48. heil peace
As the bright lights of the TV crew panned to their next victim, the
brown acoustic ceiling tiles and matching brown veneer paneling
reflected in the light of the television camera, and Icky was once
again reminded of how everything at Burger Queen was tailored to look
particularly regular, just the same as in the thousands of other
Burger Queens around the world. To complement the omnipresent brown,
there were burnt orange tiles on the floor, the stainless steel
checkout counter fixtures, and cardboard mobiles flashing the special
of the month. Simple yet effective.
After leaving Denver downtown at a local café, Icky had spent the day
wandering around Fresno in search of other intelligent life forms.
Somehow he had ended up at Burger Queen instead.
The Burger Queen employees wore polyester knit separates of blue and
burgundy, which grotesquely emphasized their acutely fat or anorexic
frames. There was no in between at the Burger Queen. The girl who
waited on Icky had the most enormous butt he had ever seen. He
wondered if the TV crew would capture it on video. There must be a
disease named after it, he reckoned and took his Fotoroid out of his
backpack.
He stared at her butt and wondered what it looked like bare as she
made her way to the deep fry unit after taking his order. Her blue
stretch pants strained with little lumps and bumps, expanding,
reaching for ever more.
“Will that be all?” the big-butt girl asked.
“I think I’ll have one of those holiday shakes.” He pointed to the
mobile above his head. He was delighted to be able to get a shot of
her appendage as she turned around and reached for a shake.
“Will that be all for you, Sir?” she asked again without having
noticed that Icky had taken her picture.
Icky thought for a second. “Yeah.” He replied gruffly and they
exchanged food for money.
“Have a nice day.”
“That’s what they all say.”
The big-butt girl did not even look up.
He grabbed a handful of sugar and ketchup packets from the condiment
tray in case he wanted a little snack later in the afternoon, and
walked over to a booth underneath a shelf of jars filled with
ornamental dried spaghetti and various types of legumes. He wondered
who was responsible for this decorating triumph since neither
spaghetti nor legumes were served at Burger Queen. A jar of grease or
cans of MSG would be more appropriate. He set down his tray, tossed
the Fresno Bee onto the table next to his, took off his backpack and
rain-drenched coat, and sat down at the molded plastic booth.
I guess this is as good a place as any to sit, dry out and reflect,
he thought, and was overcome with melancholy. Look at all this
neutrality, this blandness. But I couldn’t think of a better place to
be right now. It doesn’t matter whether you have a lot of money or if
you are a creative artist type, you get what you want at Burger Queen.
He removed the paper wrapping from his hamburger and took a bite of
his Whooper, allowing the secret orange sauce to run down his chin.
While devouring his hamburger, cooked just right and with only him in
mind, he surveyed the other customers in the fast food joint.
In one booth, sat a cluster of retired men reading the sports section
in the Fresno Bee, drinking instant coffee from paper cups, and
intermittently rubbing their mustaches. Next to them sat a weary
welfare mother staring out the window watching the downpour while her
child stuffed her carbohydrate puffed face with deep-fried, processed
vegetable products. Teenage Chollas were in another booth wearing
denim jeans and crisp white dress shirts with teased black hair and
penciled eyebrows. There seemed to be another creative artist type
sitting alone near the bathrooms at the back of the restaurant.
The little girl at the table near the window stuck a french fry up
her nose, pulled it out and laid it on her mother’s tray. Icky stared
at the little girl while chewing his meal. He slowly opened his mouth
and displayed its contents to the child. Where upon, she opened her
mouth and plopped the masticated remains of her french fries onto the
brown plastic tray on the table. Her mother turned in time to notice
the disgusting display. She grabbed her child’s face by the chin and
with the other hand, scooped up the chewed food matter and reinserted
it into her daughter’s mouth.
“You know better. Now chew.” She scolded her ill-mannered daughter
and released her grip.
