckle’s Store No 1206 has more than ample parking on the outside and while there is no stampede of activity on the inside, business is nonetheless still brisk. The store is what old real estate men talk about when they stress the advantages of “LOCATION, LOCATION, LOCATION.”

“The french fry cook ain’t here right now, “the young woman tells me. She wears a name tag that reads ‘La Honda, Crew Member.’

“Not here? Where is he? I need to eat quick and be back at my desk in thirty minutes. ”

“Pookie’s at lunch”

“Lunch!?  Pookie!?”

“Pookie’…our fry cook. He’s at lunch. He’s not even on the premises.”

“Not on the premi…at twelve o’clock…high noon…the busiest time of the day? And why is he going out to lunch anyway? You mean he doesn’t eat his lunch here?

“Pookie don’t eat no fast food. Says it ain’t healthy. Today he had to go to the bank over at the mall, so he went on his lunch hour. He’s been gone awhile. You know, them bank tellers are the worst. They all go to lunch at the same time. Sometimes a bunch of ’em come in here and eat.”

“You’d run out of fries the day before yesterday when I came in. It was at noon time then too.”

“And your point is?” LaHonda says, while putting her hands on her hips.

“My point!? My point is that you folks always seem run out of food at the busiest time of day?”

“Oh, I remember you… from the other day. You were in that line that was wait’ in on fries. It was the same line that had the bank tellers in it. There was four of them bank tellers behind you.

“OK but you haven’t answered my question: why do you people always seem to run out of food… run out of fries… at the busiest time of the day? How come there’s always such a long line of people waiting for burger and fries?”

peeling-potatoes“I know you’re not trying to cop an attitude with me… are you? You ever try go ‘in to the bank during your lunch hour,” she says setting her jaw and goosing her neck at me. “Hell, whenever I go to the bank, the tellers always seem to be at lunch too. A lot of times them bank tellers be over here eating when I’m over there trying to cash my check. Pookie says it’s the same thing with him. The tellers is always here when he’s over there.”

“Pookie doesn’t have to go to the bank everyday does he? Did he have to go day before yesterday too?”

“Well on day before yesterday we ran out of raw fries and Pookie had to go to the store an’ buy a sack of potatoes.”


“He had to go and buy a sack of spuds. Then when he got back he had to peel ’em before he could fry ’em.”

“Don’t you guys keep statistics so you know historically, over time when people are going to come in? You know, cueing theory…scheduling… statistics.”


“Yeah, statistics.”

“The only suhtickticks I know ’bout is that we serve 30 billion folks and all y’all wanna come in at the same damn time.”

“This is ridiculous. I want to talk to the store manager.”

“I been telling ya …Pookie ain’t here.”

“You mean Pookie, the fry cook…”

“…is also the store manager.”


next-teller-please“Listen, if you want fries with your Big Buckle Meal roun’ this time of the day Mister, you better be bringing your own potatoes.”

“Jesus Christ. I’m in a hurry, ju…ju…jus…just give me a Coke. Let me eat a burger, drink a Coke and get back to work.”

“The drink machine ain’t working. Even if it was working, we’re out of Coke too. Pookie is going to stop by the store and bring a six pack of Cokes back on his way back from lunch …on his way back from the bank.”

“Good grief. This is impossible. If I wasn’t so hungry and didn’t have to get back to work, I’d go somewhere el…well I just give me a burger and some… some… some water. You do have water don’t you?

“Quit trippin’. Yes, we have plenty of water. That’ll be $6.37.”

“Six thirty seven?!!!! For a burger and some water!!!!?????”

“$6.36 if you promise to like us on Facebook.”


Epilog: I paid for my order, ate the burger without fries, drank the water and left Big Buckle’s Burgers and Fries, where they had now served 30 billion and one. It was then that I saw, coming into the place, a group of women that I recognized as bank tellers at the branch in the mall. And while there was still no sign of Pookie, I was – ironically — grateful to him for providing me with a moment of clarity and another reason  why, despite Store No. 1206’s strategic location, the U. S. economy was still not booming. Pookie  had also given me  the incentive to never eat fast food – or set foot in BigBuckle’s – ever again.

*An Only Slightly Exaggerated Report of Recent Real Live Events.


Images: Crowd waiting for fries by Scoobyfoo via their Flickr photo stream and used via Creative Commons license; KP duty peeling potatoes from The Boys of '67 Facebook page (fair use); and the next teller please sign via MMF Industries (promotional/fair use).
Will Cantrell

Will Cantrell

Will Cantrell (a pseudonym) is a writer, storyteller, and explorer of the milieu of everyday life. An aging Baby Boomer, a Georgia Tech grad, and a retired banker, Cantrell regularly chronicles what he swears are 'mostly true'  'everyman' adventures. Of late, he's written about haircuts, computer viruses, Polar Vortexes, identity theft, ketchup, doppelgangers, bifocals, ‘Streetification’, cursive handwriting, planning his own funeral and other gnarly things that caused him to scratch his head in an increasingly more and more crazy-ass world.   As for Will himself, the legend is at an early age he wandered South, got lost, and like most other self-respecting males, was loathe to ask for directions. The best solution, young Will mused, “was just to stay put”. All these years later, he still hasn't found his way but remains  a son of the New South. He was recently sighted somewhere close to I-285, lost, bumfuzzled and mumbling something about “...writing' his way home.” Of course, there are a lot of folks who think that “Cantrell ain't wrapped too tight” but hope that he keeps writing about his adventures as he finds his way back to the main highway.