I was sitting in Barnes and Noble, reading Fast Food Nation, a new book about the social, economic and environmental impacts of fast-food corporations. Even with its classic muckraker approach, the book doesn’t strike an elitist attitude; instead the author takes an objective look at how fast-food franchises have changed the American agricultural economy and the face of our towns in the past 40 years. It definitely makes you think about what’s behind-the-scenes of your local Burger King.
In my case, Fast Food Nation also made me think about a hamburger and fries in my stomach. Not exactly what the author intended, but I figured I should enjoy it before further reading of the book ruins my greasy food experiences forever. So I walked down the block to McDonalds.
I watched a teenage girl stand up to throw away her trash. A guy at a near-by table intercepted her, and asked for her leftover fries. But there were none left. “Sorry,” she shrugged. The guy smiled and slumped back in his seat, scoping out the dining area for the next patron with a few leftovers.
I eyed him curiously. If I hadn’t seen him in action, I never would have suspected he was a beggar. A nondescript white guy. Clean shaven. A worn leather jacket over a clean button-down shirt. Alert expression. Bright eyes. Definitely not a junkie.
He caught me looking and I turned towards the window to study his reflection, rather than staring directly at him. I felt weird about it, but I couldn’t ignore him. The thing that really caught my attention was that he was my age. Mid-twenties. And I realized—sitting alone and sullen on a Saturday night at McDonalds in my worn sweatshirt and scruffy three-day beard, that I looked more beggardly than he did.
I gave him my leftover fries, and started putting on my coat. He hurried over to thank me profusely. "No problem", I said. He introduced himself as Mike. I returned the greeting and offered a handshake.
As I buttoned up my coat, he hesitated. I could tell he had something to say, so I turned back towards him. He swallowed nervously, but wouldn't speak. So I tossed out my trash, and headed for the door.
"Wait", he called. I reached toward my pocket, ready to pull out a few dollars. But he didn't ask for money. "Do you live around here?" he wondered. I nodded. He sighed...embarrassed by his predicament. "I'm looking for somebody to share an apartment with...y'know, like, split the rent for a few months."
I wasn't sure what to say. "Well, I already have two roommates. We don't have room for anybody else at my apartment", I explained. I wondered if he thought I looked like a comrade-in-poverty. "Are you new to the area?" I continued.
"No, I’ve been in Chicago for about two years. Well, thanks again for the french fries."
I wanted to sit down and talk for a while. Ask him some questions. His request was odd, and I was curious to find out more about his situation. I didn't want him to think I'm some yuppie asshole who can’t be bothered.
But that’s what I am, I guess. I had a vague fear that he would try to follow me home or something. So I shook Mike’s hand again, and exited McDonalds.
He didn’t follow me, of course. I went home to my yuppie-pad and sat down with my new laptop in front of the big-screen TV. I couldn’t be bothered.
Watching the Chicago Enforcers XFL game tonight. It seems like the Enforcers are stocked with Northwestern Wildcat grads. I noticed Casey Daley, Bryan Labelle and Paul Janus on the field tonight. Go Cats. Go Enforcers.
Heavy Rotation: The Roots