I will be sad when I finally come to my senses and pack my lunch to save money, because then I will not have the pleasure of sharing lunch with a roomful of odd people and their quirky habits.

I sat down at Wendy’s today with the intention of quietly consuming my fries and chicken strips, and maybe making a few notes on some future web projects. A lady with a pierced eyebrow was chowing down on some double-cheeseburger a few tables away. I noticed this because while I was looking out the window admiring the sunny day, I saw her staring at me in the periphery.

She made no effort to disguise her staring - chewing burger in a cow-like motion of cud regurgitation. She only stopped to return her attention to her meal.

I remained quiet and contemplative, trying to ignore her.

After a while, I looked around the dining room. Other people in Wendy’s were budy amusing themselves. There was the girl who was alone in line just in front of me, now seated with a guy who was obstructed from my view by one of those decorative plants. As I later discovered, she was waddlingly pregnant and travelling with not one guy, but two. I wonder how that works. Also, there was a table with two blue-hairs chatting it up. They had thoughtfully packed the one lady’s oxygen tank into a basket on her walker so she could get out for a baked potato.

While I was looking around, I heard a noise that could not be anything other than a very loud, if short, belch. Maybe a half-second long. “Bwaaahp!”

What do you do in these situations? Whoever had released the gas was not taking credit for it. The sound came from the direction of the lady with the pierced eyebrow, now wiping ketchup from her face with her fist, the pure image of cleanly mannerisms.

Oh well. I finished off my fries and wrote some more notes.

A Wendy’s employee stepped from table to table spraying copious amounts of “blue fluid number six” onto each table. The odor of the thing wasn’t like bleach, but it completely flooded my nose and made my food taste floral.

“Bwaaaaahhp!” The burp rang out like the peal of Notre Dame. There was no question about the owner this time, who was now balling-up her sandwich wrapper. The people at the table immediately next to the pierced lady were trying to ignore her, but I could observe them slowly retreating to the far side of their booth benches.

It wasn’t long until she arose with her tray to leave. Passing by my table, she dropped a plastic fork wrapper (Fork? For what?) on the floor. Reaching down to pick it up, I saw nothing but rear-end.

White with sudden fear of additional escaping gasses, I held my breath and nearly passed out from the cleaning fluid fumes before the lady moved on.