Alright, so here’s the scene…
Taco Bell drive-thru. 7:43 pm. An overcast early Spring evening.
I’ve pulled up to the little box squawking at me with a clarity somewhere between Morse Code and Russian submarine radio signal, placed my order for a pair of burritos and a Diet Mountain Dew, and pulled forward.
The car in front of me, a Toyota Camry from, oh, let’s say 2003 with more than a couple scrapes and dents peppered across its rear end patiently nudges forward as the border-runners before us get handed their meals and depart for whatever classy place Taco Bell customers go at night. When it’s the Camry’s turn to pull up to the window, though, the driver comes in a little hot. He doesn’t bring the vehicle to a complete stop until his window is about two feet past the food portal.