He had long, unkempt green hair, which I thought looked kind of ridiculous with his required, orange pinstriped baseball cap.
"That’ll be…" he trailed off, skimming the orders on his kiosk. "$6.44."
And a short term memory, apparently.
I don’t know why I didn’t already have my Bank of America card at the ready. I’d been in this exact same position before only last time he’d been sporting a bluer look. His hair, I mean. It reminded me of those blueberries that bratty, little tween in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory swallowed.
I knew how much my order costed before I even manually swiveled down the window of my yellow Cutlass.
This time though, when I handed him my card, he inspected it. Odd. I knew I had at least $500 on there.
"Is there something wrong?" I drawled from my front seat, turning Kesh@$! whines to a dull simmer.
"Just getting your name," he said, cracking a smile.
"Why do you need that?" I mused, cocking an eyebrow.
"I don’t want to keep calling you combo number 1 with only ketchup, mayonaise, mustard and cheese,"