Burger Wuss

by M. T. Anderson

  We walked between the oldest stones. They were made of slate. People who had died in the Revolution had little American flags shoved in their plots. I could just barely make out angels and urns.

  We passed several crypts. No one was laughing. One of the guys was glancing around, ducking his head. The trees were tall and full and blue.

  We came upon a grassy knoll, a swelling of the ground. Out of it a pipe rose up — a small, ornate metal chimney. People were lying around it, prone, arranged like sunbeams. We crept toward them. I could hear the people chanting as they put their faces to the metal. At first I couldn’t make out the words. My body was filled with danger. We crept closer.

  They were chanting, “Smell the dead. Smell the dead. Smell the dead. Smell the dead.”

  “There’s a new body,” whispered Turner. “You can sniff the gasses from the crypt.”

  “Smell the dead. Smell the dead.”

  I said, “That’s what you brought me here for? To smell the dead?”

  “Shhh!” said Turner. He looked momentarily flustered. He said, “It’s a small town.”

  “Hey,” said one of the guys in greeting. The people around the chimney looked up. I recognized several of them from my school. Some worked at Wendy’s; most worked at Burger Queen. And Diana was there. I wanted to run. I stood awkwardly.

  “Diana —” I said. I started to walk toward her. “How are you?” I asked.

  She sat up. She turned her face away. “Oh, Anthony,” she said. “Anthony, what are you —”

  “It’s those dorks from OD’s,” someone said.

  “Hey,” said one of the guys from BQ, a kid so cool his name was just Kid. “What brings you slithering around here, Turner? This is our turf, Turner.”

  “Came to introduce a new friend,” said Turner. “His name’s Anthony.”

  “He had a thing or two to say,” said one of the guys who came with us. “He said he could whip your BQ butts.”

  “I did not —” I tried to say, but Turner stepped up beside me.

  “He said he could!” Turner said. “He’ll take you, man. He used to work at Au Bon Pain. He’s special.”

  I was dying. Diana was looking at me, but I couldn’t tell how. I couldn’t see her face by moonlight. And Turner and his pals were yelling, “He says he can whup your stale little flame-broiled buns!”

  I realized I’d been tricked, and started to back away, but already some of the BQ guys were getting up from the ground.

  “You worked at the Pain?” one of them accused me, stalking closer. “You a goddamn pastry hawker?”

  “I’m not,” I said. “I’m not a pastry hawker. I never worked —”

  Turner pushed me toward him. “Whup his ass, lily-boy.” I tripped and stumbled.

  Kid sneered, “You a goddamn limp-wristed beret-muffin? You sell croissants? Too good for burgers?”

  “No,” I repeated. “I really did not.”

  “Kid, my friend,” said Turner. “I could beat you till your intestines were out and like all over, but I’m going to leave that to my boy Anthony.”

  This was starting to look like trouble.

  I was pushed roughly from behind. I fell against Kid, pushing him backward. He shot out his hand and rapped me on the shoulder. He punched me in the gut.

  “Stop!” cried Diana. “Stop it!”

  I felt like I was going to puke. I fell to my knees. Kid thwacked the side of my head. I spun to the grass. I saw Turner jeering and starting to run backward. Turner yelled, “’Course I recognized you, you little shit.” I didn’t understand what he meant, at first. But he kept yelling, “’Course I knew you in a second, sucker.” And then it hit me that I was tricked, and he was saying, “’Course I knew you, bendy-boy. Good luck! Kick their asses and maybe the slut’ll let you hold her hand.”

  He laughed hilariously and then he was bounding over gravestones while a few BQ bruisers chased after him. I couldn’t follow. Kid was sitting on my back, slapping my head from one side to the other. I felt a huge rage. I reached up behind my back to grab him. He took my arm and twisted it. Diana was saying, “Stop it. Stop it. He didn’t work at Au Bon Pain.”

  I said, “Ow! Ow! Ow! Ow! I didn’t work at Au Bon Pain!”

  “No?” said Kid. “No?”

  “No!” I said through gritted teeth. “Never!”

  Kid stood up.

  Diana was standing over me. Her head was outlined against the stars. I could smell the earth. Some of the earth was up my nose. I said, “Diana. I love you.”

