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"I would like a #9 Combo," I said with confidence.
"With cheese?"
"Yes," I said, "but no mayonnaise."
"Would you like fries or onion rings with that combo?"
"Onion rings," I said, amazed at how easily this was going along.
"And what kind of drink would you like with that combo?" he asked with his hand poised above the keys of the computerized register, ready to hit the button that would finish the process of buying a hamburger combo for my lunch.
"None," I said. "Thanks anyway."
"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "I guess you didn't hear me the first time. What kind of drink would you like with that combo?"
"None," I said again.
He looked at me blankly. Then at his register. He turned around and looked at the menu board, as if the solution could be found there. It couldn't, so he turned back to me. "But the combo comes with a medium drink."
"I know," I said. "And I applaud your knowledge of this fine establishment's menu items, especially the specials."
He blushed at this. "Thank you, sir," he said. "I have a menu item test coming up. I've been studying."
"Well, it shows. Now, about my order?"
He looked down at the computer screen on his register. "And what was that drink?" he asked.
"Nice try."
"Sir?" he said innocently
"Lets try this one more time. A #9. With cheese. Hold the mayo. Onion rings, not fries. And hold the drink."
"I'm afraid I can't do that," he said.
"And why not?"
"Because the #9 comes with a drink."
"But I don't want a drink."
"But, sir," he said, clearly shaken, "I have to have a drink or the computer won't let me ring up the total."
"Then put down anything."
"We don't have a key for that," he said. "You'll have to be more specific. We have four varieties of cola: with caffeine, without caffeine, without sugar but with caffeine, without sugar and without caffeine. Then we have our lemon-lime drinks, as well. There's--"
"Pick a drink," I said, cutting him off. "Just pick one. Punch the key. Don't fill the cup."
"I think I better get the assistant manager," he said after a long pause.
With this he left me standing at the register. I turned around and leaned against the orange formica counter. Behind me were five people whose angry stares could have fried my burger for me.
"Just get a coke, tea, anything, you jackass," said the man who would be next. "I only have fifteen minutes to get to work and I'm starving."
"Me, too," the rather large lady behind him said before returning to reading her tabloid newspaper. For a brief instant, I was mesmerized by the picture of the Bat Boy sitting on the Pope's knee. A chorus of "yeah, yeah" coming from the angry queue snapped me back from the moment.
A woman with a toddler on her hip said, "Here comes someone. Now we'll get going."
I turned around to see a young face, barely out of puberty but still older than the kid cashier, sticking out of an orange polo shirt with indelible catsup and mustard stains creating a mosaic of autumnal impressions.
"I'm the assistant manager, sir," he said, as he twitched his pencil-thin, assistant-managerial mustache. "Is there some kind of a problem?"
"No," I said. "No problem here. I'm just trying to order lunch."
"Very well, sir. And what would you like?" he asked, as he took the kid's position at the register.
"A #9. With cheese. Hold the mayo. Onion rings, not fries. And hold the drink."
"I'm afraid not, sir. The #9 comes with a drink. That's why they call it a combo."
"I realize that," I said. "I ordered the combo. Hold the mayo and the drink. You're not going to say I can't have that burger because of a lack of mayonnaise on it. Now are you?"
"No, sir. But you realize, don't you, that you can order these items a la carte?"
"Yes," I said. "But it is ten cents more to order the burger and onion rings separately than it would be to order the combo and hold the drink."
"I'll take the drink," said the man behind me.
"Would that be a solution?" asked the assistant manager.
"No," I said.
"And why not, sir?"
"Because he called me a jackass." The groan from the crowd caused the windows to shake. The rather large woman slapped the man behind me on the back of his head.
"I better call the manager." With this he left me standing in line at the register. I shouldn't have turned around and faced the line behind me, but I felt I needed to say something to the people to ease the growing unrest. The line had now grown out the door and around the corner. A street vendor had set up his hot dog cart. Newspaper boys yelled, "Extra!" as they sold the daily edition to those in the queue. A few minutes later the assistant manager returned.
"The manager will be here in a moment, sir. He's on the phone right now explaining your situation to the district office. If you would like, you can wait for him in one of the booths."
"Sounds great to me," I said. "I don't have anywhere to be today."
"Can I get you something to drink while you wait?"
"You just don't get it, do you?"
"Get what, sir?" he asked.
"I don't want a drink," I said. "And I'm not moving until I don't get one."
