ISSUE FIVE: July, 2020

KEVIN and FAST FOOD LOVE STORY

by RIV BEGUN

Kevin

I thought I heard my dentist mention something about lucky charms. I hadn’t really listened, and I couldn’t. He had been cleaning out my teeth and I couldn’t make out anything beyond the gargling. In the back of his office, I might have seen a large poster with a picture of the trademark cereal box and a giant red X going through the middle. I dismissed it as a dentist joke.

I should have paid more attention.  The Tuesday after my dentist appointment, I’d been craving cereal for dinner. It’d been a long time since I’d indulged in that ultimate right of adulthood, and I couldn’t resist the sly smile of the leprechaun on the red box.

I got home, put on some sweatpants, turned on the television, poured myself a bowl and had the spoon up to my mouth When a voice came from the kitchen cabinet..

“They’re after me lucky charms....”

I jumped up from the couch. Milk and marshmallows flew out of my bowl as I turned my head to stare in the direction of the mysterious sound. A rainbow glow emanated from the cracks and the voice came again...

“They’re after...me...lucky..charms....

The door of the cabinet flew off it’s handles and I tried to shield my eyes from the now pulsing rainbow light. I squinted and made out the shape of a very tiny red headed man wearing a green top hat, a green sweater, and tiny green shoes with gold buckles. I glanced over at the counter where I’d left the cereal box and couldn’t believe my eyes. The intruder was Sir Charms, the Lucky Charms Leprechaun. 

“They’re after me lucky charms!”

He bellowed as I stood frozen in my kitchen.  The rainbow glow subsided and I managed to make out more details of my intruder.  His sweater was dirty with blood stains and his eyes looked a lot more maniacal than they had on the box. He’d managed to find one of my kitchen knives and was slowly walking toward me, staring and fuming at the cereal I’d spilled on the floor. 

From behind me, I heard another voice.

“Kevin, it’s your dentist. I’m here to rescue you.”

Fast Food Love Story

“I told you it was dangerous to meet here.” said the Hamburglar, his raccoon eyes focused on the parking lot outside the waffle house. Wendy grabbed his hands in hers, trying to calm him down.

“His spies are everywhere. They could be looking at us right now.” he said, as the Waffle house waitress walked up to their table.

“Whaddya have?” She was wearing a yellow dress and black apron, the normal waffle house attire.  Her bosom covered what must have been a  torso hidden underneath, the bangs under her visor hadn’t been changed since the 80s and somehow resembled every other waitresses’ hairstyle.

“Why do all the waitresses at Waffle House look like they’re related, despite race, color, size, or shape?” Wendy asked, twirling her bright red braids. 

The Hamburglar looked down, uncomfortable in the cheap plastic chairs. 

“I’ll take a buttermilk waffle with pecans, please.” he said to the table.

“Can you repeat that, darlin? I didn’t get it.”

Wendy, always the confident one, spoke instead.

“He’ll take a buttermilk waffle with pecans. I’ll have the grits scattered, smothered and covered, and a pop.

“Pop? Who says Pop anymore?” said the Hamburglar as the waitress walked off, carrying their large yellow plastic menus off to the kitchen. 

“You’re not so current yourself. You haven’t been on TV in a decade.”

The Hamburglars cheeks turned the color of Wendy’s hair, the braids now upturned in their usual gravity defying manner. 

“What if they see you here?” he asked her, again looking around, his eyes falling on the kitchen, where a waffle house cook may or may not have accidently cut a piece of his own finger into the scrambled eggs.

“They’d never come here. Too focused on their square shaped patties and baked potatoes.” she said. 

“Besides, I heard the Colonel comes here sometimes for a waffle. If he can do it, we can too.”

“Colonel Sanders? The founders of Kentucky Fried Chicken would be rolling in their graves.” 

“He is the founder.” she said, taking a sip of her pop from a straw.  The waitress had brought them their food without them noticing, record timing in their industry. Wendy sprayed her grits with ketchup, some of the red falling onto her blue and white striped dress.  

She giggled.

“No problem, I have 20 of these at home.” The Hamburglar smiled at her, spreading the huge blob of butter from the middle of his waffle onto the rest, until the creases of the squares were only a memory, replaced by a river of yellow fat.

“Coffee?’ the waitress was back, carrying a large silver kettle of steaming hot coffee.

“Ronald Mcdonald would kill me.” he said, accepting the totally average coffee.

“Who does he think he is? The Burger King?” Wendy said, relishing in their rebellion, their betrayal of their own franchises.

Someone yelled from the kitchen.  The woman at the cash register, another 80s haircut but a smaller waist than their own waitress, rolled her eyes. 

“Not again.” as she took the fire extinguisher from the wall. One of the cooks had burnt his hand on the stove.

“It’s so exciting here, so unpredictable.” Wendy said as she gazed lovingly into the Hamburglar’s eyes. He took off his black top hat, revealing hair as red as Wendy’s. 

“I’m happy we could meet here.” he said, when suddenly the glass door of the Waffle House crashed into a hundred pieces of never cleaned glass, covering the black and yellow tiles of the diner.

“Traitor. You signed a noncompete agreement.” Ronald Mcdonald yelled into the restaurant, a french fry shooting gun in his right hand.  The Waffle House employees had all ducked behind the counter. The waffle maker started beeping and wouldn’t stop. Grits on the stove began burning. 

The Hamburglar, cover over with courage,  stood up,  took his plate sized waffle in his hand, tore off a piece with his teeth and chewed it, then spit it onto the ground.  He looked at Wendy, the fire of a hundred fry pans burning in his eyes.

“I love you, Wendy.” 

Tears were streaming down Wendy’s face, her hands reaching out for her beloved Hamburglar.  The Hamburglar walked up to Ronald Mcdonald,  face white behind clown makeup, red painted mouth growing more grotesque as Hamburglar approached.  

Hamburglar, the rest of his Waffle still in his hand, threw his meal at Ronald.

“No!” Wendy cried, getting up from her chair as Ronald, in his huge yellow suit, unphased by the waffle now sticking to his clothes, picked the tiny Hamburglar up from the floor, threw him over his shoulder, and winked at Wendy.

“Sorry, babe.” Ronald said, and ran away, the Hamburglar still on his shoulders, leaving Wendy, alone and on her knees, crying into the sticky floor of the waffle house.

RIV BEGUN is a writer and photographer between Zurich and Mexico City. She has been published by Format Papier and Naturally Curly. You can find her on twitter at @BegunRiv or at your local cafe typing away when it's not pandemic times.