When the hearse rolled to the window, Marcus saw the driver was a woman about his age. She had silver rings on every finger and a tired, beautiful face. She also had to lean way down to see him.
That night, a pattern emerged. Every car told a story of height. drive thru window height
It was 2 a.m. Marcus had just wiped down the fry station when headlights swept the lot—slow, deliberate. The car was a black 1980s Cadillac hearse, complete with velvet curtains in the back windows. It pulled up to the speaker box, and a voice crackled through: “Large black coffee. Nothing else.” When the hearse rolled to the window, Marcus
Marcus looked past her shoulder. Through the small rear window, he could see the edge of a wooden casket, draped in a simple white sheet. That night, a pattern emerged
“He was a truck driver,” she continued. “Drove an eighteen-wheeler for forty years. Used to say the best part of his day was the drive-thru—something normal after being up so high for so long.”
Low. To her, the drive-thru window was a counter you had to stoop for. To Marcus, it had always been a wall you reached up to touch.
She nodded toward the back of the hearse. “He’s in there. We’re taking him to the funeral home in the morning. He always wanted to go in style.”