Member-only story
How a Chicken Sandwich Ruined a Trip Home
The flare-up was NOT gastrointestinal
It was the late 1990s.
The car I’d taken to college was . . . not working, again.
I’d gotten used to it and driving that car taught me some car maintenance basics.
Still, the non-working car presented a problem.
I’d promised to be at the local grocery store back home for a weekend of shifts in the produce department.
Two hours away.
Sure, I could call and cancel the shifts — but then, no cash.
Plus, the department manager was already working to accommodate me while I was in school — giving me 12-hour Saturdays so I could maximize my earnings.
So, I called my dad and asked if he could pick me up and take me home that weekend.
He would. After his workday ended on Friday.
I got in his car when he arrived at my dorm — a simple bag tossed in the back.
He asked if I wanted to eat before we got on the road.
I did.
He claimed to have already eaten — believable given his tendency toward a variety of indulgences — and handed me a $10 bill as we parked in the Arby’s parking lot.