"N-No sir," he stammered. "I'm afraid I don't get it."
"You don't get it and you should. But you say I have to get it even though I don't want to get it, I don't need to get it, and I'm dying not to get it."
"Get what, sir?" he asked.
"A drink."
"And what kind of a drink would you like?"
"Do I need to come over that counter?"
"No, sir. My apologies."
"What's the problem here," I heard someone say from behind the screen that blocks us from seeing the things they do to our food that we don't want to know they do.
"Don't ask me," one of the cooks said, "I just assemble burgers. The area of customer relations is out of my echelon, and I don't do drinks."
"There's the manager now," the assistant manager said.
"We'll see who takes a drink with his order," the kid said.
The manager came around to the counter. I could tell he was a man to be reckoned with because he was wearing a button-down shirt, of the same autumnal orange, sans condiment stains, and an overly wide tie with the company logo emblazoned upon it. The assistant manager detailed the problem to the manager.
"Did you explain to him that the drink comes with the combo?"
"Yes, sir," the assistant manager said.
"Were you nice about it?"
"Of course, sir. I hope you're not implying--"
"He really was nice to the gentleman," the kid said.
"Now, now," said the manager, "I don't mean to question your abilities as an assistant manager. But you must admit, we've never had this type of a crisis come up before."
"That's me," I said, "always a trend setter."
"I just don't understand," the manager said, "Did you ask him what kind of a drink he would like to have?"
"Yes, sir. We both did," the assistant manager said. The kid nodded his head in affirmation while the manager scratched his. I could see the wheels turning in executive fashion, and they turned on the kid.
"You started this," the manager said. "Did you explain that the combo comes with a drink?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you list all the possibilities for a fine and tasty beverage that we have to offer?"
"Yes, sir," the kid said. "Well I started to, but he cut me off."
"Is this true?" he said to me.
"Yes, I'm afraid I did," I said. "I didn't mean to get him in trouble, honestly. Please, don't take it out on him."
It was plain to see that the young lad was on the verge of tears. His face reddened, sweat broke out on his bare upper lip. The extremely large zit on the center of his forehead began to pulse with a mixture of anger and fear like a young bull facing for the first time a seasoned matador in the ring, scraping the dirt, preparing to charge, wondering if he should run away.
"And he said . . .?" the manager asked the kid.
"Said he didn't want no drink at all, sir."
"Actually," I retorted, "I said I did want no drink."
The manager turned to me gravely. I could see all of the possibilities turning over in his managerial mind. Or I thought I could see them all, until he made his offer.
"Would you be willing to accept a milkshake in lieu of the soft drink that normally comes with the #9 Combo?"
It was tempting. A vanilla shake floated through my mind. A frosty cup, a seductive overflow of creamy goodness, two bendable straws. Or, did I dare imagine, strawberry! The earthy sweetness of its artificial fruit flavor brought to vivid life by adding FD&C red#40, yellow #5 and blue #1. Get thee behind me!
"Sorry," I said. "Lactose intolerant."
"Then how do you explain the cheese on your burger, sir?"
"Nothing in the cheese you use," I said, "ever came anywhere near a cow."
"Is there, then," he said, "nothing I can do to ensure that we reach an agreement on this most disturbing development? Please, sir. Tell me. Have we come to an impasse?"
"Only if you're not willing to not give me a drink," I said.
"Sir," he said, "if this restaurant were merely a mom-and-pop burger stand, we could change the rules as we see fit. We could not give out drinks if we didn't want to. We could give extra tomatoes and pickles and onions. We could substitute tartar sauce for mayonnaise. But, my God man, therein lies chaos. This restaurant is but one in a great chain of being, sir. We can't break the chain. We can't be the weakest link. We can't have people running around willy-nilly ordering whatever they like and refusing to accept part of a perfectly balanced combo special. Now can we, sir? Don't you understand? The very success of the capitalist economic system is at stake here. This event could shake this great nation, nay, the entirety of western civilization to its very core. Are you a loyal American, sir, or an anarchist?"
"Can't I be both?" I asked. "Can I not be a member of the loyal opposition?"
"Not in this restaurant, sir," he said, his face beaming with pride, his eyes joyous as the masses at the Nuremberg rallies.
