Falling In Like

Chapter Three

“Well, nice to meet you, Parker,” I said to him. I surveyed our surroundings. The air was full of the scent of barbecue and French fries, and it was very loud, a constant clamor of talking and hollering. “What do you want to eat?”

I watched his gaze travel over the different restaurants and windows. “I want a burger,” Parker decided.

“Sounds good to me,” I agreed. We both started walking towards the window. Unfortunately, they were different windows.

“God, no!” I shrieked. “I am not eating McDonalds. It is plastic food.”

“I thought you said you were poor. Mickey D’s is the ultimate cheap food.”

“I said I was poor right now. McDonalds is crap. Not even real crap. It’s artificial crap. Carefully crafted out of the cheapest materials in the McDonalds crap factory.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter,” Parker said, sounding very exasperated. “You’re poor right now, so you’re going to eat McDonalds.”

I groaned, long and loud, but followed Parker. He was already in line when I got there, and he stepped aside to let me in but was silent. His skinny shoulders were hunched.

“What do you put on your burger?” I asked.

I noticed his voice get soft. He really doesn’t like talking about himself, I thought. “Um, lettuce, tomato, onion, mustard, and ketchup,” he replied. “What do you like?”

“Bacon, lettuce, ketchup, pickles, and avocado. But not mayonnaise – I hate mayonnaise,” I answered promptly.

“Avocado? Bacon? How fancy,” he teased. His voice was lighthearted, but there was still anxiety in his eyes, and his timing and pitch was off, as if teasing wasn’t something he often practiced.

“Yes, Parker. Some of us like the finer things, and some of us – the less-evolved homo sapiens - like 99-cent Big Macs.”

He laughed, but I could sense that he was just slightly hurt. I opened my mouth to apologize, but then decided against it. This kid needed to learn to take a joke. I stepped up to the window.

“Welcome to McDonalds. What can I get for you today?” the lanky seventeen-ish-year-old behind the counter recited in a monotone. He was obviously hideously bored.

“Can I get a Bacon and Cheese Quarter Pounder meal?” I asked.

“Is that all you would like?”

“That’s all, I said chirpily.

“That will be $6.02,” he said.

I pulled out my wallet and carefully counted out seven dollars. I handed it to him, and he slid back 92 cents and a greasy McDonalds bag.

I smiled. “Thank you.” No reply. Parker stepped up to the window. I stepped up to the soda fountain and filled my cup with Coke, no ice. When I turned back around, Parker was there, holding a bag like my own. I moved aside so he could fill his cup with Sprite, and then started walking. In the very corner of the food court, I found a deserted table that was reasonably clean, so I sat down and pulled my burger out of my bag. Parker sat across from me with very little hesitation.

I grabbed my limp-looking burger and, hoping for the best, took a large bite. Chewed quickly. Swallowed. “Yuck!” I shouted. “That burger tastes like shit.”

Parker contentedly swallowed his mouthful of burger. “It’s not that bad.”

“Yes, it is.”

“This is your dinner. I’d eat it if I were you.”

Disgruntled, I scrunched my face and bit into the burger again. I practically inhaled the rest of it, hoping to get the revolting experience over with as quickly as possible as Parker leisurely enjoyed his food.