"We're sure in a pickle now!" - An over-enthusiastic McDonald's employee, somewhere. Well, probably not, actually.
Francis and I roll up to the McDonald’s and make our way into the fine establishment where nary a proper nutrient can be found by hungry and wayward souls.
I don’t have a full-on appetite attacking my stomach so I buy myself an ice cream cone to assuage the minor gut rumbling; I know I shouldn’t eat sugary crap but I’m middle-aged and my body is aching so I deserve at least one ice cream cone a week, damn it. At least that’s the excuse I try to use as a weapon against incoming calories but, of course, it never works.
Aching, yeah. Especially my right hip, which has necessitated the use of a walking cane so I can be mobile. I love my cane, though — it was a gift from my friend Badger, a Kung Fu master who gave me this CaneMaster martial arts mobility weapon. It’s shaped very much like the old style “Charlie Chaplain”-style canes you see in old films, but it’s made of hickory so if any whipper-snappers get out of line I can give ’em a thrashin’.
Just joking, of course; I detest violence because I’m a wimp… or a Buddhist, I’m not sure which. Most likely the former. But I’ve been teaching myself basic cane spins and defensive moves, just in case, y’know? Besides, spinning my cane also helps with my hand arthritis, keeping the ol’ fingers flexible, so there’s that.
Back to what I’m rambling about in this story; I get my damn ice cream cone and notice Francis has sat down at a table so I sit down across from him.
“Aren’t you going to order something? You said you were hungry,” I ask.
Francis is looking at his smartphone. “I’m ordering off the app, so I don’t have to wait in line.”
“Ah, smart,” I opine. “So, tonight at the Kino gathering should be a good time, do you -”
“CAN I SPEAK TO THE MANAGER!?!” a thin woman in her 30’s strides into the McD’s and makes a torpedo beeline to the front counter. She passes a young mother and small child around five years old sitting at another table near us.
After raising and lowering both our eyebrows, Francis and I give each other the “Oh God, what fresh Hell is this now?” mutual glance and then stare back at the commotion.
The angry woman persists her angry protests at a couple of mumbling employees behind the order counter. “There were PICKLES on my hamburger! PICKLES! I didn’t order that! JUST REFUND MY ORDER!” She’s emphasizing the word ‘pickles’ in the same way you’d scream ‘hamsters’ if you had to say the sentence, “There were HAMSTERS in my hamburger!” But you’d have a right and proper reason to do so, of course, since no one wants a tiny and tender yet hairy rodent in their fast-food sammich.
“PICKLES!” she screams again. “You MOTHER-F — — -S !”
I’ll spare you the full typing of the profanity, which I’m sure you’re familiar with but really have no need to read right now. The full expression of it sure caught Francis and I off-guard, though.
“Whoa,” I say, but in a quiet voice. I’m no good at confrontations and I’m not so much as offended as surprised someone could get worked up over a simple matter of pickles. Okay, sure, if you’re allergic you’d probably be upset, but just go back to the order counter and firmly and politely order a pickle-less burger for God’s sake. We’re all going to be worm-food soon enough, so why get annoyed over condiments? (You can quote me on that).
Francis was also taken aback. Hell, I think even an Ascended Master would say, “Jesus Christ, lady, calm the f — down, would ya? It’s just pickles.” so I certainly can’t blame the expression of dismayed astonishment on his face.
The mother near us is not happy with the woman’s profanity. “Hey! You shouldn’t use that word!” she says to the shouting woman, covering her young son’s ears with her hands.
“OH YEAH?” Miss Angry Pickles yells in reply. “I DON’T CARE! MOTHER — — ! MOTHER — — -! MOTHER — — ”
“Dear babbling God in Heaven,” I comment to Francis in a whisper. “Did we order a dinner-time floor show? Should we do something?”
Francis is wincing at the woman’s profanity, his annoyed astonishment growing ever more. We are frankly so surprised at the woman’s fury that we’d both chosen the “Freeze” survival option; if Miss Wrong Condiments had been an 18-wheeler truck at night with its high beams on, and Francis and I were deer, we’d be road paste.
I prompted Bing Image Generator A.I. with "two scared middle-aged deer in front of a truck hauling pickles, funny, cartoon". Results semi-successful. That's me on the left, Francis on the right.
“You shouldn’t say that!” Mom says in a firm voice as she continues to shield her offspring’s ears with an insistent grip, almost squeezing the child’s head with the fervor of a strong healthy Italian squishing a grape.
One of the McEmployee’s hands the screaming woman her refund money. With a savage grabbing motion Miss Customer Of The Month immediately makes a speedy retreat towards the exit. “I’ll say it if I want! Mother — — ! Mother — — ! MOTHER — — -!”
And with that final affront to our ears, the enraged woman leaves the McDonald’s. Francis and I spend a good two silent minutes shaking our heads at each other while lowering our eyebrows up and down in astonishment. Meanwhile, Mom uncovers her very young son’s ears and explains to the startled child that some people use bad words that shouldn’t ever, ever be spoken.
“We should get out of here and get to the event,” I say to Francis after recovering my ability to talk. “Amazing how some people get so upset over crap, eh?”
Francis stands up, shaking his head. “I just don’t get it. Crazy! Why work yourself up over nothing but pickles? I bet she was running some kind of scam or something.”
“Could be,” I offer, getting back to consuming my now half-melted ice cream cone. “Who knows? Sure as hell didn’t need to curse, though.”
“Yeah,” Francis agrees. “Didn’t expect this kind of drama tonight. Especially over pickles. Anyways, I gotta hit the can, be back in a second.”
“Sure, sure,” I say. After he leaves I jam the rest of the ice cream cone into my mouth to finish the damn thing. I wipe my hands with a paper napkin. A minute passes, so I turn sideways in the booth seat and start to do a few basic one-handed spins with my cane to pass the time.
I’ve got a good fast spin going on it when I hear the mother’s young child ask in a loud voice, “Mom! What’s that MAN doing with his THING?”
Oh God, I think to myself. To give myself credit that’s the very first time that particular question, posed by an innocent child, has ever been directed towards me, so at least I’ve got that going, karma-wise.
I couldn't get the A.I. image generator to create a completely accurate picture of me spinning my cane near a concerned parent and her child, but this example is close enough. The representation of my startled facial expression after the child yelled, "Mom! What's that MAN doing with his THING?" is bang on, though.
I can almost hear the mother’s neck tendons creak as she slowly turns her head to look in my direction, where her child is pointing. I get the quick psychic impression from her mind that she’s dreading another horrible confrontation in this cursed McDonald’s, one involving not so much a verbal profanity but the traumatic visual nightmare of a middle-aged bald man waving his schlong around because, oh I don’t know, there were pickles on his hamburger or something.
Fortunately, Mom is relieved to see a now frightened wide-eyed slob like me innocently spinning his cane in an entertaining fashion. I smile at her reassuringly while trying to get my heart rate down. Why am I feeling guilty? “Heh, yeah, I just do some simple cane tricks, to keep my fingers nimble, heh. Yeah. Sorry.” I offer.
But Mom’s attention has gone back to her child, thank the Lord.
Francis returns from the bathroom. “Ready to go? Let’s get out of here before something else bad inevitably happens.”
I nod. “A great philosophy that, and one I share with you.”
And then Francis and I hauled our middle-aged asses outta that McD's and into the sunset. So, happy ending, I guess. Well, not for the pickle lady.