The Burger King Over by Popeye’s in Suisun (First-Person Fooding in Solano)

For three weeks in a row I visited the Burger King in Suisun after I got out of class. Before that I had been frequenting the nearby Popeye’s for my post-night-class stomach fulfillment, but—as any fried chicken fan is likely to concede—Popeye’s has a real problem.

Fresh Popeye’s—spicy, not mild—is some of the best damn fried chicken you will ever come across. It’s flaky, flavorful, and the chicken is of a different world of quality than the crap the KFCs around here put out.

But Popeye’s isn’t perfect. No, I’m not referring to their overtly racist commercials, the fact that they condescendingly welcome you to the drive-thru with a “Welcome back to Popeye’s, may I take your order?” or even the MSG-laden mystery that is “The Cajun Sparkle.”

So what could my problem possibly be? Simply put, those two-for-a-buck-and-change drumsticks and thighs aren’t worth wasting the jaw effort over when they aren’t fresh. And the food techs over at Popeye’s don’t seem to care how damn long that chicken is left under the heat lamp. Eating at Popeye’s is a complete gamble: you could win and eat delicious fresh floured chicken, or lose and gnaw at some miserable rubbery bits for half-an-hour.

I had grown sick and tired of the Popeye’s lottery after a spectacularly bad set of Tuesday specials, so I decided to give the ole BK a go.

Now, what could have possibly possessed me to actually want to try Burger King again? This I do not know. It was getting late, and I think most of my other options in the area were closed down. Maybe I was feeling a piece of my youth burn back up to life again after being told by my writing mentor that I needed to “take more risks.”  Take more risks? Like what? Unprotected sex with strangers? Cosplaying Frogger and running across traffic on Peabody? Or even…even…

Eating at Burger King? I was already wondering if I had made the correct choice as I pulled into the very empty drive-thru. The soulless minion on the other end of the menu speaker at no point said the words “welcome back,” which was a good start. I panicked instead of asking for extra time, the way I always do. Don’t want to waste his time. Don’t want to be that guy, the one the order-taker rolls his eyes over as his manager snickers her commiseration before returning her attention to the heavy metal tray she’s scrubbing with some diluted antiseptic she can’t pronounce.

I ordered the Texas Whopper. Oh shit, Cherry Coke Zero? Better order one of those too. Oh man. Even if the food was garbage, something I was pretty much counting on, I would at least have a Cherry Coke Zero to comfort myself with.

He gave me the total and I pulled up to the second window. (He didn’t tell me to pull up to a specific window, but the first was blocked with boxes visibly stacked up against the window’s side.)

And there, at the second window, he was waiting.

He wasn’t your normal Burger McFlippant, Esq.

See, fast food, like most minimum wage drudgery around here, tends to wear your soul down. It’s a very gradual erosion, more of a chafing at the parts that make you you than anything else. It happens to everyone in any line of work where they’re expected to do more inane bullshit than they should have to for less money than they deserve—all in no time flat. You start the job a genuine human being, but eventually the caustic environment, the coworkers, the unrealistic expectations, and the unholy stress of it all gets to you. The numbers which translate your blood pressure into human values go up while the numbers translating your value to the corporation on your check stay the same or even start to go down—optimization, they calls it, trimming the fat, they say, restructuring the ole company, m’boi.

And so we see a scab begin to form over the soul. The scab wraps up the wound and prevents further damage. Robotification sets in. Beep boop. You begin to unconsciously slip into a comfortable rhythm at work, and while at first you are proud of this, it eventually begins to terrify you. The customers streaming in and out change their faces around, but they can’t fool you—they’re the exact same consumption-based beings that came in earlier. Then the faces of the coworkers change, but they’re still the same automatons that greeted you yesterday.

And before you know it, you’re the one who’s worked there the longest, and you look in the mirror, and you see the tiredness there, and you wonder at how the asymmetrical wrinkles that start on the work shirt you’re wearing today—which you just picked up off the floor and threw on at twenty-till—extend up past the collar and continue on all the way up to your receding hairline.

