Cutting in line

Ever since I got the phone call about George Tiller being shot on Sunday morning, the week had been a blur. Meals were afterthoughts at best.

By Thursday, I knew I had to pry myself away long enough for a trip through a drive-through lane. I turned into the McDonald's at Broadway and Waterman, and was thankful that the line wasn't long. Of course, it shouldn't have been, since it was already approaching 1:30 p.m.

As I crept forward in the line, a battered pickup that looked like its replacement parts were being held together by duct tape and rust drove forward perpendicular to the drive-through lane. I thought she was wanting to cut through the line and exit the lot - but she turned in front of me.

I growled under my breath, in part because I was really hungry (and I get grumpy when I am really hungry) and because I knew I needed to get back to the office quickly.

But as I idled in line, with the windows down in anticipation of placing my order, I could hear her pickup's engine huffing and puffing like a 3-pack-a-day smoker hiking in the Cascades. It sounded like it would give out any second.

The pickup itself looked like an amalgamation of second-hand parts, with a bumper dangling at one corner. Her clothes were dirty and faded. By the time she placed her order, all she asked for was an apple pie. At lunch time. It made me wonder if that's all she could afford.

As I took in the totality of it all, my anger dissipated like a puddle of water on a sunny June day. If anything, this woman deserved my sympathy. Even if her order was merely dessert for a more balanced meal she'd had earlier, it was clear she was struggling just to get by.

And I surely didn't need to add to her burden.