  “Shut up,” she said angrily. “What are you doing hanging around with Turner? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Please, Diana,” I said.

  “You’re so damn stupid,” she said, and started walking away. The others were walking away, too. Some of them were giggling.

  I crawled after her. “Diana?” I said. “Don’t . . .” I made my way on all fours.

  I sat against a gravestone for a second. They were gone. I breathed heavily. My stomach and cheeks still hurt. The stone was cool against my head. I spread my fingers out on the face of it.

  I got up. I held myself up with one hand. I walked after them. I needed a ride.

  They were gone when I got to the stone wall. All the cars had gone.

  I remembered Turner’s words: “Kick their asses and maybe the slut’ll let you hold her hand.” It made me angry. Very angry. I wanted to kill. I kicked the wall. It hurt my foot. I jumped up and down. I thought, Okay, Turner. You got me this time. You got me, you bastard. But things won’t go this way for long. This war is just beginning.

  The next day I was smoldering. I was buzzing with hate. My stomach was still a little sore. My legs were a little sore, too. I’d walked home five miles from the graveyard.

  Jenn and Rick’s shift overlapped with mine. They had heard about the whole thing. Jenn said, “I don’t believe you went with him, Anthony.”

  Rick said, “It was kind of stupid.”

  Jenn said, “I guess you didn’t know about that whole like rivalry between us and BQ. It’s really, really big.”

  “Now I know,” I said.

  “They hate Turner,” said Rick. “He’s a marauder.”

  “He goes by his last name,” I said.

  “You would too,” said Rick, “if your first name was Cyril.”

  “Ricky Licky and me spent the night watching videos,” said Jenn. “Rick was doing this —”

  Rick made some face. It was an impersonation, but I couldn’t tell of what. He wiggled his fingers around his cheeks. He opened and closed his eyes. Jenn was in hysterics. She said, “Yeah, like that. Chug, chug, chug! Chug, chug, chug!”

  Rick said, “Chug, chug, chug!”

  I had no idea what they were doing. Jenn said between laughs, “Isn’t he hilarious?”

  Mike came around. Suddenly Rick and Jenn pretended to be busy loading the milk bag. Rick held the bag and Jenn steered the nipple. Mike took me aside. “Anthony,” he said, “this is your first time on the lunch shift. It can be pretty crazy. Just keep thinking. Be aware. Calm yourself down. Clear your mind of everything but the Preparation Hierarchy: Drink, Sandwich, Fries. You can’t go wrong if you just think of that.”

  I said, “Your years of training as a Zen master serve you well.” I was irritable.

  He said, “Anthony, I like a little sass in my employees, and can laugh right along with them. That’s because I know we’re all one big family. We’re all in this together.”

  “I hear Kermit O’Dermott is coming here.”

  “Yes,” said Mike. “They’ll be shooting some footage at our franchise. It’s something to be proud of. Now get out there and serve some customers.”

  I had never experienced anything like lunch rush. The lines were huge. People kept on ordering things. They just wouldn’t stop. Some people were buying lunches for five or six people. To make it worse, Turner was my partner on register. Every few minutes, he’d come up behind me and say something
mean.

  “I’m Anthony, a little girl in a calico sweater.”

  Sweaters are not made out of calico, but that hurt nonetheless.

  And the customers would be saying, “Yes, I’d like a . . . a . . . Big O Meal but with the Big O without tomatoes and extra salt with the fries, one small drink, a Coke I guess, and one large, a chocolate shake, no, not chocolate, one vanilla, a vanilla shake, to go please.”

  “I’d like a — what would you like, darling? A . . . ? What? Speak up so the man can hear you. She’d like a . . . say it, honey. Hamburger Happy Lunch. Annunciate your plosives. She wants a hamburger Happy Lunch. With a . . . speak up so the boy can hear. He looks new. Are you new? He’s pressing all sorts of funny buttons, isn’t he? He’s talking to himself.”

  Turner, in passing: “Did you and Diana ever play shuffleboard? Did it ever get that wild?”

  Rick calling to Jenn: “Genie Jennie Junebug? Would you get me a wee fry-o-rama-ding-dong?”

