The Dasher!
Now I remember why I don’t order in.
Order placed through DoorDash.
The status bar on the top of the phone screen strutted confidently through the steps. By the time the Dasher was at the store waiting for the order (these confident timelines have nothing to do with reality in any universe), tiny adjustments started. Not 7:04 anymore. Er…maybe 7:06?
Then my phone rang. The Dasher! I answered. His voice was cordial and warm and in Spanish.
Listen, I do not find fault with people who speak Spanish and not English. After all, I speak English and not Spanish. Fair’s fair. It can get awkward, though.
Even though we knew early on the conversation was going to go badly, we kept trying. I babbled in English, he babbled in Spanish and neither of us made any headway. Nobody got mad.
Then there was a phone ringing in the call, and The Dasher spoke again, in Spanish. Ah! He’d found a translator.
No. I understood two words. “No order.” Otherwise, she spoke Spanish, too. After the two of them spoke fluent Spanish to each other, (it sounds so easy), I was pretty sure she was at Sonic and he was in the car, but it was more of an impression than knowledge. I just listened helplessly.
Then they abruptly ended the call, which also terminated on my end.
So….what did we decide?
I didn’t know. Should I revert to the soup option?
I decided to fall back on the most common option for those who don’t drive. I waited.
Roughly forty minutes later, headlights brushed across my front windows and I heard a car door shut. There was a light knock on my door and there stood The Dasher, who against all odds had completed his mission. I wanted to cheer, but I didn’t want to scare him.
I just gave him a big smile. He returned it and our relationship ended.
Viva la Dasher! Viva le? YAY.
Order placed through DoorDash.
The status bar on the top of the phone screen strutted confidently through the steps. By the time the Dasher was at the store waiting for the order (these confident timelines have nothing to do with reality in any universe), tiny adjustments started. Not 7:04 anymore. Er…maybe 7:06?
Then my phone rang. The Dasher! I answered. His voice was cordial and warm and in Spanish.
Listen, I do not find fault with people who speak Spanish and not English. After all, I speak English and not Spanish. Fair’s fair. It can get awkward, though.
Even though we knew early on the conversation was going to go badly, we kept trying. I babbled in English, he babbled in Spanish and neither of us made any headway. Nobody got mad.
Then there was a phone ringing in the call, and The Dasher spoke again, in Spanish. Ah! He’d found a translator.
No. I understood two words. “No order.” Otherwise, she spoke Spanish, too. After the two of them spoke fluent Spanish to each other, (it sounds so easy), I was pretty sure she was at Sonic and he was in the car, but it was more of an impression than knowledge. I just listened helplessly.
Then they abruptly ended the call, which also terminated on my end.
So….what did we decide?
I didn’t know. Should I revert to the soup option?
I decided to fall back on the most common option for those who don’t drive. I waited.
Roughly forty minutes later, headlights brushed across my front windows and I heard a car door shut. There was a light knock on my door and there stood The Dasher, who against all odds had completed his mission. I wanted to cheer, but I didn’t want to scare him.
I just gave him a big smile. He returned it and our relationship ended.
Viva la Dasher! Viva le? YAY.
