Our unexpected home renovation has rendered the kitchen useless. Not really, but the hoses from the dehumidifier drain into the kitchen sink, and if you saw what was coming out of them you'd lose your appetite. And your will to live.
So it's fast food for us. But let me tell you something about fast food in Bakersfield... it isn't.
Fast, that is.
If you've read the blog for any length of time you can probably guess the reason: The Perfect Storm of brain dead customers and clueless staff which is a local characteristic. I've chronicled my ordeal(s) at McDonalds, but just to prove the morons here are equal opportunity, today we'll be going to The Colonel.
A lot of times, when I find myself with a craving for fast food, I head to the local KFC. Not because I particularly like the food, but because it's always empty. It has the misfortune to sit in the parking lot of a mostly abandoned strip mall and gets no traffic. No traffic means no customers which means no hassles for me. The only thing you usually have to contend with are the surly teens texting behind the counter. If you try not to think about just how long the chicken has probably been sitting on the warming racks, it's not too bad.
So yesterday I headed over to KFC and as usual, it was deserted. Then, just as I was walking up to the doors, out of nowhere a heavyset black woman swooped in front of me. Didn't even see her coming.
This would be Donna.
I know her name was Donna, because that was what was tattooed on her forearm. I've never understood why people would tattoo their own names on their bodies, but with Donna, it's probably a smart move. As we'll soon discover, Donna is the type who probably forgets who she is pretty often.
So I'm standing behind Donna, who's staring up at the menu board. To me, it was a menu, but to Donna it was evidently the Periodic Table of Elements and she was completely baffled. She was going to need the entire menu explained to her.
Ten minutes later she finally settled on a chicken sandwich.
"And what all is on that?" asked Donna.
Bacon.
Cheese.
And "Colonel Sauce".
What the fuck is "Colonel Sauce"? Who knows. It's probably just a variation of Thousand Island dressing, but it sounds like something out of a bad Southern porn movie.
Donna was having none of it. "No sauce!" she practically screamed. She's evidently had a bad experience with "Colonel Sauce" in the past.
As she was finishing her order, she also added "And I don't want any bacon or cheese neither."
Whatevs Donna.
She moved away and I moved up, but before I could order, Donna popped back into frame.
"You don't have to put it on a bun. I just want it plain."
The cashier and I looked at each other. It was pretty clear to us that Donna was now paying $5.00 for a chicken patty. Donna hadn't yet figured that out and it suddenly occurred to me I didn't want to be there when she did. Donna was a hard looking women and I don't think it's a stretch of the imagination to think that she had done time. Donna could fuck you up.
Both of our orders came up at the same time. They called Donna's name, but she was seated by the window, lost in thought. Perhaps "thought" isn't the right word. At any rate, I snatched my bag and made a run for the door and as I was leaving I heard Donna erupt...
"What the fuck is this??? It's just a fuckin' piece of chicken!!! Why the fuck I payin' $5 for a fuckin' piece of chicken...."
I didn't stick around to see how it all played out. Didn't even look back. If there's one thing I've learned in Bakersfield it's never look back.
