XL

We walked all over town looking for a place to eat. As usual, my
friends and I had left things until the last minute, expecting a
restaurant to happily accommodate our hunger pangs. The first place we
went to, by way of compromise as our tastes were diverse, was an
Italian spot popular with students. We could see from the street window
that it was packed, this being a Saturday night, and a haughty waitress
said that it was going to impossible to give us a table for
three.

It was a small victory for me, as I had wanted to try a new Japanese
noodle bar that had opened a few weeks before. This place was on the
other side of town, and as we walked down by the river I whipped up the
others' enthusiasm by promising them steaming bowls filled with fat
soba noodles and tender pieces of fried beef. My jubilation was
short-lived, as the proprietor informed us that, sadly, there would be
no available tables for at least three hours.

So this went for the best part of an hour, as we approached a Mexican
burrito bar, a Thai seafood restaurant and another, less reputable,
Italian pizzeria. All were booked, with huddles of people attached to
the hostess stations of each. By this time we were ferociously hungry,
so we ended up, for the third time in as many weeks, at
McDonalds.

I maintain that it's important for us to eat together once a week. My
friends and I lead busy lives with work and partners, so our time
together comes at a premium. Eating good food, I tell them, is the
secret to sticking together in the modern age. Once upon a time we
could be relied upon to be spotted in the bars and clubs of our city,
but as we got older the idea of returning home drunk at four in the
morning began to lose its appeal. Plus our respective girlfriends would
look upon us with the kind of distaste that I imagine was probably
reserved for our fathers when they tried doing the same sort of thing,
a very long time ago.

With our plastic trays piled with slight burgers and large pale tubs of
milkshakes, we took our usual spot, in the corner by the bay windows. I
always sit with my back to the glass, because unlike my friends, I
believe that the most interesting people can be found inside the
restaurant, not on the street outside. I'm happy to admit that I'm a
people watcher, but of the kind that gets his enjoyment from observing
subjects in a controlled environment, where their range of movement is
limited. The fast food that McDonalds serves just adds to the
laboratory feel of my private experiment.

This evening I was not to be disappointed. It was reasonably busy in
there, but two tables in particular caught my eye. At one sat a young
black man, probably not too dissimilar in age from myself. He was
alone, save for the shopping bags that he had carefully stacked on the
seats around him, as though he was reserving them for a party of
companions who were due to arrive at any moment. One was slightly
split, and I could see the box for an air fix modelling kit protruding
from within-a battleship, from the looks of things. A country boy at
heart, I'm curious about seeing black people proving themselves to be
just as white as the rest of us. I can safely blame television and rap
music for this, but I tend to harbour the prejudice that it's only us
Caucasians who have a monopoly on such symbols of utter loneliness and
desperation. Model trains, war games and the like: what could be more
illustrative of total dejection? I never thought I would see a
Nike-clad thug sitting at a bus stop, fiddling with a stamp collection,
and when that day finally came I was floored by the sight, and I felt
the urge to put my hand on his shoulder and thank him. So it was the
same for this guy. He attacked his food with a single-minded
determination, not taking any time to examine his fellow fast food
travellers, or even stop to breathe and savour the tastes he was
supposed to be enjoying. It was just bite, chew, swallow, and repeat.
How many times had I done the very same thing?

"Take a look at that dude over there," I said to my friends. "We should
follow him."

"Why?"

What a funny question. Because he's interesting? "I don't know," I
replied. "It was just a thought." But my friends looked at me like I
was the one with an interest in modelling, and if there's one thing
that people hold in contempt, it's the thought of adults having
hobbies.

The other table was home to a very old man, and a very young girl.
Well, I say young-she was probably about eighteen. Her companion, on
the other hand, had easily cleared seventy, and he was dressed like a
man who knows he has no milestones left to look forward to. I should
think that he stank of drink as well, and if it wasn't for the diamond
earring that glittered tawdrily in the light, he could have been
homeless for all anyone knew. He kept putting a scabby paw on her
wrist, shoving chicken nuggets into his gullet, and all the while she
was staring at his earring as though under a spell.

