Farewell, McDonalds

Florida summers are scorching. You feel as though you are swimming in the dense air. The gulf is a few miles away, the river barely a half mile, but this isn't the kind of water you can jump into to cool down. It is entirely of a different nature.

You thought that McDonald's McChicken sandwiches were something we got our mother to buy back then. You were unaware that they were also a treat for her. A treat given to her in a bag that included no dirty dishes to clean and no choices to make. It was wrapped in yellow. Each for $.99.

McDonald's, you didn't comprehend that we all needed it. However, the years had been creeping past and would keep on doing so, and you would find yourself spending more time in the drive-through than you realized. A habit that would take hold and not let go.

the sensation of perspiration dripping down the side of your neck and hair clinging to the back of your neck. You take in extra moisture through your breathing. the sensation of removing your burden and putting it into a messy bun. What a relief.

Mom used to take you along when she took the car on a nighttime drive to pick up the treat. with her hair blown around in the wind, both hands on the wheel, and the windows down.

At night the air was better. More permeable in some way, with the sound of cicadas and frogs, the southern song. You felt awake at night. The earth seemed both vast and tiny at night, and the sky was breathtaking. Both the car and the darkness beckoned you, and together they created a mystical place.

The talks that old car would hear, in time, and the joy and fear it would contain. The late-night drives to a McDonald's in a different town only to see everyone you care about. Eventually.

However, as it is most likely 2007 now, that moment has not yet arrived. It's not nighttime, yet breathing is difficult. While you wait for the adolescent operating the drive-through to take your order, you are putting your hair up in a messy bun, giving the cashier a $10 bill, and watching for the bag to come out the window.

Every time Mom saw the man sitting on the sidewalk, she would also always buy him a treat.

"Hey, take it easy."

that sensation.

The man didn't belong there because most people of his kind, those with nowhere else to go, stayed elsewhere and begged close to other McDonald's. However, this one was uniquely his. He sat there and patiently waited, not begging. He did not speak, nor did he twitch a muscle. That didn't explain why he was a touch terrifying, though.

But you knew you didn't have to be afraid of him because your mother wasn't. His eyes were too red, she remarks as she speeds off.

Even if you believe you are not a child, you don't give it much thought. She will consider it, even if she knows you won't. She will be aware that his crimson eyes have significance when they linger in her thoughts.

She'll notice that he's gone the next time you wait at the drive-through. You too will notice abruptly. A few days later, a newspaper article will attest to the fact that his eyes were excessively red—a sign of an unsuccessful fight. You'll be thinking about it nonstop. You will always remember his red eyes even if you were never able to see them.

You'll continue to crave the McChicken for a while. The comfort temporarily overrides the recollection. Nothing will seem to matter for a while, other than the person you are waiting in the car with.

But even if the cost of not having to wash dishes or make judgments increases to a point you can no longer bear, his gaze will still linger. The treat wrapped in yellow paper has become just another addiction rather than a treat. It won't be worth it to wait in the drive-through with your little one by your side, even at night or in your beloved vehicle. Something you could not have before ever dreamed of.

And you'll get a longing every time you pass the Golden Arches, missing your mom and wanting to taste that feeling. You will continue to drive and think about him and the scorching Florida summers.