After swallowing, the child’s face turned bright red and her mouth
reopened, and she let out a scream that stopped the Burger Queen
patrons in their tracks. The mother quickly got up, yanked the child
>from the booth and pulled her towards the bathroom. As they passed,
Icky quickly stuck a french fry up his nose and pulled it into his
mouth with his teeth. The mother huffed and the child wailed.
The incident reminded him of the time when his mother had fed his
father dog food disguised meat loaf for coming home drunk. His father
took one bite of it and threw up all over the kitchen table. It was a
lesson ill-conceived.
He finished his Whooper and took a slurp of his holiday shake. It
tasted faintly of mayonnaise and he briefly contemplated returning
the shake to catch another view of the big-butted anomaly. Instead,
he removed the plastic lid of the paper cup and poured a couple of
packages of sugar into the shake, hoping to camouflage its nauseating
taste.
He pulled out a pack of generic menthols from his breast pocket and
thought about repeating his neo-errorist action but decided against
it. He did not feel like expending the energy to make a point.
Instead, he sat, thumbed the package and contemplated double standards.
I can’t understand why californians would rather go to war over the
price of gasoline than drive less. It’s their automobile exhaust not
my cigarette smoke that’s causing this torrential downpour anyway.
They should have raised fuel taxes and built green energy resources
long ago.
Now it’s too late. High-powered men try to control mother earth with
their religious dogmas and they’ve carved out mafia states in her skin.
Wow. Where’d did I come up with that? I must’ve heard it somewhere.
Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be? Aren’t we supposed to be in
the age of aquarius anyway, where we’re all de-evolving into
porpoises, and will someday return to the sea?
He mulled over this last bit of self-enlightenment while staring out
the window and witnessed a passing car soak a pedestrian as it drove
through a puddle.
“Life’s a bitch.” He commented, “and then you die.”
Why do they tax the shit out of alcohol and cigs and on the other
hand, continue to stuff their faces with junk. More people die of
obesity than of smokin’ cigs. They should raise taxes on junk food
instead of makin’ the three drugs that make me happy so fuckin’
expensive or fuckin’ illegal.
Icky heard the muffled cries of the child in the bathroom.
He took a cigarette out of the package and placed it between his
lips. He looked over at the woman sitting alone in her booth, who he
assumed to be a creative artist. She was dressed in black, jet-black
hair and black round sunglasses, the only accent of color was her
full red lips, which glistened under the neon lamps. Icky smiled,
took a drag from his unlit cigarette and blew a puff in her
direction. She nodded in return, and then pointed to the corners of
her mouth.
He pulled out a copy of the Sutters Weekly from his backpack. His
drenched raincoat had dripped onto the floor and mixed with the mud
from his shoes leaving a dirty puddle under his feet. He looked down
and smiled to himself, realizing that once again he had accomplished
a neo-errorist action without even knowing it.
“Say, like man. Can I bum a cigarette? I don’t have any more and I
don’t feel like running across the street in this rain.” It was the
red-lipped woman. She was standing at his booth with her black
painted fingernails resting on the tabletop.
Icky looked up from his tabloid. “Yeah sure.” He popped a cigarette
up from the package for her to take.
“Thanks.” She opened her purse, tucked it into a pocket and pointed
to the tabloid. “I see you’re reading the Sutters Weekly. Have you read
about the man who married a cabbage after being dumped by his fiancée?”
“No. I just got it. Is it in this one?” he asked, cigarette still
attached to the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah. Here. Let me see.” She dumped her black coat and purse on the
molded orange polyurethane seat, sat down across from Icky and
started flipping through his Weekly.
Icky made unintentional eye contact with the big-butt girl. She
stared at him and shook her head. He smiled in return, and thought
that Burger Queen was indeed an appropriate place for a big-butted girl.
“By the way, you’ve got some orange crud on your cheek. I love ’Ask
Dolly’. She can be real a bitch sometimes.”
“I’d rather read Oprah T. Eunist.” Icky said, took a napkin, soaked
up the moisture behind his ear and parked the cigarette there.
