I end up at McDonald’s usually because it’s nicely lit and makes for a convenient place to get picked up by my Uber or Lyft, especially when I’m in an unfamiliar neighborhood. My order is always simple: regular coffee, fries, or a Hi-C.
Today, there were only two of us in the dining area: me and a tall African-American man dressed to perfection. Half the restaurant was closed off for construction, so we were confined to a tight, awkward space. I was negotiating my cane, two boxes filled with shopping items, and my order, making every movement a struggle. Since we kept passing each other repeatedly in this cramped area—and because I couldn’t help but stare at his flawless brown snakeskin shoes and impeccably coordinated corduroy and layered coat—I felt compelled to speak.
“Beautiful shoes,” I blurted out. Beautiful shoes? Why did I say that? I forced an awkward smile, and he let out a grunt, shoveling something drenched in ketchup into his mouth. For a moment, I imagined he was devouring a small animal, something primal and raw—a flashback to a time in our shared ancestry when meals were hunted, not ordered at a counter. The thought was absurd, yet the image stuck with me.
I quickly sat down with my back to him, hoping I didn’t seem too strange. Great… he probably thinks I want to abduct him or something.
Now… about these fries.
I’ve learned to speak up about cold fries – these things aren’t cheap anymore. Today, when the girl behind the counter smiled and reached for the fries, I called out “I’ll wait for the next batch!” She must not have heard me, because for the first time in my long life, I got hot but stale fries. How is it possible for fries to be both hot AND stale. McDonalds found a way.
Because the sweetest African princess served me, I couldn’t bring myself to complain. Instead, I sipped my Hi-C and nibbled at the large box of mostly broken fries crusted in salt. She was sweet, but gave me the dregs of the batch. My stomach twisted into what I could best describe as “doo-doo knots.”
The voices echoing in my head had plenty to say: “Waste not, want not,” and “Eat the fries, Etta Mae!” to “This is what your greedy ass gets for ordering a large!” and “At least you skipped the animals, DumDum!”
But thinking about that sweet young girl – really just a young woman, no more than 21 – made me forget my discomfort. Her smile was weightless and unburdened, kind and sweet. It pushed back against my cynicism, she reminded me of an innocent and less jaded chapter of life.
As I was leaving, crossing through the construction to catch my Uber, someone called out: “Hey, Joey!”
I figured it was a kid I mentored: “Sh’Ron?” I yelled back. I knew it wasn’t someone who I regularly interacted with – the younger ones, even my adopted nieces and nephews always add “Uncle” before Joey.
It was my nephew.
“Hey, Neph?”
“Hey Unc.”
“What’s good? Oh, my ride—”
“I don’t care about your MF ride, I’m trying to say hello to my Uncle!”
“Huh?”
My stomach did a full flip, and I thought: ‘Good dismount… a solid 10, little fella.’
“I’m about to blow up,” he declared.
“Yeah, me too! Ironically enough.” I knew he was talking about his music career, but I was talking about my booty-hole, and my Uber was trying to pull in and we were blocking the entrance to the parking lot.
“I’m gonna be on top of the world!”
I gave him dap but had to run. “Awesome, Nephew. Blessed and highly favored!” He seemed irritated and turned away abruptly…upset I wouldn’t, or more accurately couldn’t hold court at Boston Road McDonald’s, muttering something as he turned back to his car.
I folded myself, my cane, and my two boxes into the cream-colored Mercedes.
“Sorry for the delay,” I told the driver without my filter. “That rude f***** is my nephew – had to say hello.”
The driver, one of the many conservative Latinos who’ve been picking me up lately, said nothing. No hello, no nothing. We drove with his music playing, questionable music choices for his captive audience, but at least it wasn’t conservative talk. I waved at my nephew as we pulled away.
The sherbert-colored sunset was giving way to a cool, crisp navy November night. The car was so clean I could see clearly through every window. My ears struggled to adjust to the music that was playing, and the deafening awkward silence of my driver.
“Lord, I belong to you, praise your name,” blared from all directions.
“Oh, great,” I thought, as one righteous song followed another. I wondered how he would feel if he were paying for a ride and I played my Wiccan music for him? I’m not Wiccan, just making a point a toddler could understand and that shouldn’t have to be explained to people who claim an intimate knowledge with the mind of God.
To not think about this assault on my eardrums, I reflected on that young girl’s smile – the only thing anchoring me to something beautiful. That and my neighbor Nicky from the store I’d just left. Two encounters that revealed how people can counter the inconsideration of others with a simple, “Hello” or a “Smile”. How that’s so often the last thing we are willing to give.
The contrast was stark; two people who simply said hello or smiled followed by two people who sandwich their cruelty within sugar so it goes down easy. Both my nephew and the driver were saying: We don’t care about your time, we don’t care what you want to hear, we have something to say and you’re gonna listen.
I wondered how long that beautiful girl would keep her smile. Until her first betrayal from a lover? Or was she already enduring that betrayal now, yet still putting on her uniform, reporting for work, and managing to smile?
I mean, I think I’m still Christian. But during that ride, I felt suddenly like a potty-mouthed sinner, trapped in a rolling chapel of Christian Rock. And then I felt petty for feeling that way.
Disclaimer: This artwork is a satirical, tongue-in-cheek parody and is not affiliated with or endorsed by any fast-food establishment or official international fart symbol organization. Any resemblance to real or fictional products, logos, or fart symbols is purely coincidental and intended to elicit humor and artistic commentary. Enjoy the art, and may your fries always be fresh and your humor well-seasoned!
