Besides the doctor’s office, you know who else needs a tiki bar and mini golf?
The Ford Auto Service Center. Hell, every auto service center int he world needs golf balls and boat drinks, in funky, tiki glasses.
Last week, on the way home from Pelican Lake, the passenger side, front window in our leased, Ford Cmax, decided not to roll up. It stopped just under half way, and that was fuckin’ it. I couldn’t even budge it by pulling up on it. I would roll DOWN, mind you, but not up.
Luckily, we haven’t had that much rain this week, and the car has been in the garage when it did. Otherwise, we’d have had a real fuckin’ mess, for sure.
Well, Paysh made an appointment to have it fixed, but they didn’t have an opening until this morning, over a week after the thing crapped out on us. Whatever.
So, I drove Paysh to work, and then down to Apple Valley, about 20 minutes south of St. Paul and Minneapolis, to the dealership to have it fixed. I figured they would either be able to repair it in a mater of an hour or maybe two on the outside, or if not, they’d lend me a vehicle to till they were able to get to it.
Either way, I’d have a few minutes to walk over to the Chick-fil-A around the corner from the dealership, and get myself a taste of home: a Chick-fil-A Biscuit!
When I got to the service center, I was informed that it might take all day, that they didn’t have any loaner vehicles available today, and that their shuttle only made trips up to 15 miles away, at least 5 miles short of the distance to my house.
I wasn’t at all pleased, to be sure, and told the guy as much. I had no intention of being stuck in suburbia, all fuckin’ day. I had things to do. He apologized, and said he would put a rush on it, but couldn’t promise anything. I informed him that I would be at the Chick-fil-A for a bit, and gave him my number.
Since there was a prediction of rain today, I reached in the back of the car for my briefcase, and the umbrella. The umbrella is pink, with white polka dots.
Yeah, that’s what I said, “It’s fuckin’ polka dotted, pink.”
I ruminated on that for a minute.
Should I take this with me to the Chick-fil-A?
But I quickly dismissed my prejudices against the color of pink, or at least my prejudices of pink when it comes to my wardrobe, or accessories, picked up the umbrella, and sauntered off in search of a chicken biscuit.
Now, before you go judging on my culinary choices, let me remind you that I live in Yankeeland, where it is nearly impossible to find an edible biscuit, much less one with edible, fried, chicken filet inside. It just doesn’t happen.
And I know that the Chick-fil-A franchise has not earned the best reputation as of late, for it’s conservative, so-called, family values, and it’s rejection of the LGBT community. With that in mind, I carry no small level of guilt when I occasionally still go into one to get my biscuit. But I do it anyway. In comparison with many of the things I’ve done in my life, it’s pretty inane and ordinary, so my guilt isn’t all that bad.
Plus, with my pink umbrella, with white polka dots, I figured I might actually be asked to leave, anyway! I mean, picture it, if you will: an old fat guy, in khaki shorts, a Zen for the Unbendy T-shirt, long hair, a tan leather briefcase, and a pink fuckin’ umbrella walks into your restaurant. What are you going to think? Or what are you at least going to consider, even if for only a second or two?
Yeah, trust me, you’re gonna think it, “This dude might be gay.” It’s okay. I would think it, too. Not that I give a shit whether a guy carrying a pink, polka dotted umbrella is gay, or not, but I’m gonna wonder.
But as it turned out, I guess the girls behind the counter this morning were either very liberal, or too young to think like an old fat guy, so they ignored my umbrella, or at least did a very good job faking ignor-ance, took my order, filled up my sweet tea with ice–the only way to do it–and brought me two, tasty chicken biscuits that I wolfed down much too quickly. I then got a call from Andrew, at the dealership, telling me that they might be able to get my car done sooner, after all, so I left the Chick-fil-A and headed back over.
Unfortunately, they didn’t get the car finished, because they didn’t have the parts, so I have to go back. But it will give me an excuse to return to Chick-fil-A, and get some more chicken. Maybe I’ll wear all pink next time?
The Moral of the Story…
I’m not sure there’s really is, unless it’s ‘do what you fuckin’ want to do!’
If you want to be a fat guy in a green, Zen for the Unbendy t-shirt, DO IT! If you want to be that same guy, or a different guy, with a pink, polka-dotted umbrella, WHY THE HELL NOT? If you want to eat a couple of chicken biscuits in a restaurant that’s owned and run by a bigot, FUCK IT! Just do it. Is that a useful moral? Probably not, but it’s the best I’ve got.