Tag Archives: Jack in the Box

The Corona Diaries

Image result for star wars tatooine sunset

Chapter IV: A New Hope

 

I awakened today to another missive reminding me of the New World Order. This time, it was from my dentist.

The letter said that, despite Los Angeles County’s shut down of all non-essential businesses, the office was permitted to operate by appointment-only (did it ever operate any other way? Were walk-in root canals common?). The county, the letter beamed, had determined “we are essential.”

At first I was mildly relieved. Good to know in an emergency.

Then I panicked. What is considered an essential business? I knew the malls were closed, but I hadn’t been in one of those in months. Same with schools, strip malls and airports. Again, I gave not a shit.

But the email got me thinking about individual businesses. Mom & pop shops. The auto mechanic. The small hardware store owner.

Just kidding. I thought about Jack in the Box. Image result for jack in the box

Where was I supposed to get my sausage croissant with hash browns? Or Tiny Tacos with hash browns? Or hash browns?

I hurried Esme into the batpod (my smart car) and we tore ass down Vanowen Street toward junk food junction, where a McDonald’s, Del Taco and Jack duke it out everyday.

As I neared the intersection, I could see bustle at all three establishments. In fact, the line of cars at Jack circled the building.  How long, I wondered, until more businesses added a drive-thru component? Think about it: How handy would it be to order staple items online at Ralph’s, pay for it, and have it freshly packed and refrigerated when you pick it up? Groceries are beginning delivery service, but wouldn’t it be better have them freshly packed and chilled, as opposed to sitting in the back of a stoner’s Hyundai while he gets to other customers?

Turns out, fast food is essential. Seeeeee, Mom? Told you.

Of course, that didn’t help me with my immediate problem: I was not going to wait in a line that resembled Disneyland’s.

Fortunately, I have what doctors refer to as “crapdar.” I can innately sense where junk food is being distributed, either in frozen, fast or microwaveable form. And I my crapdar had, months ago, ferreted out a Jack in the Box a little further north, tucked next to a shuttered car wash and adjacent to an Amtrak railroad line. I’ve always loved it, not only for its hole-in-the-wall emptiness, but I love the sound of a train. It’s the mainstay of any city surf, and I can hear it from my house. At night, the city surf can be as soothing as any beach, if you listen soft enough.

And, sure enough, there was no one in line. I ordered my Tiny Tacos and hash browns. As we waited, a train rumbled toward us.

The warning bells sounded, the barriers dropped. Traffic began to pile, waiting for the train to pass. It did, whistling loudly as it crossed the intersection. There was not a soul aboard.

Still, I drove home happy — particularly as I passed the dumbasses still in line at junk food junction. I recognized a couple cars that had not even made it to the order window yet.

As I pulled into the garage, it hit me: Those routines we follow, the habits we form, the familiar motions that serve as a security blanket against virulent winds. Many of those exist still. Right here. Within our reach. Maybe it’s a person. Maybe it’s an animal. Maybe it’s tiny tacos.

Regardless, recognize them. Embrace them. Celebrate them.

That is the true essential.

Benny Bobblehead and Constance Cussalot

 

(HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM!!!!)

I love fast food.

It’s not an easy confession to make. It’s like saying you love commercials (which I occasionally do too, and not just during the Super Bowl).

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhzTIKLu_Fc

But you rarely hear someone professing their love of, say, Big Macs, though their personal economies may suggest otherwise. If anything, that giant M has become a scarlet letter of sorts, aglow in neon and pastels. A friend’s daughter makes sure the car is free of McD wrappers before mom picks up friends, lest they discover evidence she ate crap. The loss of that demographic must haunt the ghost of Ray Kroc. 

But take the M off sign, the Jack out of the box, the crown from the King, and the experience becomes something different. If you stopped at a local coffee shop every morning for your drink and biscuit, we’d find it quaint. The people cooking your food may wear a different uniform, but they are doing the same thing, providing the same service. Just in plastic.

Screw that. I get to know my fast food servers, who know my dog by name (and inquire when she’s not in the car with me). This morning, the manager of my local Jack in the Box literally chased me down before I pulled out of the drive-thru to give me a “VIP” key chain, good for 10% off any order, at any outlet, no expiration date or usage limitations. It’s a dubious honor, to be sure. I’m surprised they even have such a thing. But let’s see a Starbucks — or any coffee shop — offer customers something similar.

Plus, with fast food, you get experiences like Benny Bobblehead and Constance Cussalot, my favorite homeless denizens of my local McD‘s.

Benny is a homeless man who waits at the end of the McD drive-thru. He bobs his head constantly to peek around the corner to greet drivers after they’ve  they’ve picked up their orders (and change). It’s a brilliant location, one that rivals freeway exits. Regardless of whether you give him change, his response is the same: “God bless.”

Connie doesn’t request money, though she is less diplomatic. She waits at the exit of McD‘s, cussing up a storm. She’s more of a “goddamnit” girl than a godbless one. Keep your window rolled down, and, if she notices, she’ll toss a “motherfucker,” “bitch” or “asshole” your way. I wonder how many parents have had to explain Constance  Cussalot to their kids.

Last weekend, both were in fine form. Benny was looking dapper, decked out in a sport coat (minus the shirt). He’s more hirsute than I thought.  I gave him my change (though, confession: I keep the quarters), and, with windows yawning open, braced for Connie’s wrath. She was spewing Category 5 expletives.

“Damn motherfuckers!” she yelled at no one in particular. “Sonofabitches!!”

As we neared the exit, Esme heard the rant. Her ears perked as she stood on her hind legs, just tall enough to look out the passenger window at the commotion. She saw Connie and, for the first time, Connie saw her.

“GODDAMN!!…” Connie began — until she saw Esme. “Awwwww! Wittle doggie!! Whooz a good baby??!! Whoooz a good doggie??!! WHOOOOZ A GOOD DOGGIEEE???!!!”

Her kind vitriol trailed off as we merged into traffic. I assume she returned to her tirade at the next soccer mom she saw.

America may hold its baristas dear. I prefer to hold the pickles, hold the lettuce.