Disarmingly Consistent

     I lumber across the aged parking lot, delicately navigating the landscape of cigarette butts and empty ketchup packets. The small bowling ball I just consumed sits comfortably in my lower abdomen, and my mind falls gently into that familiar comatose. I did it again.

     There are few feelings that compare to the cost-effective satisfaction of a meal eaten under the glow of the golden arches.

     My better-informed brother will have you know that America’s most popular fast food restaurant is actually a real estate company, although I would liken it more to a morally void yet disarmingly consistent church. Many of its patrons are tired and poor. The iconography is unmistakable. And I only find myself there when the turbulence of life demands a return to relentless sameness.

     Rules are clear and expectations are met. Orders are taken, and attention is paid. Learn the choreography once, and repeat. Don’t try to move the tables. They’re bolted to the floor.

     I hold a particular fondness for the woman who works behind the counter smelling strongly of floral perfume and cheap hairspray, pounding artificial nails onto the register as orders are spat at her through the air. I like it when she is short with the customers who deserve it. I make eye contact with her. We are both better than this.

     Sitting in the clinical dining area, my eyes wander to other tables, noting the family on a road trip, the couple in the corner, the person dining alone. They must feel the same internal conflict between comfort and contempt that I do, right? We all know this isn’t right, right?

     The hot, salty fries melt in my mouth as if it’s been years since I’ve known satisfaction. I look at the woman again behind the counter. We are both getting out. One day.