The Real Winner in the Fry Frenzy
As I made my perfunctory journey through the maze of metal railings on course to the counter, an enormous waft of the greasy odor exemplifying fast-food hit me like a Big Mac right smack in the face. Nevertheless, after a small struggle and some time scratching my head, I finally reached my destination. While staring at the overly complex menu, deciding what enticed me most, I couldn't help but take notice of my future waitress. Her hair was of a flaxen hue, but she was not the stereotypical blonde; she actually seemed intelligent. Her physical beauty overwhelmed me, for she had the air of a goddess. I glanced down at the name tag pinned on her shirt and read, "Hello, my name is Cindy."
Finally, after much consideration, I decided on a small fry, for today was "free fry" day, and I had just made the discovery of a depleted cash supply. I blurted out something similar to, "A small fry and a glass of water, if you please, Cindy," with much urgency in my voice, but yet trying to sound cool and restrained, for I wished to impress her.
After the small, obligatory smile, she slid a tray in my direction and warned me to be careful, because the fries were "hot." I took notice how her soft, sweet voice had turned deeper and huskier, as she slowly pronounced the word "hot"; consequently, I answered her in my sexiest, manliest voice, "I'm always careful when eating objects that are 'hot'," letting myself pause a little, as she had done, when I pronounced "hot." I then took a fry out of the pack and started to nibble on it seductively. When I scorched my lips on the extraordinarily hot (in the traditional sense) fry, I realized she must not have meant any more than that the fries were scalding hot. She laughed, my cheeks turned a dark rouge, and I ran away almost dropping my cumbersome tray as I went.
My bolt of speed didn't take me too far, however, as I soon found myself at the beverage corner filling my cup with cool, refreshing water. I always hate filling my cup at those places. Pop and other mysterious liquids are spilled all over the counter and soda dispensers, and if you make one false move, you have a gallon of the sticky substance all over your clothes. I slowly crept my hand toward the water dispenser, making sure I didn't graze any appliances with one of my exposed areas. I felt like a guy who cleans up oil spills after a huge tanker wrecks, inching my path through the various knobs and buttons, ever so slightly reaching with my right hand for the water pipe, the sapphire blue of the nozzle looking like a treasure to me. Eventually, the edge of my cup hit against the nozzle, and the water starting flowing. I was extremely proud of myself, proud to such a degree, in fact, that I wasn't paying attention to how much water was in my cup, and water overflowed, completely saturating my shirt. I looked over in the direction of the aforementioned fast-food worker, and again she was laughing at me.
Swallowing my pride, I somberly trudged towards the rear of the seating area, with its orange and dirt brown decor, to a two-person table, that today would only seat one. I comforted myself in knowing that I would, in only seconds, be tasting what America had supposedly said were the best fries in the world. I took a bite, chewed with a rather dubious look on my already flushed face, and then, suddenly spit out the mushed, yellow mass all over the maroon window shades beside me. I had made a terrible mess, but I didn't care. That fry was awful, definitely the worst piece of so-called food I had ever tasted. Could Mr. Potato Head be wrong?
I looked down at the group of fries before me. They were a dull gold color, but, yet, surprisingly shiny in some places. Their texture reminded me of a beach right after a wave engulfs the sand, completely smooth except for small depressions, almost as if a miniature clam had crawled down to the center and made a home in the mush. I broke one open and heard a snap reminiscent of a twig breaking under one's foot. Inside was a palish yellow substance with the consistency of mashed potatoes. Now as I think about it, they reminded me of "fish fries," you know the ones that they sell you at fish restaurants, all greasy and crispy. Those fries didn't even look appetizing.
All I could see in my mind were McDonalds' French fries, the picture of perfection. They were always slender, with just the right variety of lengths, from the short, extra crispy fries to longer, softer ones. Shining like gold, they would sit in the back of the restaurant in the greasy frying oven just waiting for some lucky individual to come and whisk them away. Personally, I don't think McDonald's would be half as popular without its excellent golden wonders. At that moment, I was shocked out of my dream world and returned reluctantly to my table at Burger King.
Three thugs I knew from school had come into the restaurant. They swaggered over to the table and started heckling me about my hair and clothes. According to them, I had to cease washing my rather prestigious mane and wear clothes that my exceedingly stocky dad would refuse to wear because of their bagginess, and only then would I fit into their idea of cool. On account of these skanks, I hastily searched for an escape route, and saw the welcoming exit door looming in the distance, its luminous ruby exit sign mocking me with its seemingly infinite distance. My path was obvious now, and all that remained was the fastidious execution of this retreat. I faked left, and started to flee out of my seat to the right, but they weren't fooled and soon surrounded me, blocking my flight. As a feeling of hopelessness enveloped me, something unbelievable occurred.
Cindy was coming over to the table. As she approached, we were tantalized by a whiff of her delicate rose scented perfume. All the guys looked up, with drool running down their already perspiring faces and with their eyes steadily fixed on the Burger King waitress from heaven, who strided near us in a casually gorgeous gait, and sat down gracefully in the chair opposite me. One of the ruffians somehow managed to mutter a "hi," but then a hush fell over us all.
Suddenly her mouth wrinkled into a smirky smile, and, looking directly at me with her large understanding eyes, she said, "I just got off work. Do you want to do something?" In disbelief, I stared blankly at her for what must have been at least ten seconds before slowly rising from my chair. She took my clammy hand in her silky, smooth one, and we strolled out of the door together. Without hesitation, we walked over to my car, I opened the door for her, and we both climbed in. Before we drove away, I happened to glance back at the guys in the restaurant. They all had solemn looks on their faces, and were just looking at us with their eyes glazed over as if transfixed in time.
Mr. Potato Head was right after all.
