McDonald's

We greedily split the pile of food, laying out the fries on the torn and greasy bag, and stuffed our mouths with bites from the sandwiches we held in both hands.

During the hot, thick summer when I was 14, I spent my days with a friend from school named Wallace. He moved in with his grandmother. She lived farther down the block in a small white house with dark gray shutters and immaculately tended flowerbeds lining the front of the bungalow.

Wallace moved in after the school year ended. He told me he was sent to his grandmother’s because his parents were trying to stay married instead of getting a divorce. He said it with indifference, a resigned expectation in his young voice.

He would knock at my back door, sometimes eating breakfast with me, and then we would pick up our bikes and ride down the street until it dead-ended, then turn left or right.

By late June, we had been in all the sleepy variety stores standing in the heat. All the stores were the same. Old dark fans moved the air through squeaking screen doors, pulling the scent of lilac and green grass over the old, worn counters and large chest coolers that stocked sodas and canned beer for the owner under a layer of Sprite and Fresca in dimpled glass bottles.

We would finally sit under a gnarled sycamore, bathed in shade with flecks of light roaming in the shadows as the soft wind moved the old tree's leaves and thinking about what to do next.

For a while we talked, but our conversation became sporadic until we stopped and sat listening to the leaves rustle and the sun make the road look wavy and wet in the heat.

“Got any money?” Wallace asked.

“A few dollars,“ I said. “You?“

“Two,” he choked. Then said, “Let’s go to McDonald’s and get something to eat.”

McDonald’s was across town, on the highway, and off-limits to me. I paused but said nothing.

We went home to get our meager savings. I scraped my hand through my desk drawer and got what I had. Then, we rode through the bright sunshine that, in the lunchtime brightness, bathed everything in a flattering light.

We made it across town, pausing at the top of a small rise that leaned toward the highway and watched the traffic pull into McDonald’s. Heat rose from the kitchen with the burger smell that drifted with the smoke that smudged the light blue sky.

As we peddled down the hill, the scent grew greasier. We rode into the parking lot, cut across the drive-through lane, and raced to the back doors, leaning our bikes against the building and behind two cedar bushes.

We walked around to the front. This McDonald’s had two silver steel doors. Wallace grabbed one, and I grabbed the other, pulling with energy and expectation.

Behind the stainless steel counter And at its center, we saw Billy Brown, Jr.—a friend of Wallace’s and known by reputation to most of the boys in town. He was gifted at trouble and on perpetual probation. I was envious of his life of thrills.

Billy was filling cups with soda when we stood at the front of the line. When he turned, he saw Wallace and a reserved smile bent the corners of his mouth.

“What can I get for you, Wallace?“ he said.

“How about a large fry?“ Then, Wallace paused, leaned in, looked at the stainless steel rack that stocked burgers, fillet fish sandwiches, and six-piece chicken nuggets, and said quietly, “And whatever’s free.”

The sun grew hotter with each swallow of food. My throat was scratched raw by the bread and the salt.

Billy laughed and entered the price of the large fry into the cash register. The total blinked on a display facing Wallace and me. But then, Billy spun around and grabbed quarter-pounders with cheese, Big Macs, cheeseburgers, four boxes of large fries, hot apple pies, and two fish sandwiches. He piled the food on the counter, bent down, and pulled out a white McDonald’s bag the size of a knapsack. He stuffed the food into the bag and slid it toward Wallace, who quickly grabbed it and sat it on the floor against his leg.

Before Wallace could speak, the manager, with a hurried stride, walked up to the register, looked through his thick glasses sitting low on his nose, and said, “One large fry, right?“

“Yes, I ordered a large fry,“ Wallace repeated with an unexpected precision. I stood quietly beside him as the manager took his money and placed the french fries in the bag. With his foot, he slid the bulging bag my way, and I bent down, picked it up, and weaved through the people beginning to line up in loose groups in front of the registers.