But this guy was different. Big, soft eyes like that skunk from Bambi. He didn’t want to say too much to me, or even riposte my friendly speech attempts when I tried to make the experience less miserable for the either of us. Perhaps a recent immigrant to the ole US of A? A man long-shamed by a stuttering problem his parents couldn’t fix at the best speech centers in the area? Mental illness a likely possibility. He didn’t make eye contact or even say three words to me on that first visit. I was instantly interested in his backstory, which I began to create in my head. Already he was becoming a character in the pages of the not-so-great American novel of my memory.

A few minutes later I was driving off,  a very warm and very expensive bag of burgers and fries on my passenger-side seat. I put my hand underneath the bag and reveled in the bursts of heat coming off of the unnecessarily warm food. I love unnecessarily warm food. Then I drove over to my buddy’s place and dug in.

Shockingly, it was the best Burger King of my life. The fries—allegedly “medium-sized,” but by what king’s measurements, pray tell—were better than the ole reliable fare McDonald’s pumps out, and very fresh. The frying oil probably wasn’t even two weeks old. The Whopper itself had a singular, lonely onion ring on it, and some jalapenos or something. Apparently, that makes it Texan. Yee-howdy. It was surprisingly tasty.

And the soda? Some of the best fountain swill I’ve ever had, no joke. Far superior to bottled Cherry Coke Zero, which has that strange plastic artificiality to it which hardly makes it suitable for good old-fashioned and excessive patriotic consumption.

My friend was also shocked by the results. Both of us had been previously burned by the extremely diverse interpretations of the word “quality” employed by each BK store. After the meal, my buddy and I vigorously discussed the merits of the mightily-fallen Chicken Tendercrisp sandwich. Wait, was it even on the menu anymore? All I’d seen advertised was the charred oblong patty-chunk of mechanically processed scrapings known as “The Original Chicken Sandwich.”

Truly, the world will be at a loss if indeed the Tendercrisp has gone the way of the dodo. When first introduced, this magnificent sandwich harkened back to the crumbier, breadier days of Chick Fil-A. Of course, neither of us had experienced a good, quality Tendercrisp in some time. The chicken was always overcooked or undercooked or maybe they just changed the recipe? Well, perhaps the loss will not be so profound.

When I returned the next week, my experience was roughly the same. However, this time, the young man of thoroughly indeterminate age—like some twenty-something wielder of both spatula and philosopher’s stone—was more talkative, much to my delight.

Under his breath he muttered the word “sheisty” no less than six times as he handed me my Cherry Coke Zero and tossed over my bag of food. He pointed to my drink and said, “Cherry Coke Zero.” I thanked him profusely and drove off, elated as I began to ruminate over the nature of his mumblings.

Who was being sheisty to him? Were they cutting his hours? Was he working overtime? Missing his family back in Liechtenstein? His story ballooned in my mind, and I filled in every blank with a Mad-Lib-like glee as I drove over to my pal’s house. I wasn’t sure of much, but one thing I did know—as the warm bag filled with muted, trademarked smells assured me—was that I would be seeing him next week.

Only, I didn’t. He wasn’t at the drive-thru window that third week. It was some girl—a professional burger slinger, too—and probably the manager. Had the company had too many complaints about his anti-social behavior? I grew despondent the moment I heard a female voice greet me, and as she took my card at the second window I sincerely began to hope that the food would not suck butt again the way Burger King typically does. Slowly, it began to dawn on me that I had begun to connect his presence with the decency of the Burger King I had been consuming. He was my good luck charm for thoroughly edible BK, and I’d lost him. Hopefully they hadn’t fired him.

Burger-Pro: Lady Edition mock-sheepishly informed me that the promotional 99-cent sauced slab of sawdust I had ordered was going to need a little extra time to cook, and that I would need to pull around to the other side of the restaurant and park. I agreed in proprietous fashion and pulled around to the side of the store—where I saw, through the window, the hero of our fable wiping down the day’s dine-in tables.

I longed to wave at him or shout my undying devotion to his tight-lipped acerbic brand of customer service, but I settled on a silent prayer of thanks to any gods who cared to listen as he picked up a rag and threw it across the store at the futuristic rocket-shaped drink dispenser.