  “Hi, yes, O’Chicken, fries, large, Coke, large, wait. Is that the meal? O’Chicken Meal. Or the Chicken Special. What’s the difference? I’ll try the Chicken Special I guess. That come with fries? I’ll try that.”

  Turner, in passing: “Sir, you’re being served by a wuss. Do you mind that? A complete wuss.”

  “Turner,” I said. “You better —”

  Jenn was singing to Rick, “When the moon hits your eyes like a medium fries, that’s amore.”

  Mike was yelling, “Would somebody put down more fries? Somebody?”

  “Would you like that to go?” I asked.

  “Sir, this kid is a real wuss. I’m not kidding.”

  “Turner!” I hit a few buttons. “That will be right up. Could I take the next order?”

  “Two hamburger meal. Like the Two Cheeseburger Meal, but without the cheese. With Coke. That’s one. Then a . . . can’t read the writing. One sec.”

  “Four iced teas, please. Could I get them pronto?”

  “Nuggets are up!”

  “Ricky Licky —”

  “Yes, Jennster Junebug?”

  “Could you be snagging a nine-piece while you’re back there?”

  “I’m Anthony the bendable dork-boy. I’m not very strong, but I’m very stupid.”

  Beverage — Sandwich — Fries. Beverage — Sandwich — Fries. Beverage — Sandwich — Fries.

  “Do you know the biggest reason I dropped Diana after we made out? Teeth. Just gross.”

  “Hi, I’d like the Big O hamburger sandwich for myself, with a soda pop and french fried potatoes. And for my daughter, a hamburger Happy Lunch.”

  “Okay, ma’am.”

  “Her teeth were not real.”

  A hideous beeping noise had started by the fries.

  “And could you cut up my daughter’s hamburger? Into small squares about yea big? She has trouble eating.”

  “I’m a bad, messy girl,” said the little daughter. “I need to learn a lesson or two about neatness.”

  Mike screamed from the back, “Someone get the fries! Someone get the fries!”

  “I can give you a plastic knife, ma’am. You can cut it up yourself then.”

  “No, could you just do that? Into squares about yea big. That’s how big she likes them.”

  “Ms. Caroldi gave me three discipline tickets for lunchtime dripping and clutter.”

  “Pardon me. Pardon me. I had four iced teas and I’m afraid you’ll find the bathroom is —”

  Her teeth, Diana’s teeth — how could he make fun of them? That bastard! The taste like the spice of the Orient, or dainty oysters. . . .

  “Would someone get the fries?”

  “Cut it up for my daughter and we’ll wait here. Thank you.”

  “Get the fries, Anthony!” Mike yelled. “Anthony, go get the fries!”

  “Ma’am, I can’t — excuse me. I need to go get the fries. Be right back.”

  I ran to the fry machine. The baskets were down in the grease. It was bubbling furiously.

  Turner was at my side. “Do you do ballet?”

  “Turner,” I said, “how do I get the fries out? How do I get the baskets up?”

  The beeping was overpowering.

  “See that big red metal ring by the side of the machine? Pull it.”

  He went and gave the lady and her daughter their burger. I walked carefully to the side of the fry vat and reached up to the red ring. I pulled it.

  A shower of blue powder thumped out of the fume hood. It churned in the grease. An alarm went off. Mike came running over.

  “Okay,” I said. “I pulled the red ring. What do I do now?”

  Mike said, “Oh damn.” He told me what to do then.

  We went out among the customers. The cut-up-hamburger woman and the dripping-and-clutter girl were sitting down to eat by the time I got to them. I waved. I said, “Hi, ma’am, there is a little problem and I’ll have to ask you to put that hamburger down. The burger is now toxic.”

  “What? I bought it. I’m not going to put it down.”

  “Ma’am, this is a toxic burger. I apologize. Those fries are toxic fries. Everything in this store is toxic. I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to put them down.”

  She looked at her daughter. “Take your burger,” she said. “Put it under your shirt and let’s go.”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “The burger would still be toxic under her shirt. I apologize, but it is now coated with ammonium dihydrogen phosphate, a fire-retardant. We’re going to have to close down for the day.”

  I could hear Turner laughing himself silly over by the registers. He was bellowing, “Store closed! Everything’s poison! Poison orders only! Well done, Anthony my man! You are a genius!”