“Oh, here’s this story that came out this summer. It’s about this
woman who was taken to the hospital up in Eureka. She was half dead.
When they went to take her blood and opened her veins, this terrible
gas came out and practically killed everyone in the OP. It’s been
real hush-hush. I did see one report on TV and that was the last
thing I heard about it. It seems no one wants to talk. I mean, c’mon,
what could be in her veins that would cause people to pass out. I
mean like, c’mon.”
“Yeah. I heard about that one, too. It was like in the news for a
couple of days or something, wasn’t it? Then all of sudden, nothing.
What do they say?” Icky’s curiosity was tweaked.
“They just say that she was sent to the crematorium. Boy, I hope she
doesn’t cause an explosion.” She chuckled. “Apparently she’s been
sealed up in the mortuary for the past six months, but no one came to
claim her. They don’t even know her name. It’s just Eureka Doe.” She
turned the page.
“Here’s a heart-rendering story about a mother whose sick child was
kidnapped by space aliens and three years later the child returned
with a healthy heart. That’s kinda hard to believe. Don’t you think?
I mean, c’mon, there still isn’t any real, I mean, any tangible proof
that there are aliens around and here we have a mother saying her kid
was kidnapped by one of them. I mean, c’mon man. Let’s be real.”
“Here. Let me call the aliens right now.” He picked up the pack of
cigarettes and placed it next to his ear. “Calling aliens. Come in.
E.G.Y.P.T.”
“Yeah. You just do that. Let me talk to them when you’re finished.”
“Don’t you see them? I mean:” He looked nonchalantly around at the
surroundings. “There are aliens here right now at Burger Queen. They
are like on another dimension, traveling in the fourth dimension.
Time travelers, jumping from past to present and future at will.
They disguise themselves as humanoids and visit us through wormholes.
Look around. I know there are aliens here right now.”
“You know this for a fact?” she questioned.
“Yeah. And I’ll tell you why. There’s just too many strange
circumstances in life. I am sure that the aliens have some influence
on them. Of course, you can’t just ride the circumstances, you gotta
create the energy for them to materialize. You gotta learn to ride
their worm hole. For me, these strange coincidences are proof enough
that aliens exist.”
“Oh, that’s good to know.” She flipped the page. “This is a good one.
It’s about sacramento.”
“Hey. I’m from sacramento. What’d they say?”
“It says that sacramento is one of the most boring cities in the US,
and this is the reason for the abnormally high number of random
killings and mass murderers in the city. Look, they even printed
sacramento in wavy letters.”
Icky glanced over and felt proud that the town was finally getting
the recognition that it deserved.
“Do you live in fresno now?” she asked hesitantly as if not to offend.
“No. I still live in sacramento. I’m just visitin’. My friend’s
parents’ house was attacked by aliens. So where are you from, if I
may ask?”
“I’m from sacto too. I used to live in Fresno but I’ve been traveling
for about a year. This is the first time back for a long time.”
“Why fresno?” Icky inquired.
“’Cause, I used to teach here at the university and I know a few good
people still stuck here. It’s strange to be back.” She shuddered.
“What did you teach?”
“Art, at fresno state, I’m a photographer.” She turned the last page.
“I guess the story about the cabbage is not in here.”
“Did the TV people interview you?”
“Yeah. What was that all about?” She took a sip of Icky’s shake.
“I guess it’s a no-news day so they decided to interview people in
fast food restaurants.”
“This is disgusting! What is in this?” She pushed the shake away
from her.“I know. It’s supposed to be pumpkin flavored. It tastes like
soapy mayonnaise.“So what did you tell them?”
“I told them some crap sure to raise the hair on the back of the
local gentry.”
“Me too. I told them I wanted to be governor of the new state of
eureka. I bet that’ll freak out the natives.”
“Can I be the minister of culture?”
“First I have to see your id.”
“So what do you do when you’re not running for office?”
