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.