  “Sir,” I said to someone. “Please put down the coffee and leave the premises. I apologize. Because of me, your coffee is toxic coffee. Sir, because of me, that is toxic Sweet’n Low you’re pouring into it.”

  So we got all the customers to leave. We locked the doors. All surfaces had to be cleaned. All the food had to be destroyed.

  “Anthony,” said Mike. “This was your first lunch rush. But you acted without thinking. Do you know what that was? Stupid. That was just plain stupid. I don’t often call anyone an idiot, but look around you and see what we’re going to spend the rest of the day doing. We will be working on our hands and knees. We will make no profit. In fact, we will make negative profit. I want you to think about that while you’re wiping things down. Maybe you’ll learn to ask questions the next time. Let me tell you an anecdote which may shed some light on the situation: My wife sometimes says to me, ‘You’re a complete idiot.’ I take it as it’s meant: constructive criticism. Okay?”

  I considered telling him it was Turner. But I didn’t think he’d believe me. And I thought this just added more fuel to the fire. I looked at Turner’s sneer. He chuckled like a madman whenever he passed us.

  Occasionally he’d say something. He’d stand next to me and polish. He would whisper things like, “Had to clean Margot like this last night. Really thorough. Takes a lot of Lysol to get wimp-stench off upholstery. Can’t have the smell of wimp all stenching up my Olds.”

  So while I scrubbed and shined, I thought of ways to get even. One thing started to connect with another. I sprayed and wiped the metal surfaces. I thought about the things Turner would hate most in the world. I thought about how I could make them happen. I rubbed and scraped. I thought about hatred.

  I thought about who could help me. At first, I thought of Rick. Rick felt sympathy for me. He would give me a hand. When I got together with Diana, he’d been pretty smug about the power of love. He was the obvious choice to help.

  But then I looked over at him. He and Jenn were scrubbing with their sponge arms interwoven. They talked quietly to each other.

  “You’re the bestest at detoxifying.”

  “No, you are. You’re the very bestest-beasty-estest.”

  Maybe not.

  Dearly beloved brethren, we are here to
mourn the passing of Richard Piccone’s brain. Many of us remember Rick as an energetic, youthful boy with a strong interest in feats of endurance and the stupider of acrobatic stunts. Many of us recall with a smile Rick’s enthusiasm for kung fu movies and his deep and reverent appreciation for airbrush portraits of barbarian warlords. We remember Rick the mountain hiker, Rick the devoted friend, Rick the concerned brother of a boy who won’t get out of the bathtub. But no more. Rick was cut down in the flower of his youth, struck down by that scourge of manhood, that most repulsive of afflictions, called, in the medical community, lovey-dovey-cutesy-wa-wa. It ate through his brain like circus peanuts. Let us mourn him who is with us no more. Rick’s brain is survived by his parents, his older brother, and his body. Please rise and sing the hymn.

  Rick was out. That was fine. I would find someone else. I looked around the room. One of the cooks was an old stoner with stringy hair that was either brown, blond, or gray. I’d never met him. The woman working the window had kids. No help there. The other guy working register spent his free time selling his mother’s prescription drugs to people working double shifts. He’d been fired from Burger Queen when he was caught trading amphetamines for chicken nuggets. He was easily angered and a biter. No help there either. I racked my brain. I washed and stewed. Then it hit me who. It all hit me at once.

  Finally, I had a plan.

  It was an elaborate plan. It was perhaps not the easiest plan to pull off. But it would be beautiful. It would be huge and ornate, like a torture machine. It would be inescapable, and would hurt poor Turner in many, many spots at once. It was the perfect plan for revenge.

  So when I saw Shunt tying up the garbage and heading outside, I said, “Could I go out with you and see the trash compactor?”

  And when we were alone there, I paused while the machine snapped and ground. Then I drew Shunt into conversation. He was saying, “You smell that smell? O’Dermott’s garbage. A reek they try to hide. Distinctive. The secret rot of a multinational corporation. Ask: What I cook, how does it convert into this smell? The answer: mayonnaise in the Super Sauce. Going off. Like a sore they hide. Stink will out.”