Who's Next?
I can't believe I'm going to actually say it, I think to myself; the final insult, the words that surely strike horror into all middle-aged, how-did-I-get-here women, namely me. Facing the crumpled, elderly man before me with all the dignity I could muster, the words cringed out of me, "You want fries with that, sir?" God. I tried in vain to maintain the chirpy, frozen smile I'd painted on since ten this morning. It was now two hours into my virgin voyage as a Burger King employee and this gentleman was my first at the register. It's been the last humiliation in a string of humiliations that had begun when my darling husband decided my best friend Ruth looked better in his bed than I did. Jobs were scarce in this little town and until I could fix the Duster's transmission, I was stuck working at a place within biking distance. I hate men. Well, ok, not really, but I hate them right now. Seriously.
I looked again at the grizzled old guy who had been studying the colorful menu above my head as if he was choosing his last supper, carefully looking at each photographed menu item and studying each line of text with the seriousness of a scholar.
"Can you repeat that little lady?" he said, intently watching my mouth. "I'm afraid I left my hearing aids at home and I wasn't watching your lips. What was that you said?"
God. I have to say it again. With a trembly, false enthusiasm, I said clearly and with gusto, "Would you like some fries with your meal today, sir?" My face flamed with an instant heat. At least I'm not wearing a silly chicken hat like those kids at the Quick Chik across town. Their beaked hats were the final humiliation, and although it was out of my neighborhood and therefore my neighbor's gossipy tongues, I chose the closer Burger King with the sane uniform of maroon golf shirt and khakis. No way was I putting on a chicken hat.
A line was forming behind Mr. Indecision and the crowd was getting noticeably restless. Hungry people in an order line have a dance all their own and I was quickly learning the steps. They expected a lively pace, a happy face, and hot food. This old man had stopped the music cold.
"Sir?" I prompted the sweet-faced, white-haired codger. "Have you decided on your order?" My patience was slipping and it wouldn't be long before the nineteen year-old pimply-faced manager would pop out to see why the New Girl was holding things up. I urged again. "Sir?"
"Yep," he finally said. "Just the Whopper, whatever the hell that is. Looks like a plain old hamburger to me. Oh, and one of those Coca Cola's, too." As he ordered, he looked at me, seeming to take in the contours of my face for the first time. I saw him register that I was clearly older than the other fresh, young faces dotting the greasy landscape behind me. His eyes clouded with a raw grief that clearly strained him, but passed quick as a blink and I'm the only one who caught it.
Oblivious to the irritated crowd behind him, he put out a hand to mine saying, "Pardon me, but I had a daughter your age and you sure do remind me of her. She died of the cancer a few months back and I'm missing her awfully bad. She took real good care of me for these last ten years since her momma died, you know. I've been a bit lost without her, to tell you the truth. She always cooked for me and I've run out of the frozen meals she had left for me in the freezer. In fact, believe it or not, this is my first time in one of these hamburger places because I didn't know what else to do - I can't face the kitchen just yet. Anyway, you got a sweet smile and it went right to my heart on this lonely day. Now, what do I owe you for that hamburger?"
I smiled, warming up to my job. "That'll be $3.29 sir. And I sure am sorry about your daughter. I'm no stranger to the pain of loss myself. Why don't you come back again for lunch tomorrow and I"ll make sure we cook you up a Whopper all nice and hot."
"I just might do that, " he replied, taking three-fifty in loose change from a leather pouch he had pulled from his pants pocket and pushing it towards me across the counter. "I think a daily portion of Whopper and your sweet smile are just what the doctor ordered. Fix me up with both, little lady, and I'll be a new man." He grinned broadly, momentarily revealing a younger, more vibrant version of himself in the grip of new hope. He took his meal, nodded a thanks, and shuffled off to a sunlit corner, to the relief of the backed-up line behind him.
"Little lady," I smiled to myself, suddenly infused with ancient memories. "I haven't been called that since dad died. Sigh. I love men. Next?"
*******
Quote of the day: My mother went to the wedding anyway because she was fifteen and therefore slave to risk. Kaye Gibbons - "A Cure for Dreams."Chosen because anyone who has been fifteen knows precisely what this means. Teenagers feel they have a personal letter from God stating that nothing will happen to them, meaning all risk takers are either ignorant of or exempt from any possible consequences. The "slave to risk" neatly states the implied imperative of those unsteady years when teens seem almost compelled to do It, whatever It might be. Shudder. How did we live through it?
No comments:
Post a Comment