The BK Tragedy

The door to Burger King has mayonnaise on it. Someone with mayonnaise on their hand ran out to get heart pills for their grandfather, or to tell a robber not to touch their car, or to see an accident outside, and when they returned for their meal they left a greasy reminder of the Burger King’s favorite dressing. It sat here on the steel tube of a door handle and got stiff and stinky and a yellow brown color, then softened and came loose a bit on my sweaty palm. Okay then.

I order a whopper with three slices of cheese and a fish patty on top, just like always, half onion rings, half fries, and the milky lady at the counter with amorphous blue prison tattoos must know my deal by now, because she doesn’t complain. There’s a man by the door punching and head-butting the atm machine, and the police are sitting in the other corner questioning a girl in a sky blue polyester suit who looks like she might be in sales at the Hudson’s cosmetic counter, something like that. She’s cried, and her expensive eye shadow is in spider legs on her face. A cop with a feminine side hands her a napkin, she blots the thirty dollar eye makeup.

I have to pee but I’m gonna hold it because the real lunch rush will get here any minute with their hard hats and pushes and line cuts and hold the pickles and I’m gonna want to just get my food and get seated while the getting’s good. The order comes fairly quickly, which means that there are a few other people in back that know my meal, and how they can just filch a fish patty real quick from that section and throw it on my burger and wrap it and mark it with a "B" and not have to worry about asking how to mark this on their forms or okay the order with management or get the sergeant at arms to approve it or whatever they do on nights when I’m tired and in dire need of my Fishwhopper, or whatever you call it. I swing by the pop machine with my size medium glass with a litltle hash mark so the Burger King employees know where to fill it to with ice and already I’m waiting while mom dumps out the orange pop junior didn’t want and gets root beer instead, and grandma fills the rest of her Coke one half ounce squirt at a time to combat Coke overflow. I finally get my half Nestea half Minute Maid half Hawaiian Punch cocktail concocted and go for my seat and cowabunga baby, no Norman, I get the corner seat with a view of Norma the prison queen and the rest of the dining room and cold brick at my back that will facilitate no sneaking up behind and snatching of onion rings, or that sort of thing. I plant my meal and take one bite of my Whoppersh and lick my fry onion ring mixture just in case and head to the privy. I think I skip a little because I got the good seat and it’s been about four Fridays since I’ve had the good seat, and doggonit. I pee quick and wash my hands quick and skip back to my seat quick and oh, mother of calamity, what has befallen?

Norman has taken my seat, that’s what, and he’s upended my tray and spilled my cocktail and my Filet of Whopper has a shoe print on it. Norman’s found a few of my fries and onion rings that weren’t licked and he’s putting my eight ketchup packets on each one, one ketchup per o-ring or fry, what a waste. He’s got on one lumberjack boot and one flip-flop and a terry cloth vest. Who knew they made vests of terry cloth, I want to know? Of course he brought his friend Jenk. Jenk is his pet rubber ducky, the same sky blue color as the interrogated lady’s polyester suit, and Mr. Norman the seat stealer is bragging to him about his conquest, dammit.

"Yes Jenk, I done got this seat, right in the corner, aces and eights and all for us. Just like a game of cards, my boy, like… "BINGO"… a chair for Norman and Jenks, my boy, and LALALALALALAAAA!" Norman bragging his head off, and the last part trailing off into a kind of warbonnet scream. Norma the prison queen gives a disapproving glare from her corner, but the police officers don’t even look up. One is apologetically serving the business woman in baby blue a slice of chocolate pie while the other hand cuffs her and says something, I think he’s reading her her rights.

"Stupid Norman, that’s my seat, and that was my meal." I wave my hand at the wash of my lovely meal. The fish patty has fallen from it’s bed and is over by the fake plastic plant. There is a man feeling around in the pot and it’s pale green styrofoam muttering something about "I know I left it here somewhere, Violet" and I’m afraid he touched my halibut filet, but I grab it anyway and put it back in its place. Norman wants me to do one of two things right now. Scream bloody murder at him and Jenks and get myself thrown out of here, or walk away with my head down. I sit down against the wall instead and begin eating my Fwopper. This does catch the attention of the officer with a forkfull of chocolate pie, and he gives me one of Norma’s classic looks then gives the bite of pie to the business lady. I pick up an onion ring and grab one of my eight ketchup packets, Norman won’t be using all of it anyway, that ketchup waster. Squeezing out a perfect ring of ketchup around the edge of my onion ring always makes me happy, and I almost forget about Norman, so he squeezes Jenk and makes him squeak and sings a Beach Boys song to try to get my attention.

"Let’s go surfin’ now, everybody’s learnin’ how, come on and Atari with meeeeee," he squeals, and Jenk supplies the high notes. The cops still don’t care. They’re taking Miranda, I bet that’s her name, to the squad car. She’s crying again because she’s out of pie. I punch Norman in the calf to make him stop singing the Beach Boys, and he burps at me, "Come on baby, surfin’ a thneed, I wanna take you surfin’ with meeeee." Norman is on the chorus for about ten minutes. One of the cops forgot his fancy flashlight, and he’s coming back by the window right when I punch Norman’s bony calf again. Crap it, he saw me. He looks mad. He tucks his flashlight into his flashlight loop and comes towards Norman and Jenks and I with fast angry steps. He slips a little on one of my fries and he’s definitely gonna blame that on me and not Norman.

"Hi Norman, Hi Jenks," the officer says offhandedly like he’s not talking to a seat thief and a light blue rubber duck. Officer O’Flannerty has a round nose and looks quite a bit like Hefty Smurf. I Picture him living in a mushroom with Smurfette and a squad car parked outside and giggle. More dirty looks from Police Smurf. "Gentlemen, is this man bothering you?" At first I think he’s talking to Norman and I, but he’s talking to Norman and Jenks.

When Norman is being kiss-butty he gets a lisp and a spitty sound to his voice: "Yesshhth, Offishther, he punched me twice in my calf and he called Jenkshth here a loon." He drools.

Hefty Officer doesn’t hesitate, he grabs me by my ear and hoist me to my feet, and I hear the ocean through my pain. I stoop quickly to the ground and begin shoving in fries, because Norman will never eat them down here on the floor. I get about three when the smurf grabs me and hoists me up and puts handcuffs on me. I bend over and suck up some ketchup before he shoves me to the door. He puts me in the side of the squad car the suit lady is not on, and I see that the other officer, who is missing his left earlobe, has opened the bullet proof glass partition and is feeding her a Little Debby Oatmeal Crème pie. We’re both bent over towards each other from the cuffs under our butts and she smells creamy. I say "hi" and there is a thick paste of fries and ketchup all over my teeth and gums. She screams, and Hefty tells me to shut up. Earlobeless gets out and picks Miranda up to her feet and takes the cuffs off. He hands her the remainder of the Crème Pie and reminds her that the change in those plastic house thingies are for local charities, not for her. She hugs him and goes away. Just me, the Smurf and the Guy with only one and a half ears. They start driving me to the station and lobeless drives way to fast. He squeals his tires and turns on his lights through intersections. I can hear the motors that make the lights go around. I tell them I’m gonna be late for work and Tommy Critenden is never gonna mop that walk in cooler, but they don’t care. With Miranda gone I can lay all the way over, and I call my boss in my head and tell him the whole story and he feels sorry for me. Poor me. I fall asleep, and in my dreams my boss cooks me a big Whopper with fish and onion rings and barbecue potato chips and he’s bailed me out of jail and yelled at the jailkeeper. Then we both float Jenks in the deep fat fryer, my boss and I.