"We should have been here the other night," said one of my friends,
distracting me from my mental notes. I asked him what he was talking
about.

"Humph. Nothing. Sorry to disturb you."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to sound annoyed. I was just thinking."

"What happened?" asked the other friend.

"I heard that this place was robbed. Well, sort of. Not exactly robbed.
There was a shotgun, so I hear, but they didn't take any money."

"The police got them?"

"No-that's just it. Very strange."

"Wait," I said. "Who told you this?" I hadn't heard anything on the
local news, but then McDonalds restaurants are probably hit up on a
regular basis.

"I know a guy, a student, who was here. Actually, he was asleep at the
time, but when he woke up the cashier told him what happened. But this
is true, honest to god. See, this couple walked in with a
shotgun-"

"A couple?"

"Can he finish the story?"

"Yeah, a couple. They came in and did the usual thing, you know-"

"The usual thing? How many armed robberies have you personally
seen?"

"Hey, let him finish the story."

"Well, they did all that business, right, but instead of taking the
money-you'd expect them to bust open the safe, right?"

"Just get on with the story, huh?"

"Let him speak!"

"Instead of taking the money, they just asked for Big Macs."

"Big Macs?"

"You know-burgers. They took all these Big Macs. That's it. Food.
That's what they had the shotgun for."

"How many Big Macs did they steal?"

"How the fuck should I know? A lot, I should imagine. You don't just
hold up a McDonalds and ask for a little bit of food, do you? You don't
ask for something as trivial as a Happy Meal. You have to think
big."

"This sounds like bullshit."

"But here's what's really weird."

"How can anything be weirder than a couple stealing Big Macs?"

"Will you let him finish?"

"They took all the Big Macs, and then they asked for Coke."

"As in coke?"

"The drink. Coca-Cola. They asked for two Cokes. This is the messed up
part of it. They paid for the Cokes."

"Did they pay for the Big Macs?"

"Nope. They stole the Big Macs. That's what the gun was for. But they
paid for the Cokes."

"This is such bullshit."

"It's a true story, I swear to god. The guy told me-that's exactly what
the girl behind the counter told him."

"And this dude was asleep through the whole thing?"

"Right."

"This is utter bullshit."

"True story. Why would I make this up? You can't make stuff like that
up, can you? I mean, you're a writer; can you make stuff like that
up?"

I admitted that not even a writer could make something like that
up.

The black guy rose from his table with his shopping bags, taking care
to tuck his model battleship safely under one arm. Standing there, he
looked around at the other patrons furtively, a little uncertain too, I
think, like he'd only just realised that he'd come to McDonalds to eat.
As he walked out, I half rose in acknowledgement, but he didn't see
me.

"There's your chance," my friends smaned.

"Take a look over there," I whispered, nodding towards the girl and the
old man near us. "You think she's his grand daughter or
something?"

"Man, she's nice. Look at her. That's a shame."

"Hate to think what you'd come away with."

"Dirty old bastard."

Puzzled, I asked what they were talking about. My friends exchanged
knowing looks and gave me nothing in return. The girl looked fine to
me; a little sallow, but it was this light. It made everyone in the
restaurant look jaundiced.

"No, really. You think that she's ? with him? He must be rich, or
something."

"Rich? That's one way of looking at it."

"Am I missing something?"

"You're not being serious, are you Paul? I thought you people liked to,
you know, stare into the abyss. Examine the underbelly of life and all
that shit."

"I bet she probably doesn't even speak a word of English," said my
other friend. "Filthy old fucker. Hope his fucking cock falls
off."

The couple left their rubbish on the table and made their way past us
to the door. He was shorter than her, much shorter, and he wrapped a
thin arm around the girl's waist, and as they walked past our table he
kept his head high. The earring reflected little pin pricks of light
into our eyes, and we blinked as they left the restaurant.

"Let's go," said my friends. "This is the last time we ever come to
this place. The food here tastes like shit." I felt like my waist had
grown outwards a couple of inches, and I had to take some extra deep
breaths when we got outside. We made our plans to meet again the
following Saturday, wished one another a good week at work, and went
our separate ways.