It takes time to make a decent soup.
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Which is why I often head to Panera.
And because time is a thing, even though I’m semi-retired, I often hit up the drive-thru.
Which is how one day I came to be trapped, stuck between a giant menu sign and a concrete barrier for 45 minutes.
Granted, 45 minutes is not an eternity — in retrospect.
But it is while you’re in it, not knowing when or if it will end, imagining all kinds of horrible things.
What if I need to use the bathroom?
What if someone notices this line is not moving and we all get robbed?
What if I run out of gas?
Forty-five minutes is time enough to travel to my dad’s assisted living facility, drop off his bowl of soup, drive back home, switch on the TV and check my Facebook.
And, it turns out, it’s time enough to show a person what they’re made of — or not.
Resourcefulness.
After 10 minutes of whining and shouting to no one “fast food isn’t fast anymore,” I determined I should try to use the time productively.
I did a quick clean of the car, wiping down the steering wheel, the console and the knobs with antibacterial wipes, then stuffing them with the gum wrappers and used face masks into a plastic bag.
I pretended I was an engineer and imagined a world where drive-thrus were built without barricades but with AEDs in case people passed out waiting for their order or at least with televisions so we could maybe catch a Food Network episode on how to make soup at home.
I grieved for the old reporter survival kit I used to keep in my car: Gloves, socks, candy, flares and a few of those airplane size bottles of liquor.
I took to Twitter and pleaded my dilemma. “Hello, @Panerabread — help?”
Nothing.
Composure.
What if I starve to death?
What if I have a heart attack?
Is this impatience or panic?
I began to wonder … about what happened to that missing Malaysian Airlines plane, about what happened to Amelia Earhart, about what would happen to my car if I jumped the foot-high concrete barrier.
I called my daughter.
“Help, I’m trapped in a drive-thru.”
She laughed. Yes, there’s a Weird Al Yankovic song with that very title. Yes, similar comical dilemmas are all over the Internet. And, yes, I once wrote a story about a drive-thru line that went on for blocks after Krispy Kreme opened in Homewood.
But this was no laughing matter. This was me about to lose my mind.
Taking control.
Twenty minutes in, I called my dad to tell him I’d be late.
“What?” he asked when I explained I was being held hostage by the black SUV in front of me and the white SUV behind me. “Well, hurry up.”
Roger that.
I googled the restaurant, found the number and called it.
No one picked up.
What if no one was there?
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What if this was like that “Twilight Zone” episode in which the whole town had disappeared, except the protagonist? What if I was that protagonist?
Should I call 911? Would I have to pay for that? And how would they get me out, short of employing the jaws of life or at least making the other customers move? What if the other customers had already starved to death?
I reminded myself there are worse places to be trapped for what seems like forever: the Emergency Room; an elevator; on hold with any health care facility, government institution or airline; between two doors, which is what happened to me when I was 4 and is the trauma I now blame for my claustrophobia.
Placing blame.
Is this because of COVID?
Is this because of climate change?
Is this because I’m lazy? Or short? Or a Pisces?
I began taking selfies and texting them. “Hanging on the best I can” and “Hug the dog for me.”
Escapism.
Thirty-five minutes in, at wit’s end, I fell back on a strategy I rely on whenever I feel hopeless: I gave up.
I accepted the fact I was never going to see my grandchildren grow up.
Who knew you could get into the fetal position while still strapped in a seatbelt?
Finally, there was a beep.
I snapped to.
Forty-five minutes – three-quarters of an hour, enough time to blanche, cook, blenderize and season fresh tomatoes into a soup – had passed.
At last, the car in front of me moved.
I inched forward, tired, angry yet emboldened by my ability to survive another day in this crazy world.
“I’ve been waiting for 45 minutes,” I told the window worker. “It was like being lost in the wilderness. Hunger, thirst, I could have died.”
“Yeah, we’re pretty busy,” the teen replied.
That’s it? No apology? No explanation? No free apple?
He handed me the brown paper bag.
I was shaken, exhausted, starving and yet grateful to be alive.
Nothing is easy anymore. But if I was lucky, my order would be right.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years.