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.

26

     I handed my license to the weathered yet cordial cashier in quiet anticipation of her response. “Oh wow, Happy Birthday! All the way from Maine, huh?”

     “Yup,” I rehearsed. “Just passing through.”

     “This for a party or somethin’?” She would surely say.

     My response would be witty, concise, and unapologetic. This was my chance. I was finally becoming the independent woman I had always wanted to be. “Yes, a party of one! I actually decided to book a room across the street and just have a night with my favorite person,” pointing to myself.

     Her eyes would widen, and for a fleeting moment she would reflect on all the times she, too, would have liked to run away and have an evening alone with a bottle of moderately priced champagne.

     “Well alright! Nothing wrong with that I suppose.” Then the credit card reader would honk, the register would clank shut, and in a coddling yet sincere tone she would offer, “You have yourself a nice time, now.”

     Instead, she immediately turned my license over and attempted several unsuccessful scans of the back barcode. She passed it back to me. “It’s not scanning, but don’t worry about it.”

     I would not.

     Downtown Easton, Pennsylvania is wanting for a standard bodega with pints of Ben & Jerry’s Cinnamon Buns. All you’ll find instead is a row of smoke shops on the main drag with sparse selections of candy, soda, and beer. Your best bet is the one on the corner of Northampton and 2nd Street, where there’s a lonely Blue Bunny cooler in the back with strawberry shortcake bars.

     After nestling my new treasures in the hotel ice bucket, I had a silent debate about ordering in or going out. I decided that bringing a book to a restaurant was an appropriate way to usher in a new era of risky sophistication. My server at the surprisingly chic pizza establishment had soft eyes and spoke highly of David Sedaris. He said the espresso was on him because he never saw someone dining alone, and my to-go containers were placed in a thick brown paper bag labeled with calligraphic Sharpie.

     Baths take a longer time to fill than you think.

     I exhaled in the boiling water, pondering everything and nothing.

     “This is so nice.”

     “Did I lock the deadbolt thing on the door?”

     “I should do this more often.”

     “How long am I doing this?”

     “Wow, to think, Oprah does this every day.”

     I thought of all the gay boys who didn’t make it to 26. I poured a little bit of champagne into the water. I cried and laughed. When I felt the stopper unplug, I let the water drain out. And laying in the empty tub, I listened to the chorus of tiny bubbles popping like a round of applause.