"Well, then," I said. "Let me think for a moment." My head was about to explode. My temples pounded with the pressure of the decision I must make. I looked at the crowd. I could see their hope for me, for all humanity, written on their eager faces. The man in line behind me apologized for calling me a jackass. The young mother held her child close to her breast in fear. I looked beyond the glass doors where a silent congregation waited breathlessly for my answer and out onto the street where the word of my impending decision was spreading like that famous sermon on the mount. I saw the police setting up barricades for crowd control. A juggling clown on a unicycle weaved in and out of the throng.
I was about to answer when I heard the sound of a helicopter overhead. I looked at the television at the end of the counter. The local network affiliate was presenting an aerial shot of the crowd scene surrounding Joey K's restaurant. Six blocks away, the police were shooting tear gas into the crowd. Little old ladies with blue hair were smashing store windows and grabbing Precious Moments figurines. The banner on the bottom of the screen said that the National Guard had been mobilized. I looked at the other television. Luke and Laura were in yet another passionate us-against-the-world embrace. I had my answer. I knew my duty to God and to country and to fast food patrons the world over.
"A #9," I said, my voice shaking. "With cheese. Hold the mayo. Onion rings, not fries." The crowd held their breath. Police and protesters stopped in their tracks. A young girl in curls handed a heavily armed National Guardsman a flower. I hoped I had the wisdom to make the right decision. I closed my eyes. Bit my lower lip. My head dropped and my shoulders drooped under the burden, as I, in complete submission to my cause, gave my answer. "And hold the drink."
Pandemonium erupted in the streets. Rubber bullets flew like confetti. Police cars were overturned and set ablaze. The Guardsman kicked the little flower girl. Several of the blue-haired old ladies were hospitalized after they accidentally discovered, while continuing their smash-and-grab spree, the novelties to be found in an adult toy store.
I watched in horror as ambulances carried away the wounded, as paddy wagons carted away the angriest of the rioters, as wheel chairs were brought for the elderly looters and their plundered figurines and fetishes were pried from their stiff fingers by nursing home aids deputized as reinforcements for the police. I turned on the young manager. I could see the same horror in his eyes as I knew was in my own. Who would waver first? Who would stand by his ideology? He cracked.
"Enough!" He cried. "Enough! Take your #9! Hold your drink and be damned! Look into the eyes of Chaos and despair!"
Deliverance! I had won. Victory was mine. Order was restored to the streets. The Canadian Army called off its planned mobilization to the border. Illegal immigrants stopped heading south. Trade with China was renewed. The Pope delivered a message of peace to the masses. The pimply-faced kid brought my #9 to me on a tray. I took the tray as I would the laurels of honor from a grateful Caesar. The crowds cheered for the peaceful ending and the restoration of order.
I sat at a booth by the front window so I could see peace breaking out all over the city. The man behind me, the one that called me a jackass, took my place at the counter. He ordered and received his combo meal.
Then I saw the manager hand something to the assistant manager, who in turn handed it to the kid, who passed it to the man at the counter. It was a conspiracy. There was a second medium drink. My drink. The drink I fought so hard not to take.
I walked up to the counter. The manager couldn't look at me for fear of exposing the deceit in his eyes. The assistant manager quickly said he had to go to the back and count mustard packets. Only the kid stood at his post, though his legs were shaking visibly. He alone was man enough to take his punishment. I looked him right in his eyes and saw the single trickle of sweat that ran down his cheek. Or was it tears? Right then, I knew there would be a cover up. The commission would whitewash the facts, and the witnesses would disappear or meet untimely ends. Conspiracy theorists will rage for decades about there being a second soda, but they will be ignored, thought of as paranoid nutcases, the lunatic fringe. I was beaten.
"Forgot my napkins," I said and grabbed a handful of paper from the stainless steel dispenser on the counter. I returned to my seat, unable to eat my glorious combo for the sickness that was rising in my throat, and watched with sadness for the decline of humanity as the man walked away with the drink that should not have been.
But wait. There was still hope. I returned to the counter. The kid was arranging burgers under the heat lamp by expiration date. He smiled at me, knowing he was safe from retribution, from justice, knowing the evidence of a second soda was being destroyed at this very moment.
"May I help you, sir?" he asked nonchalantly.
The nerve. The unabashed nerve. I looked him right in the eyes and I could see the feigned innocence, the condescending smirk hidden behind his polite smile. I had him, and he didn't even realize it yet, but soon he would.
"My burger is a little dry," I said. "I think I'll take that drink after all."
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