Drive-Thru (cont'd)

I named my hoopty Reggie, it spoke to me. That name was unassuming, simple, and trying its best. There was something very "Little Engine That Could," about it, and I think in Greek Reggie means, "hey I know I'm not cool, but I'm handling it well."
I knew Reggie, like the back of my hand, and wasn't afraid to help him out where he needed. I knew his limitations. I knew to cover the floor with plastic so I didn't get wet when we went over puddles. I knew only one of his speakers worked, but I wasn't mad. I knew to keep a butter knife, or flat head screw driver on hand to open the gas tank. I also knew that getting the driver's side window up or down was a two person job, one person to roll it down, the other to guide it into the slot with both hands. No problem.
Maryland was having a nice weather streak and I used a lifeline (phoned a friend) to help open the driver's side door a crack. I was getting fancy. I let the good weather get to my head, and forgot that Reggie was a special needs car, one beautiful day after school.
My brother was having an all-too-critical big mac attack, and I had to rush him to the nearest McDonald's shortly after we left school. We ordered, drove to the window, paid--things were going pretty smoothly. But then the cashier handed me my brother's food in its large, McDonald's paper bag. I had gotten all carried away with my fancy crack in the window, I had even paid through it, because of course my arm could fit through that opening. What could not fit through the opening, was that white paper bag that held my brother's value meal. I was remiss in recalling that when one is driving Sir Reggie, and one is ordering a drive-thru meal, one must open Reggie's driver's side door to receive one's cuisine. I didn't do that. Instead, the bag got stuck in the driver's side window. I'm going to need to repeat that. The bag, the McDonald's paper bag was stuck, in public, in my driver's side window. There was no time. I couldn't hold up the line behind me and the bag just would not give. My struggle only lead to french fries leaking onto the parking lot. My brother sat next to me screaming at the top of his lungs what an idiot I was, and that he had no more money to replace that food stuck in the window. I stopped business with this side show, as a barrage of seagulls flocked to our part of the lot to attack the abandoned french fries. The cashiers at the window behind me could not help customers being so occupied by their own hysterics. They laughed without restraint, as my car, now parked, was attacked by seagulls, and I freed my brother's food (bit-by-bit), from the clenches of my window. He has yet to forgive me.
When this happened I was 16, and wanted to die a thousand deaths from the embarrassment. Today, I think this story should be used to treat depression! Happy writing, hubbers!