“I’m a professional go-go dancer.”
“Yeah. Sure.” She sized up Icky’s body.
“Yeah. I wasn’t always a go-go dancer. First I was a whore and my
goal was to suck society dry, but nowadays, I gravitate to a
different beat. It’s about being a product.”
“So where do you work the party?”
“Oh. I’m dancin’ all the time. It doesn’t stop. Right now, I’m doing
a little go-go dancin’ right here at Burger Queen.” He stomped his
feet and splashed the puddle of water underneath the table.
“C’mon man. You’re getting me all wet.” She raised her black clad
legs off the ground. “As if I am not all wet already. I’ve never seen
so much rain. Not even in Mexico. Can you believe it?”
“It’s because man has tried to take over the planet and fucked it up
big time. I mean first of all, he tried to control time just because
he’s so paranoid about his mortality. And then …”
“Wait a minute. I don’t follow.” She said and re-flipped the pages of
the Sutters Weekly.
“Institutionalized religion. That’s the devil. You want easy answers,
eliminate the beast.”
“Hey, here’s a letter from a guy in the ’Ask Dolly’ section about his
mother who’s always pestering him to get a job. He says he’s a
musician but can’t make enough to pay the bills. He’s lost his
girlfriend, his house, his car and is forced to live with his mother.
Apparently his mother’s a bitch. She’s is constantly reminding
him of his faults. It says here that one morning she threw water on
him to get him out of bed.”
“So what does Dolly say?” he asked not really caring to know the reply.
“Wow!” she said after reading for a bit. “She’s hard. She called him
a scum bucket because he’s forty-five years old and should be taking
care of his mother instead of the other way around.”
Icky cocked the rifle of his left arm and pointed at the ’Ask Dolly’
column. “Kaboom!” He said and blew away the imaginary smoke
from his finger. “You know, isn’t it her fault for not cuttin’ the apron
strings long ago?”
“It makes me sick too.”
“Look. This poor guy is tryin’ to make music, but fuck man, you can’t
compete against McHeala, McElvis and McDonna. People don’t
appreciate the simple artistic pleasures in life anymore.
They want mass. If it is not stereo-super-duper-sound
with laser beams then it’s just not worth it anymore. Theater is dead,
acoustic music is dead, paintin’ is dead, literature is dead. One after another,
they are killing the muses. Even the idea is dead. The public is afraid
of anything live because someone might spit on them. They are afraid
of contemporary art because it criticizes. People are just afraid of live art,
preferring the dead safe type instead.” He paused and pulled the
cigarette from behind his ear and lit it with one flick of his Zippy
lighter.
“That’s pretty good.” Freedom complimented Icky upon his dexterity.
“You want one?”
“Sure.”
Icky proceeded to light her cigarette with the same talented gesture.
“Freedom of choice is what they want. Freedom from choice is what
they got.” He blew out the smoke.
She smiled to herself. “My name is Freedom.”
“No shit?”
“Yeah. Translated from the italian ‘liberta’.
“Liberta is a nice name too.”
“Yeah. I like my name.”
“And it’s all about freedom.” Icky returned to his rant, and shook
his finger at her. “It makes you wonder what’s following what, life
art, or art life. Nobody is askin’ any questions anymore. How many
times have you seen those airplanes crash into the World Trade Center
towers? The images have been reproduced a million times. They are now
a part of our culture. That’s art, woman, in its true sense. But no one
gets it. The battle has been won and we have been overwhelmed with
technology. We don’t wonder anymore. Even the idea is dead.”
The big-butt girl approached the table. “Excuse me. I don’t know what
state you’re from but you’re not allowed to smoke in restaurants in
california. It’s against the law. You’ll have to put your cigarette
out.”
Freedom quickly tossed the cigarette into the shake. “Oh yeah. I
forgot where I was. Sorry.”
