Bad Ronald

My favorite fast food location is walled in fine, Italian marble. Eating at this McDonald’s is like having a bite at Sadam’s palace.

The menu is the same as that of any other McDonald’s restaurant. But unlike other sites, this space – cavernous and grand -- has been carved into dozens of ornate and cozy little nooks. Each offers an intimate dining experience. The tabletops are of unique, geometric shape, as though designed by an architect with a strong interest in cubism.

Or perhaps our engineer was a taxidermist. For, even more unusual, this McDonald’s features a number of eerily human-looking figures encased in cylindrical glass dioramas. The frightening displays remind one of the museum scenes in “Planet of the Apes,” where Charlton Heston was horrified to find his crewmates stuffed, propped up and posed for viewing.

McSCARY: Ronald shakes down one of the Mario Bros.

The showcases are meant to be idyllic depictions of American life, Rockwell in 3-D. There’s a boy and his dog sharing a quarter pounder after a little league game. Here’s a mother and her child, enjoying a two-cheeseburger combo in the park. In the center of the grand salon is Ronald McDonald himself, having a discussion with a customer.

Garishly lighted, at oddly pitched angles and wearing maniacal grins, however, the figures take on a sinister aspect. We’re sipping shakes in an evil house of wax. For all the world, Ronald – red fright wig menacingly askew and arm outstretched – appears to be shaking down his diner. The face of the guest mannequin is twisted in terror. His hand is raised in supplication to the giant looming over him.

The child in the park scene, with his patchwork skin pulled too tightly across his skull, looks more like a tragically burned little person than a happy infant. His mother stares vacantly into space, uncaring.

In another diorama, a jogger appears to be tearing for the exit. She smiles, but her eyes are wide with fear. We are mere inches from her splayed fingers, yet we blithely check our iPhones. We do the crossword puzzles on our tray mats, ignoring her silent screams for help.

It’s comforting to not have to read when ordering your meal, to be able to point to a picture and mutter, “Gimmie a No. 14.” What’s not so heartwarming is the temperature of this place, which is kept at just above freezing. If he means to capture our bodies via hypothermia, the manager of this hall of horrors has made a fatal mistake. Our shivering keeps us from nodding off, giving into the cold. It reminds us to eat quickly, lest we end up like one of the poor souls on display.

The Lost World Next Door

I live in the past. The neat little homes making up my street were built in the early 1920s. My hair, I’m told, puts people in mind of ‘80s pop-rocker Richard Marx.

However badly I long for days past, though, my next-door neighbor has it worse. A dilapidated shack surrounded by a dark forest of trees and tangle of weeds -- it’s like the Cretaceous Period over there.

I heard something tramping about in that primordial wood last night, as I watered my dichondra. Some beast trod heavily in there, crushing leaves beneath huge paws. I swallowed hard, imagining its eyeing me from behind the wall of trees, bushes and asparagus weed separating our two worlds. I felt a bit foolish as actual fear, cold and clearly felt -- as though someone were drawing a piece of ice slowly down my spine -- raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

                “Saber-toothed tiger,” my neighbor on the other side, also watering, yelled. “Jurassic Park.” I leapt a foot into the air as he said it. I was embarrassed, but at least I wasn’t alone.

On a run the night before, I’d heard some smaller animal whimpering. Had a baby pterodactyl fallen from its palm-top nest to the forest floor? Worse, was a neighborhood cat injured, crying for rescue? I wanted to go in, to help, but a paralyzing fear crept from my scalp to my shoes and kept me frozen just outside the thicket.

Then I actually bolted for home.

Wing Man

INT.  OFFICE BUILDING WASHROOM – AFTERNOON

A vast and gleaming corporate bathroom is empty, save for one man, Smith, and the sound of muzak. He occupies the last stall, against the back wall, seemingly miles from the washroom door.

His dark socks show beneath the door, as he pushes out of his black wingtips. In his stall, Smith loosens his tie, removes his glasses and rubs his eyes, sighing deeply.

                        SMITH

Sweet solitude.

The washroom door squeals upon its hinges. The footfalls of a man named Jackson echo. Smith hangs his head, no longer alone. The footsteps continue, coming his way. Hoping to ward off the newcomer, Smith coughs obviously, loudly.

