Big macs and fries

When Bailey was a young child, his parents often took him to McDonald's for lunch, and what seemed like an eternity of bliss in the playground that was attached to the restaurant; often this was when they were traveling, and it would be in some distant town. It was in one of these McDonald's that he had one of his earliest memories: seeing a policeman, and being terrified that he would be arrested for not wearing socks as the law required. At the time, his mother reassured him that he would not go to jail, but the memory stuck in his mind and haunted him for virtually a lifetime.

In high school the McDonald's was only four blocks away from the school cafeteria, and once he found a way to sneak out of that cafeteria and go there four or five times a week for almost an entire term. He'd sit by the statue of the clown, looking at the playground, and remember the simpler days of his childhood when he could actually fit in the playground equipment. A small fear of being caught in his truancy gnawed at him, as policemen frequented this McDonald's, on a prominent corner near the center of his small town, but he never got caught; he'd slide into the red and yellow booth, and make himself invisible while they'd eat sometimes, and they weren't especially interested in hauling in refugees from the high-school cafeteria. The big macs and fries would sit and curdle at the bottom of his stomach when he went back for his afternoon classes, but he didn't mind; high school was full of stress anyway, and he had all kinds of general anxiety over classes, exams, gym and girl relationships there; his twenty minutes with the clown, near the indoor playground, sometimes seemed like the only peace and quiet he had all day, and certainly was a good break in his routine.

When he got his first job, he also got his first car, and he went on another McDonald's binge, this time using the drive-through, and eating in the front seat as he parked in a spot under a huge tree not far away. This job didn't actually last too long, and shortly after it ended, he was pulled over by the police, while driving just outside of town. When the patrolman approached his window, he rolled it down slowly, and said, as the policeman looked down at him, "a big mac and some fries, please," which didn't go over too well with the officer. He wasn't really punished too severely on that occasion, but in a later incident he sensed that he now had a reputation with the police, maybe for his insolence at that first occasion, and it seemed like they had it out for him for many years afterward. Perhaps this was just an illusion, he thought, but then, sometimes when you're paranoid, it's probably because everyone really is out to get you.

His life, in fact, was going downhill, and eventually, out of work, not going anywhere, he went to that same McDonald's, near the center of town, and got work. This was not the most pleasant month of his life, but he learned a lot, working there, in a short time. He was especially upset that he was often hungry, even as he mopped and cleaned the grease pits, and was forced to pay for his own food, which he couldn't do; yet the very policemen who despised him would stroll into the place, like kings, and be given a free meal, big macs, large fries, whatever they wanted. This may have had more to do with the owner, and his prominent role in the community, than with any particular McDonald's policy, but nevertheless, Bailey's hunger now gnawed at his insides, and the food that he did eat churned inside him with the anxiety of his position and the general disrespect that customers, some of whom he'd known all his life, would show him, as a lowly worker in a silly uniform, sitting near the clown, if they saw him anywhere besides working or mopping. He struck up a friendship with a co-worker, Archer Longwood, an old black guy who had been there forever but who he'd barely spoken to in his first twenty years, when he actually had some break time to sit around and get to know him. Old Archer had worked the mop buckets and the grease filters for years, until they finally promoted him to cash register, maybe because they were desperate, or because he'd just worn them out, and they couldn't argue that he was anything but pleasant, hard-working, trustworthy and next in line. Bailey, of course, never had that chance; he was only there for a month. The owner and manager, Freemont, was active in town politics and gone a lot, but Bailey did notice that the place ran itself better when he was gone, and actually had its moments of calm and peace, often moments when they were about to close, or when he was talking with Archer, at the back doorway.

Upon leaving, and getting a better job at a computer lab, Bailey resolved to clean up his diet and learn to cook, which he did; now he walked by the McDonald's every day without needing the French fries, not even stopping to say hello to Archer or Freemont, though he'd occasionally see them in the parking lot or in passing, and wave. Years passed by, and it seemed like things were going better for him; his memories of the place now spanned his entire life, and included both the times when he worked there, full of stress, and the carefree years of childhood shrieking at the top of the playground, sliding down the plastic slides and into the colored balls. His walking route took him close enough to the front window to see his own reflection, but he couldn't see inside the place unless it was late night and the lights were on, and even then he couldn't see much; he didn't even worry about it much, but generally kept on walking right by.

But one Halloween night, he was pressured to go to a party, and didn't have a costume; his friend, however, had a policeman's uniform, pressed and hanging in his closet, which Bailey was able and even encouraged to borrow. He shaved completely, in such a way that he was virtually unrecognizable to his friends, as he'd had a pretty complete beard before that night, and he found a pair of very shiny black shoes that fit. It took him a long time to get the costume just right, but he did, and even had a fine black stick to top it all off. But when he arrived at the party, down in the middle of the student neighborhood, it was in full swing, and people were alarmed to see a policeman arrive at it. The resident and the host of the party came out to argue that the party was under control, and became angry when he found out that the person he was talking to was merely Bailey, and not a real policeman. The costume, in other words, was too well made. Drugs had apparently been flushed down the toilet, back in the house, as they spoke out in front of the house. And the host of the party was so angry he was close to hitting Bailey, who had begun to wonder if he was going to need his stick or not.

Things got worse on the way home, although he was walking, as usual. One person was glad to see him and tried to report a crime; unfortunately, Bailey was in no mood to hear this, and could barely tell them to go find the real police. This person also became quite angry. A couple of blocks later were more people alarmed to see a policeman walking on their street; those people hurled verbal abuse at him from the shadows of their house, challenging him to find an excuse to enter.

Exasperated, he was glad to get back toward the center of town, and finally, at the corner with the McDonald's. Late at night, in the cold and crisp fall air, the place looked welcoming, and he stepped in. Only Archer was there, about ready to close, besides a couple dressed like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, sitting over by the clown. Archer sat Bailey down by the front window and immediately brought him food. He had an impulse to tell Archer what had happened, but Archer wasn't talking much, wasn't inclined to hear the story. He seemed to know, anyway, how foolish it was, just in general, to dress up in a costume like that. Some mayonnaise spilled on the uniform, but Bailey left it there, hoping it would give away the fact that he wasn't a real policeman; he still had four or five blocks to go, but they were short blocks. The night was, for all intents and purposes, over. It occurred to him that he hadn't paid for his big macs and fries, and he offered, but Archer refused; policemen, he said, eat for free. He waved him on his way, and he stumbled out into the starry night, wishing he were just about anywhere else, in any other costume. Was it his imagination, he thought, or was that clown, back in the corner by the playground, actually winking at him? His stomach churned, and he stumbled home.
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