There was a point in my life where I was eating McDonalds about three or four times a week. I would go to the same McDicks, around the same time, on the same days for about three years religiously. It got to the point where I was seeing the guy taking my order in the window, more than I was seeing my own grandmother.

One would think that at some point we would get to know each other more than just a large number nine wish a High c. I mean we would see each other enough you would think we would be on a first name basis by now or at least some nicknames for each other. I would have loved for him to call me number nine.

Nope, nothing. Each time I would show up there, at the same time, at the exact same location, ordering from the same worker, it would always be business. The guy refused to treat me any different from when we first met through the McDonalds drive through six years ago.

He’s always refused to answer my, “How’s your day going?” any other way than, “It’s going.” every time I pulled up. He continuously ignored me each time I would try to talk to him hoping to get to know him, knowing damn well that we see too much of each other, only to be dealt the cold shoulder.

I like that guy. I think he’s actually kind of cool, but for some reason whether it was my vibe or the fact that he fucking hated his job, he refused to know me. I just don’t know what hurts more, the fact that he pretended not to know me or the fact that he pretended like I didn’t know what I was going to order.

As soon as I would pull up to the window the guy would already have my order typed in. He knew my truck, he knew my order, but forbid to know me as a person. From now on he will only be known as my McDonalds guy. I can only hope that he remembers me and still thinks of me when someone orders a number nine on a Tuesday, Thursday, or Saturday. I’ll be honest, I think of him every time I order one.