Burger King
December 29, 2007 - 2amIt had been three, maybe four weeks since I’d eaten anything that hadn’t come out of a take out box or through a drive-through window. I’d gained fifteen pounds, looked like shit, felt even worse.
I accepted my double Whopper with extra cheese value meal from the counter monkey with a sneer.
“Keep the change, junior.”
I tossed the twenty-something cents on the greasy counter at the seventeen-year-old zit-faced fuck. A few of the pennies overshot the edge and slid onto the floor. He didn’t move to pick them up.
I turned to leave. I could feel his stare burning up my back side as I intentionally pushed open his freshly Windexed glass doors with a greasy, unwashed hand. This kid hadn’t done a damn thing to me. Nothing. He’d actually been really nice, and I think he’d been trying to brighten my day with a cheery smile and a few attempts at conversation. I’d instantly shot them down with unrestrained contempt.
I’d instantly hated him.
I’d hated his shiteating grin, his eagerness to please, his kindness to a disheveled mouth-breather like myself–but most of all, I’d hated his potential. He had his entire life in front of him, and here I am, thirty-seven, divorced, in a job going nowhere, up to my ass in debt. He can do anything he wants. He’s probably a month from being valedictorian, and then off to some Ivy League school where he’s going to be knee-deep in hot, rich, pussy. Probably bang a dozen girls in his first semester if he has a clue what he’s doing.
I sat in my ostentatiously expensive sports car and wolfed down my fast food filth, not tasting a bite of it. My stomach twisted around the rock of low-grade beef, but I ignored it.
It wasn’t for the sake of getting away from junior that I’d left the “restaurant.” My rapidly growing stomach, declining hairline, and the deep bags under my eyes were more than enough to make me turn away from any reflective surface these days. That included the large windows of the place’s lobby.
“Hey.”
My head jerked up from the burger wrapping unfolded in my lap and the remaining overcooked fries. The kid had followed me outside, and was staring down through the driver’s side window. Christ, he’s going to beat the shit out of me. Good. Maybe he’ll kill me and save me the trouble.
I rolled down the window a crack and screamed at him. “What, goddammit?!”
“Um… you were… cry–you looked distressed… distraught. I just wanted to make sure you’re OK.”
I twisted the rear view mirror to look at myself. Tears lined my face, and more sat in the corners of my eyes waiting for their cue. I’d been crying and not even realizing it. Had I been crying in the burger joint? When did I start this time?
Did it matter?
“Yeah…” I managed a wan smile for the kid and looked him in the eye. I wanted desperately to loathe him. Like a long string of other unfortunate strangers, I wanted him to take the brunt of my self-pity and rage instead of me. Just for a little while.
He smiled back. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I nodded slowly and wiped the tears out of my eyes. My eyes flitted to his plastic name badge. “Thanks… Thomas.”
“It’s Tom. And you’re welcome.”
A squawk burst from the mic headset he was wearing. Tom pressed a button on the box hanging from his belt.
“Welcome to Burger King, may I take your order?” He smiled again and waved silently, then turned and walked back to work.
I turned the key in the ignition, and the German-engineered beast purred to life. I opened the glove box to stare the pistol lying on top of badly folded maps and old chapstick. I pushed it shut again and drove away.
Little Bitch
December 12, 2007 - 1amI just got a really strange voicemail…
Hey yo, what up, Marc, my name is Steve and I took, uh, Tae Kwon Do back in Madison not too long ago. Uh, you gave me your number and everything so maybe some time we could hook up or whatever, uh, the new movie I am Legend is coming out and I wanted to see if you wanted to go see it. Gimme call a back, you should know the number, I gave it to you last time we met.
Normal to that point, right?
Anyways, looking forward to fucking you in your asshole again, you fucking faggot.
:: laughter in background ::
The fuck?
While I do know of a guy named Steve who has a legit reason to hospitalize me, this wasn’t him. I would have recognized his voice. This guy called and left a voicemail from a blocked telephone number, then insulted me with something I haven’t heard since high school. If he had any balls at all, he would have called from a traceable number, or at least identified himself.
As such, I’m mostly just amused by the call. Calling from a blocked number and leaving a prank message? Please. What a little bitch.
The strange thing is that Little Bitch knows the city I live in, my phone number, and that I practice martial arts–though I practice Tae Soo Do, not Tae Kwon Do. I’ve never taken Tae Kwon Do anywhere but Whitewater, and I rarely give out my phone number to anyone, and definitely haven’t done so recently… so I’m at a loss as to Little Bitch’s identity.
Update: Mystery solved. A friend of mine was apparently on a podcast radio show… thing… and they pranked me. More info in the comments.
On Writing
December 7, 2007 - 1amAs a bit of an aside from the two stories I’ve posted here recently–I want to make something clear.
First off, I have no illusions about the quality of my writing. I know it’s nothing special, and I’m fine with that. What I’ve posted here are the equivalents of an artist’s doodle, minor things scrawled in margins.
I know I’m not a great writer, and I don’t aspire to be. I’m not looking to be the next Faulkner, or Hemingway, or (god forbid) Shakespeare. Nothing I write will ever be studied in a literature class or change anyone’s life.
If I can be a one-off Stephen King or Chuck Palahniuk, I would be thrilled. If I can publish a single novel–the sort of thing you read in two lazy vacation days, then never think about again–I’ll be very satisfied.
That’s not really so much to hope for, is it?
If you want to copy anything here, please email me first.
© Marc Teale 2008.