There’s a certain kind of peace that only comes during lunch break, especially when you’ve earned it.
After a full morning of work, I’d decided to treat myself to a little fast-food indulgence—a spicy chicken sandwich, fries, and a lemonade. Nothing fancy, but it felt like a mini-vacation when you’ve been in meetings since 8 a.m.
So, there I was, idling in the drive-thru line, the midday sun glinting off car hoods and casting long shadows across the parking lot.
I don’t mind waiting. Life’s too short to let a few minutes in line turn me into a ticking time bomb, but evidently, not everyone feels the same.
The guy in the sleek silver BMW behind me—his suit as crisp as a Wall Street banker’s and his face twisted in impatience—was leaning on his horn, hands gripping the wheel like he could squeeze the wait out of existence.
He seemed genuinely insulted that we weren’t moving faster.
I heard him mutter, “This is ridiculous. Can’t they get anything right around here?” as he glared through his windshield, no doubt trying to will the cars in front of us to vanish.
All I could think was, It’s just a drive-thru, buddy. Take it easy.
But I kept my thoughts to myself. I was here for lunch, not for drama.
Little did I know, though, that the universe had a plan to dish out some “messy” poetic justice that day.
Too Important to Wait Like Everyone Else
Cars stretched around the building, and the familiar fast-food smells—fries, burgers, and that unidentifiable blend of grilled something or other—wafted into my car as I rolled down my window a crack.
It was peak lunch hour, so the place was as packed as I’d expected. The staff inside must have been hustling to keep up, and you could tell from the jerky stop-and-go of the line that they were doing the best they could.
Patience was the only option unless you wanted to ruin your own lunch.
The guy behind me, though? He had zero patience in his arsenal.
I glanced in my rearview mirror just in time to see him throw his hands up like he was in some tragic opera, mouthing something that I didn’t need to hear to understand. Just a blur of suit and tie and indignation.
And it didn’t stop there.
Every time the line paused for more than five seconds, there he was again, honking and revving his engine like a drag-racer trapped in a suburban lunch rush.
I cringed at each honk, fully aware that the poor workers inside could hear it all.
I could imagine them glancing out the window, sharing that look that only service industry workers know too well—the look that says, Another one of these types.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity for Mr. Business Suit, we inched our way to the ordering window.
I made my request—just a sandwich, no mayo, extra pickles.
Katie, the voice on the other end, sounded tired but friendly. “No problem, we’ll have that right out for you. Thanks for being so patient with us!”
“Of course! Take your time,” I said, hoping maybe my tiny kindness would help offset the honking symphony happening behind me.
As I pulled forward, it was Mr. Impatient’s turn.
No sooner had Katie greeted him with the usual “Welcome to—” than he barked his order, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll have the Number Five. And make it fast—I don’t have all day!”
I watched in my mirror as he jutted his chin forward, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel with exaggerated impatience.
Katie’s voice was calm, but I could tell she was irritated. “Got it. That’ll be up soon.”
He muttered something under his breath, probably something about incompetent teenagers and slow service, but I was too far ahead to catch the words.
All I could do was shake my head and wonder how someone could turn a lunch break into such a miserable experience—for himself and everyone around him.
Handing Out Goodness
At the payment window, I handed over my card and, on a whim, told the cashier, “Can I pay for the car behind me, too?”
Her eyes widened a bit, clearly taken aback. “Oh, sure! That’s really nice of you.”
“Eh, maybe he’ll relax a little,” I said with a smile, thinking about the guy’s endless grumbling. I could only hope a free meal might remind him that sometimes good things come without asking—or demanding.
The cashier laughed, “Or maybe he’ll think the universe finally gave him what he deserves.”
She handed me my receipt, and I saw her lean back as he pulled up, ready to tell him the good news.
In my rearview mirror, I watched as she explained the situation
At first, he looked surprised, maybe even a little pleased. But then, he just shrugged, muttered something, and grumbled, “Finally, they did something right.”
No acknowledgment, no thank you, no wave. Just a scoff, like it was the bare minimum the world owed him.
I couldn’t hear what the cashier said next, but the look she gave him told me she wasn’t impressed either. The window closed, and I saw her and another worker exchange a discreet roll of the eyes.
I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing, reminded once again that no good deed goes unpunished—or, in this case, unappreciated.
As I pulled forward, I could see him fuming in his car, oblivious to the kindness he’d been shown and already muttering under his breath again.
But I had a feeling he’d learn soon enough that a little patience—and a little gratitude—can go a long way.
And as I drove toward the next window, I couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, karma would catch up with him eventually.
Little did I know just how soon it would arrive.
