That Time I Drove My Car into a Wendy's

Fast food chic has taken my hometown by storm.

Almost every restaurant around here now has updated its look. Arby's, Burger King, and even KFC feel more like hip cafés than greasy fast food joints.

Nice try, KFC. I can see right through you!
Image credit: Obllique

I took my family out for lunch at a classy restaurant last week then realized we'd walked into McDonald's. That was embarrassing.

I'm not against the redesigns. I actually appreciate the new elegance of fast dining; at the very least, I don't feel gross now until after I've eaten.

But do you really need a table by a granite fireplace? You're eating Taco Bell.

Last year the local Wendy's jumped onto the bandwagon. They changed everything: swapped out cushy booths for minimalist tables, added flat screen TVs, replaced the outside bricks with windows. It looks nice.

Image credit: Business Insider

I picked up dinner there on my way home the other night. Amid the host of restaurant updates, thankfully the Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger remains its same delicious self. I couldn't wait to dig in as the takeout bag filled my car with its warm, inviting scent.

Eeeeeat meeeee.

But I couldn't keep away my sadness in the drive-through as I stopped to look at Wendy's' new glass walls.

Windows where red brick once stood. And on the brick--only in my memory now--a streak of paint.

My paint.

Years ago I drove a beat-up Mitsubishi without air conditioning or cup holders. We called it the Sly Pig car, because it bore my nickname on its license plate (immortalized here on the blog).

That car had some personality. I got into all sorts of trouble in that thing, and when it died it left this world in a glorious, raging fireball (but that's a story for another day).

I ate more fast food then than I do now. My daily afternoon commute typically involved a pickup window somewhere.

One day I chose Wendy's for my post-work freedom celebration. I'd had a rough shift at the warehouse where I shipped small kitchen appliance orders, and I approached the Wendy's drive-through thinking about everything that had gone wrong.

I had so much on my mind that I forgot I had no cup holders.

I ordered a large root beer.

I paid for my meal and proceeded with a giant cup clenched between my legs. But I didn't get far before the trade-off between my clutch foot and my gas foot tipped the drink onto its side. Reflex forced my eyes down to the root beer pooling in my seat.

Ahhh!

I grabbed the cup just as the car lurched over the curb.

AHHH!!

I jerked the steering wheel to the left--too far--and sent the car across the drive and past the other curb. With a thud and a crunch, the car wedged itself between a bush and the restaurant's outer wall.

Well, great.

My face went hot. The engine screamed as I shifted to reverse and tapped, then floored, the gas. The car didn't budge.

Seeing no escape unless she helped me out of my predicament, the person coming out of the drive-through behind me got out of her car and pushed with me. Two onlookers jumped in, too. But even the four of us together couldn't move my car.

Time to face the public.

By the time the door swung closed behind me in the Wendy's dining room, a crowd had gathered at the counter to complain. The drive-through hasn't moved in fifteen minutes! If they just had looked outside they'd understand.

Here went nothing.

I cleared my throat and shouted over the commotion, "DOES ANYBODY HAVE A TOW ROPE?"

Every eye in Wendy's fell on me. Then, as one, they looked outside and saw my car. I don't know how anyone could have missed the red sedan with its nose pushed practically against the window. But I won a little bit of sympathy.

A big guy in a cowboy hat approached me from his table. He looked the type I should be grateful didn't end up stuck behind my car in line. "I've got a tow rope," he said, pulling keys out of his pocket. With the power of his pickup truck and my first three volunteers assisting, we finally pulled my car away.

I thanked my rescuers then drove home and changed my pants. I didn't go near that Wendy's again for months.

Several years passed before I let my parents know what happened. By then the humiliation had worn off and I was happy to point out the streak of paint I left.

Every time I saw that mark I smiled. For years the Wendy's drive-through bore the symbol of my wild youth, whispering to all who passed that Nathan Cunningham was here.

A small piece of me died with the remodel. I still search for my old paint mark when I visit.

I'll have to be more careful now the walls are made of glass.