Fast Food Crisis
by Walt
Giersbach
Another blah
Saturday night since Blythe broke up with me. Nothing
to do but watch TV and weep. Or, oh joy, I could
go to Burger Busters and order junk food for
dinner. Whoopee.
I got home
with my sodium and carb bomb only to find Burger
Busters had pulled a switcheroo. I ordered
double chicken filet with bacon and they gave me
a bowl of … something. Looked like
chili, but didn’t taste like it. Maybe
Chinese chili or something with five spices and
hoisin sauce. Did I need this, me working two
jobs, and making car payments, and—Blythe
insists--suffering terminal halitosis. Had to eat
something or Blythe would find a desiccated
corpse when she came back to return my door key.
First bite and
I almost lost a tooth. Just what I need is
dentist bills. Last time, he said my teeth were
okay but the gums had to come out. Well, what it
was is this metal thing, like a big subway token
or get-out-of-hell medallion for church. Didn’t
look like it would get me a transit ride cause it
had weird writing all over it. Could have been
one of those English dishes they put a coin in at
Christmas, and you have good luck if you don’t
choke to death.
Then there’s
banging on my door so loud I dropped my spoon.
“You have
my food, I believe,” says this little guy
looking like a fireplug covered in black hair.
“Your
food? I’m eating my food that Burger
Busters gave me. They even called me a
‘guest’ at their establishment.”
“No, is
my food. I order…” and he says
something in some foreign language. “The
token, the winner, you have it in your hand.”
He pointed and
sure enough I was holding the thing in my fingers.
“Give it
me!” And he lunged. I’m not in too
great shape, but I ducked his arm and gave him a
chop on the neck. Well, shoulder. Last
workout I had must’ve been in high school.
This pissed
the little terrorist and I tried to slam the door
when another guy came up behind and clipped the
fireplug in the back of the head. “He
would cheat you like he cheat me,” Terrorist
No. 2 said. “So, is mine, no?”
The fireplug
recovered and drove his hairy fist into No. 2’s
stomach, then they were both rolling on the
hallway floor outside my apartment.
“Hey”
I shouted, “what’s this all about?
You want the bus token?” and I threw it down
the stairs. “And take your Chinese chili
with you.” The Styrofoam bowl followed
the token down the stairs and the two terrorists
rolled over each other trying to follow the stuff.
“I’m going back to Burger Busters and
get my double chicken with bacon, then I’m
calling the cops.”
Jesus, and
this used to be a nice neighborhood. I
started to slam the door when Blythe came up,
sliding by the terrorists who’d taken their
fight to the lobby.
“I’m
sorry I said you had bad breath,” she said
putting her arms around me. “Forgive? Smooch
smooch?”
“I’ll
take a big breath,” I replied.
“Both
breaths? And I’m only thixteen,”
she lisped.
“Good
girl. You knew the punch line. So, let me
buy you dinner at Burger Buster. They’ve
got something new on the menu.”
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