He proceeded to unleash a string of harsh-looking words under his breath as he grabbed a broom. His practiced, methodical strokes across the floor revealed more of his character than his words ever would.

Eventually somebody placed a bag in his hand and pointed over at the weird guy in the even weirder economy Toyota outside. He picked up the bag, stomped through the door, and walked over to my car.

He handed me the bag. I told him thank you. He kind of nodded.

Then I went over to my friend’s and ate it and got some of the worst food poisoning of my life.

Fuck you, Burger King.


Closing’s the Worst Shift

and everybody knows it. The floors

are never clean enough and

you’ll never get out fast enough for

Mr. Mani-Pedi, the owner/asshole

who only ever comes in Monday mornings

to drop off the supplies he picked

up earlier that day from Sam’s Club.

Fucker never buys enough

floor cleaner anyway, so you’re

scrubbing the floor with bleach

by week’s end, which doesn’t really

work, but nobody listens to you so

don’t bother bringing it up.

Raise your voice and be known

as the complainer around here. Just run

the month-old disposable mop

head smelling of piss and pepperoni

over the floor,  and be sure to pick up

the split-end threads that fall out when

you vigorously scrub down those mysterious

gooey black spots. You could throw

those loose mop threads in the trash

one-by-one as they appear on the tile,

but you might as well stuff ’em in your pocket,

wait ‘til you’re done, and throw that shit

away all at once. Saves time. And you already

smell like pizza and farts anyway since you

just cleaned the floor drain out. At least

you got to yell “fuck” as loud as you wanted

when the drain butter spattered on you as

you sprayed that shit down. Manager didn’t

care. Too busy blowing his paycheck up his nose

in that bathroom you just cleaned. Still is.

The bathroom door finally opens and he comes

out stretching in an over-exaggerated and

accomplished fashion and initiates some

uncomfortable eye contact. His smile twitches

and he says, “Whatcha wanna hear tonight?”

You smile back and say, “Whatever is cool, man.”

But secretly, you hope it’s Maiden.


Some Rambling on Writing


You know that whole thing about writing every day and how everybody should do it?

I’m not sure I really agree with that. I mean, I’m sure it works for some people.

But I tend to think it’s more like muscle training: occasionally, you have to give it a rest. If you don’t, your muscles don’t recover properly and your progress doesn’t properly get saved.

Not to say that I wouldn’t love to be able to write something I could fall in love with every day of my life.

Another big factor in my experience is inspiration. If you don’t experience life, you can’t write about it. You can’t glean the glimmers if you never stumble upon them.

Not to mention there’s that whole being able to achieve a proper flow state thing. The key to unlocking a flow state at will seems to be squirreling itself into new hiding places around my brain each time I think I’ve got a firm grip on it.

In other news, I’m reading Redshirts right now and it’s hella good. My first Scalzi book.

Anyhow, done rambling.

Have a continually and increasingly groovy day!


Ramble: Encounter Homeless Problem

So a guy at the convenience-store-formerly-known-as-Circle-K was hanging out in a broken-down van parked at the pump next to me. I was scraping away at the layer of sediment that lines the bottom of my passenger seat when I don’t give anyone else rides for too long and he approached me. He needed some gas, he said. He had a nice pair of Nikes he could sell me that would fit me perfectly, he said. I told him no need for the kicks I was in the mood to get a kick out of throwing him a couple of bones and fished two dollars out of my wallet at an angle where he couldn’t see that I also had a twenty and two more ones. He offered me the shoes and I wish I had been cool and said no thanks I already had some but instead I said there was no need for the shoes and wished him a good night.

Inside the store, the person who wasn’t Chris was working. I don’t know her name but she’s nice and we talk about school sometimes when I come in. She told me she just found out that she passed her Biology class at Adult School last semester and I told her that’s awesome and that Biology isn’t the easiest thing in the world. While we were making smallstalk the man with a trenchcoat full of shoes walked in and over to the sunglasses display. It being night and all might have made his actions seem a little out of the ordinary, but I shrugged it off as him following the Boy Scout motto and getting prepared for tomorrow’s sun.

