Getting a Flat Tire in a Popeyes Drive-Thru
At first I only heard the noise in brief spurts, because it was a drive-thru and several cars were in line presumably for the chicken sandwich. That’s why I was there. My car eased forward a few feet in a lane specifically designed for moving efficiently, but I was not.
It couldn’t be a flat tire. How does one get a flat tire in a drive-thru? It’s not like the road is littered with broken bottles or those little chain metal spike things that police throw down when they’re trying to stop a high-speed chase in movies. I’d only heard the awful sound once and so had to wait until the next customer got their food before I could advance and hear it again. But there it was: the grinding, heaving whir of the deflated tire failing to do its job.
When you get a flat tire in a Popeyes drive-thru you become convinced that it’s the worst possible place. You don’t remember that it could have happened while doing 70mph on the highway or leading a parade. What if it occurred at a Jack in the Box drive-thru? God forbid.
Perhaps it’s because fast food drive-thrus don’t have exits or rest stops or shoulders where you can reconvene and assess. Sometimes there’s an extra lane where you can pull out when the line’s moving slowly, but more often than not, a concrete barricade that says “Haha loser” locks you into your bad decision to eat fast food. It’s a pretty vulnerable place. I’m surprised mafia hits don’t occur there more often.
You tend to regretfully look over your life with a flat tire in a Popeyes drive-thru, at all the wrong decisions that led to this moment, and all the ones you’ll probably make upon exiting. This is why drive-thrus should ideally move quickly, as there’s too much time for self-reflection, too much temptation to abandon your car like Michael Douglas in Falling Down or those extras in REM’s Everybody Hurts video.
Naturally after a flat occurs, the thing to do is get out of the car and confirm what you already know to be true, and since I was essentially pulled over in a motionless drive-thru, this would have been an easy feat. But I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t be the guy who gets out of his car in a drive-thru for whatever reason. Those people are weird when they check the trunk for something or stand next to their car like a sociopath. And I’m using the drive-thru in the first place in order to hide my shame for placing a giant “family” order for my non-existent family, and eating it later alone in my apartment.
So I sat there about five or six cars back deciding what to do. Do I fix the flat tire in the drive-thru and make everyone wait like an asshole? Do I hold off until I get to the parking lot? Do I tell the order window my predicament? Do I still order food?
Of course, I needed my strength. I can’t fix a flat tire on an empty stomach, and I had a flat tire in a damn Popeyes. It’s not the time for timid orders.
I ordered fries and a sandwich and nuggets and a drink, and stared at the clerk upon receiving the food like I wasn’t clearly the one with the flat. But he knew it, and the guy behind me knew it, too. When you’re being punished for a bad decision, everyone sees.
My limping car inched to the parking lot and I ate the fries and sandwich and nuggets like a king, like a man who could fix anything, and wasn’t going to be knocked down by drive-thru deflation.
But then I got sleepy, so I called AAA.
