Eat, Drink, Be Merry

I'm trying to reduce my weight by eating and drinking less. I successfully got through most of the day eating only one bowl of oatmeal. I planned on finishing the day by eating a half of a baked sweet potato and a serving of collard greens, but a friend unabashedly convinced me to go out and buy more spirits. So I had no choice but to do that. As fate would have it, a Burger King is located across the street from the liquor store, and though I didn't want to, I had no choice but to go in and buy a Whopper. So I did. I also bought a Spicy Chicken sandwich. I heard somewhere that beef has positive calories and chicken has negative calories so they cancel out. Who am I to argue with science?

Inside the fast food store, water dripped steadily from a florescent light fixture into a half-full bucket on the order counter and splashed out onto the floor. It hadn't rained all day, so I assumed the rooftop air conditioner was responsible.

After a few minutes a cashier appeared and I gave her my order. The cashier was a young woman. I commented to her about the water steadily dripping from the ceiling. "Looks like your air conditioner has a problem."

"That's not the air conditioner," she replied. "It's ..." and her voice transitioned into GirlSpeak, that indecipherable concatenation of fast-flowing verbiage that young women are so adept at using. I have no idea what she said.

The Whopper arrived immediately, but I had to wait for the Spicy Chicken.  The Whopper waited, too, growing steadily less hot. The phone rang and the cashier answered it. She walked into the back as she talked. I heard her say, "So it is the air conditioner. I thought..." and her voice trailed off.

I looked at the bag with the Whopper. The brown bag seemed so lonely and so ... getting colder.

The cashier returned. Several minutes had passed so, being in a droll mood, I asked her if the cook was growing a chicken. "The chicken takes six minutes to cook," she responded. Of course, that six minutes starts when they get to your order and begin the cooking process—not when you place your order.

Another customer came in and placed his order. A few minutes passed. We chatted about the leak. "With all the electric wires in the ceiling, that's really not where you want to have water," I said. He agreed. His food came and he left. Now it was me, the staff, and my forlorn hamburger waiting for its deep-fried partner. A couple more minutes passed and I told the cashier that I may soon have to look at their breakfast menu. She understood.

Then the cook—a tall, thin, somewhat sinister-looking man—picked up tongs and grabbed the chicken out of the fryolator—that big vat of boiling, nasty grease that fast food eateries fry everything in... chicken, cheese sticks, onion rings, Oreos, pickles, ice cream, liver, shoes, toy poodles, condoms, your mom, the Falkland Islands, ANYTHING.

As he walked back to the counter where the bun was waiting, the cook scowled daggers at me. I assumed he had overheard my remarks about waiting for the chicken and had taken them personally. I watched him closely to make sure he didn't adulterate my sandwich with something that wasn't supposed to be in it. Like, for instance, spit. (See the movie Waiting.) But I saw nothing unusual. Maybe it was all my imagination.

Assembly of the Spicy Chicken was finally complete and the sandwich went into the takeout bag. I wished them luck with the air conditioner and I left the store. I had a Whopper sandwich. I had a Spicy Chicken sandwich. I had a bottle of vodka. What more does a man really need to be content?