Outside were empty concrete tables on a small patio carved out of the hot asphalt parking lot. I emptied the bag, and cheeseburgers tumbled out like miracles wrapped in warm, greasy paper.

We greedily split the pile of food, laying out the fries on the torn and greasy bag, and stuffed our mouths with bites from the sandwiches we held in both hands, indulgently opening a few wrappers at a time, not caring what we wasted.

The sun grew hotter with each swallow of food. My throat was scratched raw by the bread and the salt.

I was full but kept eating. When I tried to eat a hot apple pie, my stomach rebelled against my esophagus. Leaning back to stretch, I saw my stomach was a hard, round arc against my T-shirt.

When Wallace burped, my gag reflex triggered. I sat quietly, the waves of nausea breaking over me like the cresting ocean on a rock jetty. Beads of sweat formed on my hot skin, and I shivered despite the sun baking the back of my neck. Wallace burped again to ease his suffering. My stomach lurched in an uncontrollable spasm.

I grabbed the edge of the heavy table to steady myself, and then I sprang off the bench, running in a staggering sprint to the trash can. I gripped the sticky rim and stuck my head deep into the can. My sickness flowed in breathless grunts until I was gasping for air. But each breath I gulped carried the hot, rotting garbage smell and the heat of summer. My stomach revolted again and continued as each explosion stole my breath, and each gasp for air emptied my stomach. I huddled over the foul can, unconcerned about Wallace or those passing by, their appetites lessening by the noise of my illness.

I prayed for unconsciousness. My misery was acute, but I was empty and felt a hollow pang in my stomach and an acidic burn in my mouth.

Hunched over, I walked back to the table. Wallace was lying on the bench, bent with his knees towards his stomach, his arm shielding his eyes from the mocking sun. He continued burping, struggling to keep the feast in his stomach. He groaned, too.

The table was covered with wrappers and half-eaten sandwiches. The fries were drying in the shredded bag. The filling leaked out of the bite mark of a hot apple pie and flowed in a sticky nimbus around the rest of the food and onto the smooth concrete table top.

Wallace was still prone on the hard bench. I had my head down on my arms as I sheltered my eyes from the brightness. We waited.

With a burst of energy, I stood, scraped the food into a pile, and wrapped what was left into the shredded carcass of the bag. I picked it up with both hands, holding it with my outstretched arms, and unsteadily walked to the steaming trash can. I threw it in with a gag. Wallace followed me, his hands smeared with ketchup.

We walked around back, the smell of McDonald’s grease pounding in my nose, a slight throb of nausea pushing against my diaphragm. Our bikes still leaned against the wall behind the bushes. We picked them up and then walked them across the parking lot and along the street, weaving our way through town toward home.

The sweat ran and rivulets into my eyes when we turned onto our street. We murmured a goodbye as Wallace turned into his grandmother‘s yard, and I went straight for a few houses, curved into my driveway, and walked along the side yard to the back door. I pulled the key from my pocket and staggered into the coolness of the house. I found the couch, where I stretched out on my stomach and quickly fell asleep.

Sleeping for a few hours eased the tightness in my stomach. When I woke, I sat up, rested my forearms on my knees, and breathed gently. Then, I stretched, stood up, and walked to the kitchen to splash water on my face.

The warm afternoon sun had already begun to glow and soften. It was quiet, and I jumped at the knock on the back door. Turning, I saw Wallace standing in the warm light. I went to the door and opened it.

“Can you come over for dinner tonight? My grandmother wants to take us out,“ he said.

I paused, guilty because of an unexpected rumble of hunger.

“Where?“ I said.

“McDonald’s,” he said quietly, looking to the left and toward the backyard.

“McDonald’s?” I repeated.

“Yes,” he mumbled again, looking to the sunlight, growing orange as it drifted through the leaves of the pin oak standing near the back of the house.

I looked at him for a moment. “Yeah,“ I said. Then, I grabbed my house key, closed the back door, and walked through the shade and into the yellow afternoon light toward his grandmother‘s house.