Curbside Confusion

 We've all seen the videos of the petulant person, usually a middle aged white woman with a mad on about some minor issue.  Indignant that some lowly functionary at some business is unable to change the rules or laws that everybody else is following, she demands to speak with a manager.

We have come to know this woman as "Karen". 

"Karen" is an embarrassing personification of the excesses of white privilege, the insistence that everything must perfectly fit her view of the world and makes no allowances for the needs of others. 

No one wants to be "Karen". 

But a few days ago I was compelled to say those words that every struggling person in the service industry dreads to hear:

"I want to speak with the manager."

A few nights ago, it was just Andrea and I alone at the Fortress of Ineptitude. She wanted dinner from one of her favorite restaurants.  They don't deliver so I need to do a curbside pick up. 

I put in the order online and pay for it. I've done this over a dozen times with this particular establishment since the pandemic began. 

I received a confirmation email that the order was received along with payment and that the food would be available for pick up at 6:53 PM. 

I arrive  at the restaurant at 6:54 PM and I call the number for curbside pick up. A friendly woman confirms who I am, what parking spot my car is in and tells someone will be out shortly. 

So far so good. 

I'm chilling out in the car, listening to some tunes and reading some stuff on my phone when I wonder, "How long have I been out here?" 

The time was 7:04 PM.

11 minutes after the food was supposed to be ready and 10 minutes after I called. 

I understand that the whole "food available for pick up at 6:53 PM" is an estimate and sometimes stuff happens. Still, this is a bit outside of the norm for this place. I should know having picked up curbside orders a dozen times before.  

Still, I decide to give them a bit more time. Maybe three minutes? 

Ar 7:07 PM with no food in sight, I called the curbside number. 

The guy who answered this time seemed to have no clue why I was calling. Am I calling to order food? 

No, I'm calling about food I had already ordered.  He checks with someone in the background. 

"Does anyone know anything about a to-go order for Long?"

I hear a woman yell back at him, "He needs to come in and pay for it!"

He relays this information: "You need to come in and pay for it!" 

I reply that I've already paid for it when I ordered the food online for curbside pick up. I am an email confirmation and everything. 

Or at least I try to say all this but the guy is talking over me, "I don't know anything about all that. You need to come and pay for it." 

And then he adds this: "Have a blessed day." And hung up on me. 

Well!

I really don't want to do this. I don't want to go in there like some kind of "Karen" but damn, this is not some minor slight to my easily offended sensibilities. There is food that I've paid for that I'm not getting.  

I pull up my mask and go inside. 

At the front door is a young woman, the hostess. I can tell at first glance she is tired and has put up with enough bullshit for one day. I am sympathetic but I also have food I've paid for that I don't have so I take a deep breath and proceed to share my story.

I understand that this haggard lady can only do some much to solve anyone's problem but she should know who can. 

But halfway through my spiel (which I am endeavoring to make as short and efficient as possible), she touches the side of her head set and speaks to someone. "There's someone here, name of Long for a pick up order." 

Then she tells me, "I'm sorry sir but you need to be patient. Your food is not ready yet." 

Wait! What now? 

OK, I don't want to be "Karen" but I think I have some legitimate cause to go frickin' bug nuts at this point. But what, pray tell, would that resolve? 

I take another deep breath and say those magic words: 

"I want to speak with the manager." 

A few minutes later, a bullet headed man in a blue shirt and tie approaches me. His name is Matt. 

He listens to my story. 

Then he goes to section where food is kept for pick ups and curbside. There's my order, waiting there. With a receipt attached, showing it is paid for. 

Matt was kind and professional, doing the one thing that no one else had done since this whole debacle started: he listened to me. 

While he apologized for the mix up and the confusion, he did offer a piece of advice before I left: if this should happen again, just come inside and speak with the cashier where the curbside orders are kept. 

I nodded and said, "I'll keep that in mind" as I took my leave. But I'm thinking a fuck up of this magnitude should not happen again. 

Now that's thinking like a "Karen", isn't it?