I’ve traveled the world for decades in a rugged Acura just for this one moment. 

Forget obesity rates and GMOs. Forget corporation scandals and expiration dates. Stepping into the nearly empty McDonald’s, it’s almost like Roy McDonald is blessing me from his grave in Kentucky as the scent of Clorox cleaner and burnt food floods my senses. My fingers tighten around the carefully stitched notepad that contains the secrets to all of my greatest desires. I close my eyes and listen to the szzz of piping hot patties cooking on the grill and the muffled sound of Katy Perry’s Roar playing from the speakers. I inhale deeply. Exhale. 

“Excuse me, sir, are you ready to order?” a voice asks dryly. My eyes snap open, locking on to the bored gaze of a random high school student who is clearly only here for the minimum wage and free food.
But that doesn’t matter. I am alert. I am ready.

“What’s your name?” I whisper, a tempting, sultry, McChicken-hot edge to my voice. 

“Gertrude,” she responds without blinking.

“Well, Gertude. For my order, I would like this.” I brandish my notepad proudly and flip to the next page, presenting it to her with a flourish of triumph. As I stare at her face, her expression morphs from polite to panicked.

I’ve got the eye of the tiger…

Her eyes snap up to mine, sticky bangs plastered to the exposed skin of her forehead just underneath her hairnet. A bead of sweat rolls down her cheek and drops into the open box of fries below her, likely contaminating the food. 

And you’re gonna hear me…

But it’s fine. My heart is thudding in anticipation. I’m so excited I feel like I could break the world record for short distance sprinting. Forget Usain Bolt. I’m Usain Lightning. Usain Thunder. Usain Built-Different. Usain–

“I’m so sorry…” she begins faintly, voice wavering. 

I swallow hard, a million increasingly dire hypotheticals swirling through my mind. 

But nothing prepares me for what she says next. For one sickening moment, I almost feel like  I’m in the middle of a twisted nightmare —that if I pinch myself hard enough, I’ll wake up from this demented reality. When I dig my nails into my skin though, the tiny pinpricks of pain that shoot up my arm do nothing except echo the nuggets (pun not intended) of terror tumbling around my stomach. Something else prickles at the corners of my eyes; slow, mournful tears make their way down my cheeks. 

It takes me another five seconds to process the words thudding onto the ground  from her tongue. As I fall to my knees in the middle of the air-conditioner-less McDonald’s, I think I see a glowing, radiant ‘M’ hovering in front of my vision, as if the fast food angels themselves have come to declare their sympathies.

“Our ice cream machine is broken.”