 
The day we drove through Pensacola, Florida was stiflingly hot, so we were relieved to see a
Sonic sign along the road up ahead. We pulled our rental
car into an asphalt slot and called in our orders over the
intercom: a chocolate malt, a rootbeer float, and an order
of onion rings with ketchup -- lots. In minutes, Nikki Summers
glided up to our window on roller skates bearing our deep-fried
and iced salvation in a paper bag.
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Nikki is eighteen and she’s been working at this Sonic since it
opened three years ago. She knew how to skate a bit when she
started but "you pretty much learn on the job." Everyone has
their accidents, she explains, but pretty soon you’re swerving
out, balancing a load of burgers and drinks with
ease. Nikki seems to think this balancing act is simple --
though it’s a feat I know I’d never master. But then Nikki also thinks her life is pretty simple.
There isn’t much to do in Pensacola when
you’re eighteen, Nikki tells us, but she and her friends take
in the occasional movie, have dinner, and hit the few nightclubs
that will admit them. The rest of the time she’s a student at
Pensacola Junior College or "PJC" and serves up fries on wheels
to locals and a few out-of-state folk like me who marvel that
there is still a chain supporting rollerskating carhops.
The Sonic chain thrives in more
than just Florida, of course:
In existence since the mid-fifties, it currently boasts
franchises in 27 states. It all started with the dream of
Troy Smith to own a fancy restaurant. Purchasing land which
housed both a larger establishment and a parking lot root beer
stand, Smith planned to shut the smaller venue down, but found
that it was more profitable. In time he installed a speaker
system that would allow patrons to order from their vehicles
and have food delivered by carhops. The word "carhop" itself
dates back to the early twenties when servers at Pig Stand in
Fort Worth, Texas would "hop" onto an automobile’s running
board to deliver food. Running boards have long since
disappeared but America’s persistent preoccupation with
cars and quick eats have given the drive-in restaurant
enduring appeal. Eating in your car is more than a matter
of convenience -- in fact many would point out that the act of
balancing messy sandwiches in paper wrappers across laps and
between gear shifts is possibly more difficult than the short
walk into the dining room. But automobiles embody all we
cherish:
they are emblems of freedom, mobility and the attainment of
the American dream.
Nikki has been mobile for a good part of her life. A military
brat, she was born in Camarillo, California, moved to San Diego,
and finally settled with her family in Pensacola. Her American dream involves
a possible career in court reporting but for now she’s content
to hang out with friends and work at Sonic. "There are nice
people here," she explains. For us, the customer, the
rollerskating carhop might hearken images of a simpler time
when cars were bigger and we had hopes to match. For Nikki,
eventually there will be other places she wants to go, but for
now the journey is from kitchen to car: "It’s just a job," she emphasizes.
Some people, she says, peddle jewelry or do other kinds of work. "I skate."