sometime around 6 years go, one afternoon at jack in the box ...

i am sitting at a tiny shiny table, there is a plastic tray in front me, with a paper placemat on top if it, and foil wrapped hamburgers on top of that. a little pyramid of wonder. i unwrap my hamburger and the grease stains the foil and i resist the temptation to lick the foil and admit it's really just the grease that i am after.

in full disguise as someone who is seeking nutrition not entertainment i chew the bun and the lettuce and the meat, pretending to be pleasantly surprised by the grease. ahead of me, at the tiny table against the window, i see a man. his hair is white and wild, his clothes are heavy and filthy. it is spring, and he looks ready for a winter storm, and he is insane.

he is going to kill them, the fuckers. he has a coke and some french fries, but no hamburger. he's got a the newspaper in front of him. yes, i heard it right, he is definitely going to kill the fuckers, whoever they are. i wonder if he just can't afford the hamburger or if he is a vegetarian. i wonder if the fuckers are real or just imagined.

what would jesus do now? my inner scriptwriter has a ready answer. he'd sit down next to the man, speak enigmatically about the burgers that fill you up so you never hunger again, and then the man's white hair would turn brown and he would run out of the restaurant to find a good paying middle class job, healed by the presence of jesus.

i'm pretty sure if i sat down next to this man, i would be one of the fuckers. or at least the fear of being seen as one of the fuckers keeps me glued to my chair. in retrospect listening to that fear more than anything else probably did make me one of the fuckers. six years later i still remember this one afternoon. i remember writing a poem the next day ... it went something like this

burger man sits all alone
kill them all, he says
he is going to kill them
kill them all
i pick up my tray and leave

six years later, i still don't have a better answer than that. the abrupt departure and return to my suburban fortress, where blogging is a daring act.

Comments

[renee altson]

beautiful. thank you.

[bobbie]

i like grease too...

and i agree with renee, this is beautiful.

[Michael Toy]

wow, thanks. i try to write things that i like, so in some ways everything i write is beautiful to me. and then i assume that my view of my writing as beautiful is about as trustworthy as my feeling that if only i were president i'd be able to fix the country.

[brett]

i am such a fucker sometimes and i wish someone would kill the fucker in me but i am afraid of how much of me is actually a fucker and there won't be enough of me left when the fucker is killed