My Fast-Food Odyssey: Or, How I Paid $24 For A Cold Pickle

There are few things more humbling than ordering fast food at 3:08 p.m. on a sunny Thursday like it's a small act of self-care, and then receiving it at 4:49 p.m. like it's a humanitarian air drop.

This, dear readers, was my lunch last week: a double hamburger, pickle only, and a medium fry. I forgo all condiments to ensure the integrity of my burger. That's it. That's all for my order. No drink, because I've learned the hard way that somewhere between the restaurant and my house, the driver either "accidentally spills" it or gently peels off the sticker seal and drinks half of it like it's a secret communion. I'm not paying $4.59 for a soda to become a crime of opportunity.

The Bill for My Patience

For the privilege of receiving my lunch nearly two hours late, I paid inflated menu prices, an $8 delivery fee, a $1 service fee (although the service was apparently in witness protection), and a $3 tip. And before you come at me with "tip more!"—this was not my first rodeo. Every time I've been generous, I've received a smoke-scented disaster at sloth-like speed, sometimes with a driver who looks at me as if I'm the one interrupting their day.

This time was no different. By the time my order arrived, the burger steam had transformed the pickles into a damp, green tattoo of the Swamp Thing across the top bun. The fries were cold, as if they'd been transported in a snow globe. And I had three separate texts telling me my order was delayed, like plot twists in a thriller no one wanted to read.

Enter Brianna, My Mystery Man

Finally, at 4:49, the delivery person arrived: Brianna. Except Brianna was a six-foot, broad-shouldered man with a beer belly and a full Duck Dynasty beard. If he'd changed his name for protection, I couldn't imagine why he needed it. After handing me the overdue food, he turned to leave, his right foot catching his left, which in turn snagged his ankle monitor, nearly sending him into a slow-motion pratfall on my porch.

I don't usually snoop on people's legal circumstances, but there's something about a blinking ankle bracelet glinting in the afternoon sun that makes you rethink your choices. As he lumbered back to his car, I couldn't help but wonder: what trouble had Brianna gotten himself into? Was this gig his court-mandated path to rehabilitation? Did the delivery app have a setting for "drivers currently under house arrest but still committed to cold fries"?

The Fast-Food Industrial Complex

But let's be honest: the real question isn't "Who is Brianna?" The real question is: why do any of us do this? Why do I—someone with a functioning car, two legs, and a grocery store within five minutes—routinely pay $24 for a $9 meal that arrives lukewarm and late?

I'll tell you why: delusion. The delusion of convenience. The fantasy that I can click a button and conjure food like a benevolent, slightly depressed wizard. Except the wizard always arrives sweaty, forty minutes late, and smells like menthol cigarettes.

And while we're at it, why would anyone want to be a delivery driver? The pay is low, the tips are inconsistent, the car depreciation is real, and the customer (me) is sitting at home judging your every move from behind the blinds. You're the face of a multi-billion-dollar app that takes a fat cut of your pay, and your only job perk is the right to sample a stranger's fries if you're bold enough.

It's not just thankless. It's invisible. Nobody's Instagramming "this delivery driver changed my life" the way they gush about baristas or bartenders. You're basically a ghost—until you're late, and then you're a villain.

My Two-Hour Lunch Break

As I sat at my desk, eating my cold fries and Swamp Thing burger, I tried to picture Brianna's day. Did he wake up this morning thinking, "Today's the day I'll get everything right"? Or was he just hoping the app wouldn't send him thirty miles for a $3 tip and a pickle-only burger? Did he know his ankle monitor would almost take him down in front of a woman whose blog persona is "smartest friend having a nervous breakdown in a library"?

I don't know. But I do know this: the system is absurd. I pay more than double the restaurant price, so I don't have to drive. The driver makes a fraction of the fee after gas, wear and tear. And somewhere in the middle, the app's shareholders are buying a new yacht.

The Moral of the Meal

Will I keep using delivery apps? Probably. Because I'm weak and the idea of leaving my house for a pickle-only burger sometimes feels like a heroic quest. But maybe, just maybe, I'll tip a little more generously—not because Brianna earned it this time, but because the system is stacked against him. Or her. Or them. Whoever's behind the beard.

And next time, maybe I'll just get in my car, roll down the window, and pick up my own order. I'll arrive home with fries still hot, a burger that hasn't undergone a pickle metamorphosis, and a sense of dignity intact.

Until then, I'll keep telling myself that the $8 delivery fee is really a surcharge for material. Because without Brianna, without the Swamp Thing burger, without the ankle monitor and the three delay texts, I wouldn't have this story. And at the end of the day, cold fries make for better copy than hot ones.

See you in the margins,

—   Bookstore Geek