Jackson’s footsteps continue still, crossing the tiled expanse toward Smith’s stall. Smith rattles his tissue-paper roll for all it’s worth.

The footsteps finally stop at Smith’s stall. He sees Jackson’s black wingtips beneath the door. Smith’s door – locked – rocks cacophonously back and forth as Jackson unsuccessfully tries to wrestle it open.

SMITH

Oh, for God’s sake! There’s clearly someone in here.

Occupied. You’ve only got, like, 20 stalls to choose

from.

Jackson’s black wingtips remain beneath Smith’s door for a moment. Then they back out of sight. Smith sighs in relief. Then the door to the stall directly next to Smith squeaks open.

SMITH

Seriously? There are truly something like a million

other stalls in this place.

Tissue seat covers are noisily yanked from their dispenser and padded down upon the toilet, one after another after another. This goes on for one full minute. At last, Jackson plops himself down and his black wingtips reappear at Smith’s side.

The fetid stench of death fouls the air.

Smith, shaking his head, re-tightens his tie, puts back on his glasses, and begins working his feet back into his shoes.

SMITH

(Angry, prepares to exit)

OK, I’ll go. I had just gotten here, was all relaxed,

taking my first break of the day -- but I’ll go ahead

and move myself along.

In the next stall, whimpering becomes sobbing, then turns into out-and-out bawling.

JACKSON

(Blowing into tissue paper)

I’m sorry. Look, I’m … just a bit … I was just let

go. Fired.

SMITH

(Contritely)

Aw, well, that’s … that’s tough. Look, I’m the one

who’s sorry.

JACKSON

Name’s Jackson. Sales – formerly of sales.

Jackson’s hand appears next to his black wingtips. After a beat, Smith goes to shake it.

SMITH

Smith. Accounts payable.

As the two grasp hands, a stick of dynamite from Jackson’s side falls to the floor and rolls against Smith’s foot.

JACKSON

Whoops.

The washroom door again squeals upon its hinges. The footfalls of Gallo, a security worker from the reception desk, echo. Through the crack between his stall’s wall and door, Smith notes Gallo’s entrance. Should he alert Gallo? Should he simply bolt to freedom?

Jackson’s quietly pads about the floor with his hand, but Smith picks up the explosive. Gallo dries his hands and, whistling, exits the washroom.

SMITH

I’ve been in your shoes, Jackson. You will survive this.

JACKSON

Thanks for … the guard.

SMITH

The first thing we’re going to do is grab a little lunch.

On me. Then we’ll talk.

(Stands, waves dynamite to clear air)

Because you, my friend, have got to start eating more

healthily.

REAL-LIFE CONVERSATION: Reincarnation ... or Whatever

Anglo and Indian co-workers pass each other in the hallway. The Anglo describes his lost weekend, shaking his head.

His Indian friend, believed to be a devout Hindu, laughs comfortingly. "Oh, well," he says, "You only live once."

REAL-LIFE CONVERSATION: Rimming is Serious Business

Every second counts in corporate America. To save time, companies from coast to coast have embraced the acronym. They’re time savers. And sometimes, as in the case of one corporation’s Records and Information Management (RIM) initiative, they’re sexually explicit.

They are, that is, unless you’re part of the machine.

“You’re coming in so back-end,” the human resources generalist sighs and tells the assistant reluctant to take part in the program.

“Ah, the RIM job,” the secretary says. “Certainly it’s too late for me to help.”

The generalist shakes her head. “No, we’ll be able to insert you easily.”

The assistant waits for a smile. Nothing. “How far in are you?” he ventures.

“At this point,” answers the generalist, “it’s all about retention.”

Rufus and Dave Take Mexico

Reader rollins4mvp works in London's financial district by day. By night, however, the Pennsylvania-born businessman turns writer, thinking of his days across the pond and penning fiction. His piece below describes an unusual life -- and even more unusual friendship.

 

Rufus P. Waynewright has seen better days. He is a proud man, a veteran. He served his country with the kind of distinction and valor that makes a man more than a man; it makes him a legend. He fathered two boys, who were now grown with families of their own.

He was husband to a beautiful wife, Millie, with whom he shared 38 years, before she died early last year. She was his life, and he was hers. Since her passing, the days and weeks simply ran together, with no distinction between one moment or the next. Eventually, he left his grief behind, picked the pieces, and started a new life. He wanted to see the world. He wanted to be young once again. He wanted to live for her.

