Strange things are a foot at the KFC.
It's my Saturday to have V. After having her during the week, the Saturdays of having her end up getting frustrating for her and me so we've got a routine we've gotten into that makes us happy for Saturday nights. We play on the Wii all night after buying a big bucket of KFC for dinner. After picking up V from the chaotic birthday party for on of the kids in her class (which included a moon bounce, a magician, balloon animals, a pinata and a silly string fight) we came for a little while to rest before going out to get chicken.

The local KFC has been going downhill. The last three times we've gone they've either been out of something (dark meat pieces or soda or something like that) or not able to take credit cards. Tonight I pulled up to the drive thru speaker and I'm greeted by, "Welcome to KFC, how are you doing?"

I learned years ago that no matter what sort of greeting you get you should reply back with some variation of 'How are you doing?'. It's something I learned in the business world, being in a service industry, the art of making people think you care how they are actually doing. You'd be surprised how many people take it to heart when you either start a conversation with asking them how they are doing or continue it by asking that. When I moved to New York there were a lot of accounts that needed to be closed back in Chicagoland and even more that needed to be opening in NYC, not to mention all the address changes that I needed to call in. You'd be surprised by the number of New York phone operators who legitimately tell you they got a warm and fuzzy feeling because you asked how they were.

"Thank you for calling, how are you today."
"Fine, how are you?"
"I....I'm fine. I don't think I've ever had anyone ask me that back. Thank you."
There came a point in all of these phone calls where I just had to start bursting bubbles when it came up. "No need to thank me. It's not like I actually care. I'm just trying to set the tone of the conversation so we'll both think it satisfying when it's over."
"Wha?"
I would then get an angry, rushed tone in my voice, where I would bark something to them, "I'm calling because I need to order cable and I would like it done quickly."

"I...um sure sir. If you'd just hang on a second...."
"I don't have a second. Now."
"Sir...Yes sir. Let me just....."
"Dude I'm just kidding. See how I talk sets the whole tone of this call. Sorry, I hope I didn't upset you. I know you have enough problems in your day so let's just get this done."
They would be super nice back from that point on, somehow knowing that I'm trying to be nice to them, even if it was fake.

Back at the KFC drive thru, "Fine and how are you doing?"
"I'm fine...." which was followed by something garbled and confusing sounding. Something about being out of something. It was definitely an apology.

"Excuse me?"
"I said, I'm sorry but we cannot use the drive thru tonight."
"Wow. But i can come in, right?"
"You'll have to come in, yes."
This I didn't want to do. There's something about having to deal with the people inside a KFC that's a special kind of suffering. The workers are usually people you don't want to see, let alone think of as handling your greasy chicken. The customers somehow seem to get stupider on the inside of the restaurant, as if there's some sort of brain defuser that you have to pass through to get inside. They will wait in line for twenty minutes then when they do finally get up to order that will be when they start thinking about what they want to get and then there's the bartering. There's something about a KFC that makes people think that if you give them the right order you can get 100 pieces of chicken for $2.99, that if you mix and match a meal combination the correct way you'll be rewarded with a deal so good the employees will congratulate you for a order well done.

The line is already to the door when I get in. It doesn't need to be it's just that the eight customers that have come in in front of me have decided that they need to be in an exact single file line in front of the register that cannot go off o the side where there is more room. They also have decided that, even though there are only three orders in front of me, that all eight customers in front of me need to stand in line. All of them looked a little put off about being there, standing in silence as the person at the counter know was attempt to broker that perfect chicken deal now that they've figured out, kind of, what they want their order to be.

In walks a man dressed like Joe Don Baker with a bad mustache, lots of jewelry, 70's haircut and cowboy boots. His young son is with him. The guy immediately looks upset about the line and the fact that is so long. He doesn't get behind me though. He stands over to the side, waiting for the line to move, while his son is quickly introduced to V by V. She's a people person like that who feels everyone her age should get to know her and have something in common. The boy and her are kind of loud and can't sit still while they talk but as long as his father isn't put off by V's energy level I've got no problems with it. They aren't hurting anything, just debating the merits of Spongebob and birthday party magicians. The man who's sitting and eating with his two teenage daughter looks almost as annoyed as the teens do, from having to have V and the boy having their six year old conversation. The father and the girls have been sitting there trying to eat without speaking to each other since before we walked in. He shoots me an annoyed look as if to tell me to do something about V. I look over to make sure V is having fun then put my attention back to the line in front of me, hoping the guy will actually say something so I can tell him off. The way I figure it, if everywhere you went strangers who get put in a situation together would suddenly break into a happily boisterous conversation about everyday fun things then the world would be a much better place so he can just take the carrot out of his ass and bare it for a little while.

