The Number Nine
September 15, 2005
Filed under:The Number Nine
I thought I’d start this diary as a way of keeping folks up on the happenings of my life here in Oz. A place to post pictures and video of the wife and kids, share news and tidbits, or just tell funny stories, I figured since my old blog introduced me to my wife that the new one would be a good way to keep in touch with everybody that cares. All 3 of you. Ha.
Plus, and this is important, I’m terribly lazy, and know myself well enough to know that I won’t email everybody that I want to email and, even if I did, I’d get sick of telling the same story or sharing the same news more than once. Lazy.
I’ll start with a story explaining the name of this diary, one that pretty much encapsulates the manner in which I interact with this society in my new home.
I’d never been anywhere off the North American continent before April, so that in and of itself was a bit of an adventure. Flying halfway around the world to meet someone that I was in love with for the first time was no small stroke either, but the cultural differences were something that I wasn’t necessarily worried about though was conscious of.
They rented me a car at the airport with barely a sideways glance at my Driver’s License, my Colorado Driver’s License, issued me no warnings of laws, and sent me on my way down the wrong side of the road. I figured that after I mastered that whole bit, I could get by just about everywhere here. I was adapting quickly.
In just a few days I learned how to more effectively communicate that I was buying a round of drinks, that I was tired, hungry, or had to urinate, and that doors to establishments typically open inward as opposed to out as I was used to. When I tugged repeatedly on the unlocked door to the motel’s office until the proprietor opened from inside, I did completely miss the meaning behind her question of, “What’re you, IRISH?” I think I replied with something like, “Noooo… I’m AMERICAN. I don’t look Irish, do I? What? Is it the jacket?”
My future wife, her best friend, and her best friend’s boyfriend were all willing passengers in my rented car and I’d only almost killed all of us once. Their faith in me was astounding and my confidence grew. So much so that when we pulled into the Drive-Thru lane of Hungry Jack’s (Burger King in everything but signage) I was positive that I could do the ordering for the carload.
I scanned the menu for a Value Meal that wouldn’t clog my arteries too terribly bad and spied a Spicy Chicken Baguette meal that had a small green sticker next to it with the number “9″ on it. The Something Chicken Baguette meal below it had the number “10″ on it, and I wisely deduced that the other meals were numbered as well and their stickers had just come off in the coastal weather.
I leaned casually out the window and said in loud American, “Hi! I’ll have the Number Nine!” The squawking little box was strangely silent, so I repeated my order, only louder… and probably more American. I attributed the snickering in the back of car to girls simply being girls and ignored BestFriend’s Boyfriend muttering, “Just say ‘Spicy Chicken’ Judd” and continued repeating my order over the confused FastFood Girl’s “umming” and “huhing.”
My considerable experience with Drive-Thru employees has taught me that their IQ, customer service rating, and vocabulary combined tend to add up to roughly my shoe size, so I was bound not to get frustrated. My continued patience wasn’t appreciated by my passengers as their laughter only increased and Boyfriend strongly insisted that I simply say, “Spicy Chicken Meal” and all will be well.
I relented, extremely reluctantly, thinking that these silly Aussie’s must not be as efficient as myself and my numerical ordering style, finished ordering, and pulled forward.
As we moved around the bend and drew closer to the menu board, I happened to look closer at the “Number Nine Meal” and it’s partner “Number Ten” below it. I had wondered why their stickers were so clean and new looking when obviously all the others had been so worn that they had come off until I noticed 3 little words underneath each of the sticker’s numbers.
“Grams of Fat” it read.
There IS NO numerical system for fast food meals here.
I AM an idiot.
We left Albany for Perth, ~400 km to the North, and the laughter and ridiculing of my passengers lasted for only, oh, the ENTIRE WAY.
To this day, ordering food, or anything really, with anyone acquainted with this story always opens with someone saying, “Hmm. I think I’ll have the Number Nine. Whaddya think Judd?”