It was in a quiet suburb of Pasadena that he first encountered Dave, on a nondescript corner, on a nondescript day, thinking nothing of the obvious foreshadowing their meeting brought. After striking up small talk with Dave, a friendship blossomed. They began meeting to watch the big game, or discuss punctuation, or just enjoy each other’s company.

After much restless talk by Rufus about seeing a world he had only read about, Dave was more than happy to comply. He suggested a getaway, an adventure that “harkens back to their youth,” and that would remove them from the overwhelming boredom of the suburban life they had become enslaved to. The destination -- Old Mexico.

Rufus never thought he’d end up here, standing next to his neighbor on a “boys’ weekend” to Coronado. The VW van Dave had rented in order to create a period-piece quality for their trip had long since broken down. They were now bound by the tattered Greyhound bus schedule, stolen from a Circle K mini-mart somewhere outside Oceanside. The next bus to Baja, by way of Tijuana, was not due to leave for another six hours. Dave suggested they buy a couple of Miller High Lifes from the corner liquor store and make their way to the poor man’s country club, which in this case was the corner of La Placentia and Emerald.

As they stood under the dim streetlight, slowly sipping the ever-warming swill from the brown-bag sleeve, an impending sense of dread began to overtake Rufus. He asked Dave for the bus schedule, so he could plot his way back north. Dave just smiled.

“Brother….we ain’t in Mexico yet. We’re not quitters, are we?”

Rufus, not known as a quitter, relented to Dave. He foresaw a wasted weekend of sideshows featuring midgets and women with loose morals. There was a reason he had never been to Tijuana. He was beginning to remember why. During the 87-minute bus ride across the border, Dave regaled him with stories of his bizarrely abnormal childhood and formative years: Hebrew school until the age of 12 (despite his Protestant ancestry); vagabond shoe repairman during his early 20s; Renaissance faire days as the town crier;and finally an obscenely early onset of gout, followed by rickets, followed by remitting, relapsing dyslexia.

Rufus had his doubts. He pegged Dave as the kind of guy just looking for attention. He was most likely the youngest child, suburban upbringing, and probably even home-schooled.

As the Greyhound finally limped to its destination, Dave bounded off the bus with the enthusiasm of a sugared-up juvenile diabetic. Rufus’ exit carried less excitement. 

“Where should we start?” Dave inquired. “If we hurry we can catch the spelling midget with the lazy eye!”

Rufus felt defeated. This is not what Millie would have wanted.

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.

Monopoly Money

My McDonald’s cup features the face of Francine V. of Caledonia, Mich. The winner of $100,000 in the restaurant’s Monopoly-game promotion “never told anyone she won – even her son in the military,” the cup notes jauntily.

Of course she didn’t. She feared the kid would hit her up. She was afraid family members and friends would want part of her prize. In the name of advertising, the restaurant’s public relations company has outed (formerly) poor Francine. Indeed, I have her face, see her city and state, can read her first name and the first letter of her last. I imagine her phone is ringing off the hook.

At the very least, McDonald’s has grilled up a rift between Francine and those closest to her, who’ll wonder why, by not mentioning a word of this, she clearly thought them such risks.

The Filthy, Thieving Relatives Move In

Reader sparrow4captain, an entertainment executive in Burbank, submits the following tale of who done it. Even at the offices of the Merriest Place on Earth, where keeping it clean is practiced as a form of art, the grittiness of life occasionally finds foothold.

The quiet was shattered by the sharp scraping sounds of steel against steel, followed by tiny footsteps overhead. My colleagues and I could not find the source of the sounds that would appear at all hours of the day and night.

Small items would go missing. First a pencil, then a hair clip, finally food. Some blamed the cleaning staff. "Those ungrateful thieves!"

One day a woman's voice cried out in disgust. Running to her aid, we quickly discovered both the source of the noises and our lost items. A rat!

And to think, all of this in a house built by a mouse.

 

RATTED OUT: File drawer littered with artifacts.

 
 

OVERHEARD: Tough Talk Beneath the Golden Arches

Two businessmen in short-sleeved shirts and mismatched ties share a booth. Not since Donny and Marie has there been a more mild-looking duo.

“Sales pulled a number out of its ass, because they think they can,” begins the first man, starting in. “I mean, what the fuck? He tears a piece from his Quarter Pounder.

