by William Garnett

I drive-up to McDonald’s and order a six dollar avocado burger. “We don’t sell those,” says the weak nasally voice in the intercom. “That’s Carl’s Junior.”

I tell the voice to make one anyway. And that I want jalapeño poppers and some curly fries, and one of those paper crowns that Burger King guy wears. “But we’re McDonald’s.” It’s a boy’s voice.

I tell him I don’t care what he thinks. I only care about what he knows. I tell him that it’s all the same. Every drive-thru menu from here (Seattle) to Miami is all the same shit, and then I tell him to hold the burger. I don’t eat meat. I was just fucking with him. But I still want my jalapeño poppers and my curly fries. Then I tell him to give me a seven-layer burrito without the sour cream. “But that’s Taco Bell,” he says.

I ask him if he’s been listening. He says that he has been, but that he doesn’t have anything for a burrito, no curly fries, and no jalapeño poppers and offers Hardee’s and Jack-In-The-Box excuses. I tell him to send his manager to the store. “But I am the manager.”

“And how’s that working out for you?”

The intercom buzzes and crackles and pops, and I almost hear him breathing.

William Garnett is currently lost in the desert around Las Vegas, NV. Not buried, just lost. His work has appeared in diddledog.com and babelfruit, and also the recycling containers and various incinerators of numerous organizations.