McDonald's is my Kind of Place

You can talk about your mountain cathedrals all you want. It’s here, in these brightly colored, plastic booths at McDonald’s, that I feel my spirit soar. I don’t know if it’s the chemicals in whatever it is that makes up these perfectly round, punched-out-of-foam buns atop my Filet o’ Fish or the equally synthesized ‘60s and ‘70s rock wafting down from above, but this place makes me giddy.

And I’m not the only one. The variously afflicted are here, too. Their loud, occasional yips and yelps play havoc with “Deal or No Deal,” which plays on the television monitor in the corner. A daily diner, Ed, is clearly developmentally delayed. He orders at top decibel. He calls out to those on TV. What’s most wonderful, though, is how cogent his advice is. “Play it safe!” he shouts when a contestant gets a wild look in her eye. “Howie – yip! – don’t answer that phone!”

Ed can’t uncross his eyes, but he works his cell with the command of Lee J. Iacocca. “You’ve got to let Martha – hey! – do what Martha wants to – ha! – do,” he advises. ‘Well, that’s what – yelp! – Sylvia gets. I told her – yip! – that floor needed to be cleared.” At first, one is tempted to wonder who would call this guy for instruction. Then one hears the authority in Ed’s voice and understands.

Then there’s the gaggle of old, Armenian men who gather to play crosswords. They huddle over the newspaper outside, smoking, yelling at each other in their own language. There’s an elegance to these fellows. In his sport jacket and cap, each carries himself almost royally. That’s the kind of old guy I want to be, I think to myself.

But there is no one beautiful eating here. No one is young. No one is thin. We are steerage. I think of my superiors at work -- the vice presidents, the chief financial officers, the company chairman – and realize I don’t see their faces. Is it because life’s winners can’t risk being seen in such a place? Is one viewed as weak, not “wanting it enough” if he or she is glimpsed sitting outside the luxury box, driving the wrong car, living at the wrong address? Do we not look up to the guy next door?

Who knows? But here I am. And until that second heart attack, here I’ll be, eating what I shouldn’t and enjoying unlimited refills of everything this cheerful little psych ward has to offer. An order of madness with a side of self-hatred; it’s everything lunch should be.