“Four hundred thousand?” he continues. “You’ve got to be fucking shitting me. I’ve got to go to the wall, get my ass chewed out. I’ve got to send you the fucking E-mail. You’ll fucking love it.”

At last, the second man speaks. “Fucking George. I mean, take another furlough day,” he says.

They snicker in unison, shaking their heads.

REAL-LIFE CONVERSATION: Fat Boy Orders up a Little Scrambled Philosophy

A man strides up to the company cafeteria’s breakfast grill, where he's greeted warmly by the cook. “What you want, Fat Boy?” calls the chef, fussing with a pan.

“Scrambled eggs, Carl, my man," Fat Boy replies. "That’s all I need. Other people desire wealth, happiness. Not me. I just want my scrambled eggs.”

Fat Boy smiles, pleased with this wry, if longwinded, observation. One isn't often treated to such philosophical wit, he thinks to himself, in the belly of the corporate beast.

One of Fat Boy's superiors, waiting for his no-nonsense egg-white omelet and toast -- dry -- shoots Fat Boy a look of bemused contempt. One- or two-word answers, idiot, the look says. This isn't “The Tonight Show.”

Fat Boy reads similar reviews of his performance in the eyes of others who've hurriedly scratched their orders on slips of paper and affixed them to Carl's spinning silver wheel. He swallows. He's relieved his order is in, that he'll not take up a minute more of anyone's time. Pearls before swine, he thinks to himself.

To his horror, the cook pulls away from his work to face him. “What’s that, now?” says the chef.

Fat Boy feels the warmth of the crowd's stares. “Oh, I guess I’m just kind of saying I love my scrambled eggs. Don't mean to distract you from your cooking,” he says.

But Carl doesn't return to his grill. Instead, he cocks his hip and screws his face into a grimace, thinking. The crowd gasps audibly when he sets down his spatula.

“Looky here, Fat Boy, you sound like a deep cat. You ain’t never heard of no noetic science?”

“No, sir. I don’t think so.”

“N-O-E-T-I-C. Got some shit to do with ancient civilizations.”

Fat Boy thinks he feels a kick from the woman next to him. It would be inconsiderate not to respond, right? he asks himself. Come on, people, he wants to announce in his defense, Certainly I can't just say nothing.

“I wonder if you mean Gnostic," he offers. "They were an ancient people who believed knowledge was everything.”

Carl’s on a roll. He lets the Gnostic observation go unconsidered. “One of your boys from the Apollo 13,” he continues. “That cat was up there, looking at the Earth and shit, and he had himself some kind of spiritual experience.”

“Yes. I read about that.”

“Right? I mean, how did those cats come up with them pyramids and Stonehenge and all that shit?”

“It’s an intriguing question," Fat Boy decides to respond. "They certainly didn’t have big tractors and earth movers like we see in our very own parking lot today.”

The cook nods excitedly. “Right? And them places was, like, hundreds of miles from each other. I mean, we run far today. But, that’s like 200 miles and shit. Can’t be like, ‘Yo, Fat Boy, I’ll see you in a couple a hours, I’m gonna run 200 miles with this big ol’ rock and shit.' You know?”

Fat Boy eyes the smoking grill, the spinning wheel festooned with orders, the angry faces of those surrounding him. "Interesting," he says. At last, he lets the conversation drop.

After a moment, he adds, "You got my eggs?"

The True Meaning of Christmas

Reader 1singingman submits this heartwarming holiday tale.

Before we left the Spaghetti Factory last night, my wife and I stopped at the beautiful Christmas tree in the restaurant’s entry. It was covered with paper ornaments carrying names of children from the local Foster Care Center.

Along with their name were a few Christmas wishes of each child: a pair of socks; some bed sheets; a can of condensed milk. We looked at each other, then back at the tree. After a few moments of awkward silence I grabbed one of the paper ornaments and we exited the restaurant.

The drive back home seemed endless. I could hardly wait to get home and start on my new Christmas project.

When we finally reached home, I rushed into the house. I went to the tree and -- high above the layers of magnificently wrapped gifts -- I placed that little ornament. That small but earnest thing would remind us of just how fortunate we were and just how poor and desperate this child was.

That would certainly make my kids like me better.

Yes, it was going to be a good Christmas this year.