I’m back to finish up the story. I’ve just finished kicking the secret service out of my house. I had a terrible fight with an unnamed high ranking government agent over my rights to disclose this information. Don’t worry. I read him the riot act. Or was it was the patriot act. Maybe the ACT study guide. I’m not sure. Either way, my free speech posturing and the generous application of the ‘Your #1 Hand Sign’ I learned from George W. Bush seemed to have worked. Bribing Cheney with a huge hunk of meat I bought out of the back of a pickup truck didn’t hurt either. If your Internet suddenly goes dark it’s not my fault. I’m authorized to write this. You should call Al Gore. Either he’s using up all the electricity again or there is a design flaw dating back to when he invented the durn thing. Now back to the story.
We were sent on our way with all the support and love a couple could ever ask for. We walked arm and arm to the tarmac and boarded our unmarked helicopter bound for NASA’s zero gravity research facility. I thought we were headed for Cape Canaveral. The palmetto trees, the warm air, the challenge of a half price all you can eat buffet if you can get there before 5:00, I was dreaming of all this and more. We landed in the litter strewn parking lot of a McDonalds just off one the exits in New Jersey.
The pilot pressed a few dollars into my husband’s hand and slapped him on the back.
“Don’t forget, ask for the Big Mac special” he mumbled in his ear as he turned to leave.
“And don’t forget you want fries with that.” He shouted as he hopped back on the helicopter. The helicopter crew nodded and snorted and punched each other in the arm like men do when, well they just do it all the time. I’m not sure why.
We waved goodbye and watched him fade slowly into the distance. We stared at the ground for a few seconds not sure how to proceed. We were unsure of ourselves for the first time in many years. Eventually our eyes met and a sense of adventure sparked between us.
We walked into that McDonalds unafraid. A song by Lee Greenwood was playing in our head. Proudly we burst through the grease smeared double glass door. Heads held high. Like a true American we stepped to the counter.
“I’d like the Big Mac Special”, my husband proclaimed with all the dignity a man asked to serve his country should have.
The kid in the paper hat took a step back from the counter. He took a deep breath and swallowed loudly. Eyes big and hands shaking he asked the all-important question.
“Do you want fries with that?”
“Yes, yes I do. I most certainly want fries with that.” My husband said with conviction. ”I want extra large fries!” The entire restaurant became silent.
The sound of the microphone keying up echoed off every wall and probably a few of the heat lamps as well.
“Big Mac special, extra large fries” the cashier squeaked into the microphone. His voice cracking with the onset of puberty and excitement.
I listened as the request was passed from one gasping person to the next. The request made it’s way like an audible but invisible wave to the back of the establishment. I heard a large metal door swing open and close with a loud metallic crash. The sound of heavy boots thumped slowly down the aisle. Then I saw him.
He was a nicely dressed man in an expensive suit. Nice tie and a decent hair cut. Just like any well-groomed professional you might meet at, say, your local brothel. The only thing out of place was his boots. He was wearing combat boots.
“Does your mommy know you wear combat boots” I asked giggling nervously.
He didn’t get the joke. I’m not sure I got it either.
“Please follow me.” He said with authority.
We followed without hesitation. Hesitation was something for later. Much later.
To be continued. Probably.
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