I live around the corner from the Wendy’s on Baum Boulevard, which makes it a convenient option for quick and inexpensive food. On hungry late nights when many other restaurants have closed, this particular fast food joint, which doesn’t close until 4 a.m., is my go-to.
After a certain time, let’s say 10:30 p.m., especially on weekends, there’s nothing fast about this food. What you don’t spend in money, you’ll make up for in time, as waits can sometimes be 30 minutes. The notorious line of cars spills outside of the short parking lot, onto Baum, wrapping the street about a half a block. Sometimes cars pile up on the opposite side of the street as they wait their turn to enter the lot, before getting frustrated and just going around to the same side as everyone else. (I, for the record, let them in if they were there before me.)
What drives me to Wendy's late at night, knowing there will be a long wait, depends on my day and my mood. Sometimes I go because I’ve been so busy I didn’t get to eat dinner and have nothing at home that can be easily prepared (by which I mean, a fully formed meal I can put into the microwave or oven). Sometimes I go after a rare late night out. I go when I’m happy and want to celebrate with something familiar and nostalgic. When I’m sad I go to overindulge in something I know I shouldn't be overindulging in, but I don’t care to care.
I love fast food and I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with it, especially when consumed in moderation. However, while I tend to be less greedy on afternoon visits, the late-night trips aren’t always moderate. And I cannot condone the kind of overdoing I’m known to do in these specific instances, especially when propelled by melancholy, as I often am. If it’s late and I’m in good spirits, and I’m looking for a burger and fries, I’d spend a little extra to order takeout from Applebee's in Edgewood Towne Center, which is open until 12 or 1 a.m. It’s usually ready by the time I get there. But that’s a longer drive, with less time to pause, and a less fulfilling journey.
For me, getting fast food through the drive-thru has always been about the experience, as much as it’s about the food. As a kid, getting a Happy Meal felt like winning the lottery. As a teenager packed into the homie’s car, leaving school to get food, I died of laughter a hundred times over from jokes I can still recall. When I finally got my own driver's license, I’d go to my favorite spot, where the girl I had a crush on would sometimes hook me up with free food. These moments are far more significant than the food.
I’m not always going to the Baum Boulevard Wendy’s late at night to sate hunger. Honestly, by that time, I could go to bed without dinner and be fine. Sometimes I’m going because I’m looking for something, a feeling, that I wasn’t able to find earlier in the day. The food is merely the cost of admission to a portal that may have what I need if I’m willing to search long enough. The wait has become a bit of a ritual for me, carving out a space for stillness in the witching hour.
I’ve gone enough that I can recognize the voice that greets me at the speaker, inviting me to place my order. When they’re busy in the late hours, the voice welcomes me and tells me they’ll be right with me. I appreciate this. Ordering food through the drive-thru always makes me anxious, even if I think I know what I want, I usually rethink it as I’m placing the order, wondering if I’m making the right choice. The hold allows me to confirm with myself one last time. Am I getting too much? Not enough? Do I have enough variety? Is this new sandwich a risk I want to take right now? Is getting all of this food right now okay?
Ordering through the speaker is like a confessional where I confess the sins I'm about to commit, while the person at the window handing over my meal sans judgment like a pastor handing out communion implies that I'm already forgiven.
As I wait for the sacrament, I roll my window back up and return my intentionally selected, moment-fitting song to its previous volume. I look forward to seeing the crew working the window. I’m sure they see too many people to remember me, but I remember them. I love seeing a familiar face I don't have to make small talk with, especially after a night of making small talk at events and parties.
Even though I’m alone in my car, when I’m surrounded by other cars, some containing couples, I don’t feel lonely, I feel part of a collective of folks who are on the same mission at that moment. I like being isolated around a bunch of other people who are also isolated, with no expectation to interact.
I'm grateful for the company because I'm also terrified of fast food places that don't have a line. At least with a line, I know my food will be made somewhat fresh. I'm not frustrated at the 30-minute wait, I embrace it. I take in the beauty of my surroundings. I play a familiar song. If the line is slow enough to put my car in park, I might check out highlights of a game I missed or save my Duolingo streak before midnight hits.
In the time I’ve spent waiting, I’ve recalibrated and arrived at terms. My wait, my search, wasn’t in vain. The light spilling out of the window at the end of the line previews the light at the end of my own tunnel. The person at the window hands me a warm bag, which I merely glance in, making sure it's all there, praying it’s all correct, and I pull out of the parking lot feeling better than I did upon entry, having found what I was looking for.
A loving ode to late nights and long lines at the Baum Boulevard Wendy's