A Misunderstanding in the Pickup Line
After paying, I rolled forward to the pickup window, anticipating my sandwich and fries and thinking about how nice it would be to sit in the park for a few quiet minutes.
Katie, the young woman working the window, leaned out, looking a bit frazzled but still managing a polite smile.
“Hey, I’m so sorry,” she said. “We’re just waiting on a fresh batch of fries for you. Could I ask you to pull forward to the waiting spot? I’ll bring it out as soon as it’s ready.”
“Of course, no problem,” I said, returning her smile. “Take your time.”
It wasn’t as if I had anywhere pressing to be. Plus, waiting meant the fries would be hot, fresh, and worth it.
As I eased forward, I caught a glimpse of the guy in the BMW in my rearview mirror, clearly misinterpreting what was happening. He watched as I pulled into the waiting spot, his face twisting into a scowl.
It was almost comical, like he believed I was getting some VIP treatment just to make him wait longer.
Not that I was surprised—he’d made it clear from the start that he saw any delay as a personal affront.
Sure enough, he leaned out of his car window, shouting, “Hey, come on! This is ridiculous—just give me my food already!”
His voice was loud enough that I could hear every indignant word from where I was parked, and I saw Katie stiffen slightly, though she maintained her professional demeanor.
With an impressively neutral tone, Katie handed him his bag and chirped, “Have a nice day.”
But as soon as she closed the window, she exchanged a look with one of her coworkers, who was quietly stifling a laugh.
Watching her handle the situation with such grace made me appreciate her job even more—keeping a straight face in the face of rude customers was a skill in itself.
Meanwhile, Mr. Impatient snatched his bag and peeled out of the drive-thru line, speeding past me toward the nearby park.
I had to smile at the sight of him zipping ahead, completely missing the small irony of his hasty departure.
He’d gotten his way, and yet he didn’t seem any happier for it.
A few minutes later, Katie came out with my meal, along with a little surprise—a complimentary dessert and a larger drink.
“This is just to say thanks,” she said, smiling warmly. “Not everyone’s as patient as you.”
“Wow, thank you!” I said, genuinely touched. The small gesture was like a warm reminder that kindness can come full circle.
I made my way to the park, savoring the idea of enjoying my lunch and a little extra treat in the fresh air.
A Side of Karma
I pulled into the park and found a shaded spot under a tree, glancing around as I got out of my car.
Not far away, I spotted the familiar silver BMW, and sure enough, there he was—the man from the drive-thru, already unwrapping his meal.
The sight of him settling in smugly for his free lunch gave me a momentary urge to roll my eyes, but instead, I shrugged it off.
My meal was here, the sun was shining, and life was good.
As I settled down, I noticed a flock of geese flying low, their silhouettes gliding over the park like small gray clouds.
I took a sip of my drink, savoring the lemony sweetness as I watched him open his bag with the eager expression of a man who’d finally gotten his way.
He looked downright smug, almost as if he thought he’d conquered the day by snagging a free meal.
But then, as if on cue, one of the geese circled low above his spot.
It happened in the blink of an eye. Just as he lifted his sandwich, I saw something drop from the sky.
Then another.
And another.
He froze, watching in horror as splatters of bird droppings hit his meal and stained his pristine white dress shirt.
It was like the universe had its own unique brand of justice, and the geese were delivering it.
I had to clap a hand over my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
His reaction was priceless. He leaped up from his bench, his face twisted in disbelief as he looked down at the mess covering his food and shirt.
A part of me wanted to feel sorry for him, but watching him flail around, swatting at the air as if he could chase the birds away, was just too satisfying.
He spun in place, still holding the ruined sandwich as if he couldn’t decide whether to toss it or cry over it.
Then, just as he was about to look away, he spotted me.
I let a small smile escape, lifting my hand in a little wave.
Our eyes met, and for a brief, satisfying moment, realization dawned on his face.
He knew who I was. He knew I’d seen everything.
And from the deepening flush on his cheeks, he knew, too, that I was the one who’d paid for his meal—the very meal now ruined by nature’s finest delivery system.
He froze, staring, the shame written across his face as plain as the stains on his shirt. I gave him a cheerful, almost too-innocent smile and a lighthearted wave before I started up my car.
As I pulled out of the parking lot, I couldn’t help but feel a little buoyant.
It wasn’t just the food, the sunshine, or the surprise dessert. It was the small satisfaction of knowing that sometimes, karma doesn’t take its time.
Sometimes, it’s delivered in record speed, with feathers and a splash of humility.
As I drove away, I caught one last glimpse of him in my rearview mirror, standing there, food ruined, dignity bruised, and ego deflated.
And me?
I was on my way back to work, finishing off the last of my lemonade and humming along with the radio, perfectly content with the day’s unexpected turn of events.