“Fuck that shit. I am not sorry.” Icky turned on the girl and
continued his rant. “Whose law is it, anyway? Is it your law? Did you
make the law?” He blew out smoke, dropped the cigarette on the floor
and stomped, causing water to splash. “There. It’s out.”
She stepped back and said what any willing helper would when dumb-
founded by civil disobedience, “Do you want me to call the police, sir?”
“Look.” Icky said to the big-butt girl, “Do you like what you have to
do?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. May I take your tray, sir?”
“First of all, it’s not my tray. I wouldn’t claim this ugly piece of
shit as mine. Second, stop callin’ me sir. I am not a sir and will I
never be one. I find the term incredibly distasteful and too
military. We are not in the army. Third …”
The fat-butt girl turned and waddled away.
“This is not a restaurant, and I’m not finished.” He turned to
Freedom and asked, “Have you ever seen anythin’ like that?”
They both looked on in amazement until the big-butt girl disappeared.
“Do you want something to drink?” He stood up and fumbled in his
shirt pocket and produced a lottery ticket. “Hand me over that
newspaper over there, please.” He pointed at the neighboring booth.
“Do me a favor and check my numbers while I get some juice.”
She reached over and snagged the newspaper from the adjoining booth
without getting up from her seat. “That was a pretty debilitating
question you asked her. Threw her off real fat.”
They both laughed.
“You know, I shouldn’t laugh, my mother is obese. I’ll take a coke.”
Freedom turned to the third page of The Fresno Bee to verify Icky’s
numbers.
When he returned with the drinks, he saw Freedom jabbing her index
finger at the newspaper and mouthing the numbers on his ticket.
“What, what?” He grabbed her by the shoulders.
She continued to point at the lottery numbers in the newspaper and
started bouncing in her seat. “I. I. I think you won.” She said
softly and then shouted, “I think you won!”
“What, what? I won? What? I won the lottery? How many numbers?
Here let me see.” He held down Freedom’s shaking hand
and managed to verify all six numbers. “Oh! You’re right. Holy shit.
You’re right! I have all six numbers.”
“Oh! Oh! I’m sitting next to a millionaire. Here. Let me take a
picture.” She took out her camera and began snapping.
“I won! I won! I won the lottery. Oh looky here. I won. I can’t
believe it.” He jumped around as he screamed, “I won. I won the
lottery.”
The customers glanced at Freedom capturing Icky in ecstasy.
“Yeah. He won!” She snapped photos in her excited state. “I saw it
myself.”
“Let’s get out of here quick.” He said holding up the lottery ticket
in a trembling hand.
“Oh! I can’t believe it. I met someone who won the lottery big. Oh!
You won the lottery. It looks like a good life for you, buddy.”
“But it already is. It already is.” He put on his coat and began to
sing. “Good life. Good life. Good life. No more problems. Keep on
takin’ pictures and follow me.”
He then went to the big-butt girl standing behind the counter. “I won
the lottery, girlfriend, and I want to know why those rules that you
abide by are there to make you a slave. Why do you even work here?
Why do you wear that stupid uniform? It’s ugly. Why do you want to
conform? Why do you want to be controlled?”
He turned to the other customers: “Why do any of you want to be
controlled? You are all sittin’ pretty in your own private Burger
Queen, livin’ your life away in fresno, california. But I won the
lottery.” He held up his ticket for display. “Your boredom is so
unbeatable and yet so unbelievable. Your interest only peaks for
sports, hollywood stars, the latest tennis shoe at the mall, or the
newest car model in the showroom. You were born in this town and
you’re all goin’ to die in this town. There is nothin’ to do in this
town and it’s pretty much the same as every town. There’s a gun in
every home and kerosene in the garage. It’s time for you all to be
set on fire.”
Icky walked to the exit and held the glass door open for Freedom. He
then took out a large firecracker from a plastic bag in his backpack,
flicked his Zippa, and lit the fuse. After tossing it on the floor,
he raised his left arm high and shouted, “We are the opportunists.
Clever and money! Heil Peace!”
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