The line moves slow but I'm fine with it as long as V is distracted and I can just not have to answer any questions about whales for a couple of minutes. In front of me is a woman and her daughter. The woman looks like a bite in the ass her own self. She's wearing a winter jacket over a hoodie and holding gloves. This is one of my biggest pet peeves, the people who the moment it hits fifty degrees outside feel they need to bundle up as if they are in the tundra. In Manhattan it seemed to be a rampant problem with some women wearing gloves and and a down jacket if it was under sixty degrees. Nothing says, "I'm a boring whiner who can't accept anything" then one of these cold freaks. The thermometer read sixty when I stopped the car but forgot to put it in park again, leaving it to roll for a while until I was able to jump back in and do so, before coming inside.

The time passes and we move little by little. The people behind the counter aren't bright but they realize it and also realize that things are not going the smoothest for the restaurant this evening and that's pissing people off so the compensate for it by not trying to be overly snotty with people when they order like morons, just an acceptable level of snottiness. Nannuck of the North in front of me gets up to the counter to order and is British. Oh great, a frigid, middle aged British frump of a mother. As I listen in on her order I hear her try and order one of those make it yourself bucket meal which oddly enough doesn't mean you have to jump the counter and become an employee to get your meal done. After having to straighten her order out three times it is satisfactory. The accent must have been way to thin k of the brain trust taking her order to get it right the first time.

I'm up. I start ordering and realize I'm having problems answering the question "For here or to go". Dammit, they have to have something running to drain your mind. I try not to be stymied for the rest of the order but it takes all my concentration, every inch of my brain pan is put to use for some reason. Not only have I turned slightly stupid but it's a happy, stoned sort of stupid, where I laugh after every wrong answer while sticking out my tongue in fancy as if to say, "Boy am I the idiot. Please pardon my stupidity". Somehow I muddle through, getting V's drink.

Now this is where it starts to get weird for me.

"Mummie, Tom should have come inside. He really is missing out." I hear the girl say in her own British accent to Mrs. Freeze. "How odd," I think to myself. For some reason I could have seen the woman being from England and settling here but the girl I just assumed had to be directly from here since birth. Don't tell me this is part of some vacation plan, KFC on the beaten path in Geneva Illinois.

"Do you want to go out to the car to get him?" The mother asks back in a voice that's not only pleasant it has a tinge of excitement to it. These people the whole time, having to come in, waiting in line, having the order frustrations are happy. No. They are near the point of being beside themselves in joy. They can barely contain themselves over getting hassled and waiting for sub-par fast food chicken. It's not like Tom is at home or something. The fucker is right out in the car waiting for them.

"No. It's alright mummie. We'll just have to tell him all about it." The girl says as she goes to get her drink from the self serve soda fountain. She seems kind of timid to have to get around me, apologizing twice for getting in the way when she wasn't even close to it.

I start trying to process it a that point when it hits me. These people are from England. There are fast food restaurants there. They have to have done something similar to this before, right? Let's say they are from some village somewhere where American fast food chicken restaurants are something one only reads about or sees on the tele, they still are in the middle of America now and they are driving through it. They have to have stopped somewhere before. Why, if they haven't the first time the accidentally stumble into a 7 Eleven will blow their minds.

I'm standing by the drink section still when the girl grabs one of the lids for the family size drink and holds it up. In a loud whisper she says, "Mummie look." Her mother, who was looking at what she was doing the whole time, nods as the little girl continues, "Look at the size of this lid!" There's part of me that wants to lean over and tell her to take it but I worry that me interacting with them will make them worry that they have messed up the time space continuum or something so I keep my mouth shut.

I start to wonder if they are going to freak out because the people around them are ripping fried small bird parts apart with their bare hands, literally rending the flesh in their mitts, when it hits me all of sudden what this is, what has to be these people's story. The jacket, the accent, the amazement of the wonder that is your average fast food chain. Obviously they are time travelers from the future, when global warming has pushed the Earth to extreme temperatures and the British are the only people left due to their cooler climates and their amazing intellect. What other explanation can there be? Sixty degrees is like an ice age to these people. My order comes up before theirs so I am in a hurry to grab it and leave before I say the wrong thing and end up on the sour end of a future British mind pinch.

As we are getting out of the car at home V goes looking for the balloon animal from the earlier party that was a balloon sword. Though after it popped all that was left was the handle, which she had colored on with marker and was calling a parrot. Her looking becomes frantic and it quickly becomes apparent that she left it in the restaurant, a fact that sends her into such denial that she starts throwing garbage from the back seat of the car out onto the ground.

"Dad. It's gone. I left it" She finally concedes.

"It's ok. That's a good thing."
"No it's not."
"You left it with your friend. He has something to remember you by. Trust me, that's something that stays with a young man his whole life." I tell her and give her a hug. The words actually comfort her and she let's it go in her mind and I know I'm right. Somewhere right now around Geneva Illinois there's a six year old young man who is telling his dad about this charming girl who left this part of a balloon animal behind for him to keep. Someday he'll see her again and they can talk about birthday party magicians and how Patrick did that silly thing with a doughnut on Spongebob.

I only hope that if that comes true they won't have to worry about the sourpusses wanting to hold their joyously soulful voices down.