Then a youngish gentleman walked by outside past the sliding doors who I guessed was homeless by the way his jacket hung on him like the loose skin of a stomach surgery patient that pulls up into new body territory and sighs about the darling fat that left the cohabitation too quick for it to recover. Also, his hunter orange Croc sandals had me pegging him as an eccentric to say the least.

I walked out of the store and over to my car. The door is a piece of shit but I was too busy thinking about sandal-Crocs to notice. The perhaps-homeless gentleman was hanging out in front of the water dispenser machine rocking out to invisible music or maybe the synthetic bird screeches that are supposed to make the pigeons that roost on the roof anyway not sleep or something.

Then he began to curbstomp the head of the invisible man in front of him. He attacked it from some very creative angles. Afterward, he began to play catch with the invisible woman I somehow couldn’t see that lives in the rubbery ornamental shrubbery that lines the outside of the station.

Seeing that kid took me back to the bowling alley. Every night I worked there I met new people that lived out of their car, camped by a “river” (Vacaville’s slimline edition of one), or slept between the bowling lockers or in the darkened back room where the laser tag is now before it was installed when it was just a dark corner next to a door that wasn’t built to be opened over in the back arcade. Many just slept on their open palms at a table among the games.

Homeless people come in all shapes and sizes and the vast majority of them are too proud to beg. The working homeless are all around you, cooking your food at that restaurant you like that doesn’t pay their employees enough to swing an apartment around here and working odd jobs here and there to get by. Many of them sell drugs. Sometimes those are the drugs they got at the VA. They don’t sell them because they want to, they sell them because it’s the one thing they can benefit by parting with out of the meager odds and ends they have left.

Many are God-fearing, or poets, some are alcoholics, some pissed off the wrong parent and found themselves evicted without the legally required month’s notice, some worked their whole lives until something went wrong and many just got out of jail and haven’t decided for sure they don’t want to go back yet.

I have five friends (that I know of and can can recall off the top of my head) who were homeless at one time in their life. They were all young, male, and attending school or working at the time they were on the streets or in their car. They all were, and still are, good and intelligent people.

The local shelters do a lot of good, particularly for homeless families and older Jesus-worshipping men and women. However, they are severely lacking when it comes to combating the endemic young adult male homeless population or helping those with a religion of decline-to-state.

Why should any person have to suffer on the streets unnecessarily? Vacaville will get a full turnout and a nice fat write-up in The Reporter when there’s a meeting at city hall about not issuing licenses to sell medical marijuana. Taking away grandpa’s reefer is obviously the bigger issue. Who cares that it’s the only medication that makes the chemo bearable? Who cares that alcohol is the drug that kills and kills?
Aside thing:

I went into Stars one night after threading through a crowd of ambulances and police cars at the door and was informed by my coworkers that there had been a barfight. No strange occurrence for a Saturday at the old recreational center. But this time, a man had been punched hard enough to bounce off the two walls forming the corner outside of the bar and then thunked his head down with enough force against the tile floor that the paramedics had to be called.

He died while being airlifted to North Bay Medical Center.

Sorry, I’m tangenting here. This whole ramble is pretty rough, but I wanted to get it down while the glimmer was still there.

Alcohol killed that man. I have never seen a man die of cannabis. But Vacaville doesn’t care. The cops and the norms throw back a few on lunch break or at the end of a long day but always, always call for additional backup any time they see a young minority smoking quietly and alone in some hidden nook within walking distance of a high school.

In a twisted way, I love Vacaville. I have met wonderful and unforgettable people here. Yeah, it’s too damn hot and dry in the summer, the drivers are pretty terrible–they are pretty much everywhere but an Oregonian stretch of highway at night,  the only time I’ve ever seen proper usage of the fast lane–and there are plenty of absolute pricks in this town. Believe me, I met more than my share in church and at school and work. I almost didn’t make it out of my teens thanks to those assholes. But the real human beings here are amazing and I’m thankful I’ve been able to meet every last one of them.

I love Vacaville, but seeing a homeless mentally ill young man curbstomping and playing catch with the shadowmen made me laugh, and that makes me hate it.