The trouble started as soon as we walked in the door of Big Ronald’s. There was something different, strange even, about the burger joint.
I looked at Wilson. It was his idea to walk over to the fast-food place for lunch. Big Ronald’s had never been a favorite of mine, but I had let Wilson convince me. That usually was the first step in creating a disaster.
“The menu board looks different,” I said, as we stood by the entrance examining the offerings.
“Oh, they’ve been revamping the menu. Adding all kinds of healthy options,” he said, enthusiastically. “Like over there on the left of the board, that’s the Keto-friendly options. Next to it are the vegetarian, then vegan choices. I may go with one of the Keto specials. Or maybe a Paleo Plate.”
I stared at him. He was lost in thought, or possibly somewhere else, staring up at the board smiling and nodding like it was speaking to him.
I took a look at the board and hoped it would speak to me too. But it didn’t. Instead, it was a confusing, seemingly endless listing of options, most of which didn’t interest me.
“Do they still sell hamburgers?” I asked.
“Big Ronald’s?” he asked. “Of course, they’re up there somewhere, you just have to look. But why not try a Paleo Plate? It’s great stuff. You’ll feel so much better.”
“What’s the point of me making my semi-annual trip to a burger place if I can’t get a burger?” I asked.
“Ooooh, oooh,” Wilson said, poking me and pointing at the board. “I almost forgot, they just introduced a whole new line of Cluckers.”
“Cluckers?”
“Yeah, their chicken sandwich. Look, you can get a crispy fried one, or one with the new Buck-Buck Barbecue sauce. I’m going to try one.”
The few people socially distanced in front of us had cleared out and the gal behind the counter adjusted her face mask and spoke into her little microphone while looking at us.
“Next pest, please,” she said, or at least that’s what it sounded like.
We stepped forward to order but I didn’t feel good about it. Wilson was Mr. Decisive, knowing exactly what he wanted and able to answer all her muffled questions with ease in rapid fire, staccato fashion, looking up at the board as he rattled it all off.
“I’ll take the Clucker Deluxe. Kale option, fair trade pickles, sriracha mayo, on the organically grown sprouted whole grain climate-controlled wheat bun.”
“Cheese?” she asked.
“Vermont cheddar from the grass-fed cows, please.”
“Fries?”
“Cauliflower fries, and can I get the pure tomato paste ketchup, please? Thank you.”
“Drink?”
“Iced chai, unsweetened, three cubes of ice only.”
I watched as she punched all sorts of keys on her little console register thing and knew I was on the clock. I was sweating bullets, my brow and arm pits were moist. What the hell was I going to have?
I’d have a burger, dammit, I told myself. That’s what I walked in the front door for in the first place. I had no idea what it was called, maybe the Mooo, in keeping with the farm animal theme. But I had made my ordering commitment and I was sticking with it.
I stepped forward with confidence and ordered.
“Cheeseburger, and a side of-“
“What?” she asked.
“Cheeseburger,” I answered. “You still sell those, right?”
Her eyes went to her little register display board. Her brow tightened like she was working on a puzzle.
“Hmmmm,” she said.
“You know, it’s a beef patty, slap a slice of cheese on top, and we’re all set,” I said.
She adjusted the little microphone on her headset and communicated with the mothership. “Customer wants a burger.”
An alarm sounded from somewhere in the nether regions of the place.
“A cheeseburger,” I said.
A second later the door to the kitchen swung open and a middle aged guy wearing the light blue, button down shirt of a manager darted out yelling, “Who’s got the burger person? Who’s got the burger person?”
“Over here,” my gal said.
He raced over and stuck a key in the side of the register and silenced the alarm. They huddled to discuss what appeared to be a crisis. She poked away at her register like maybe some magic would happen the more she hit it.
“See, there’s no hamburger anywhere,” she said.
“Uh, that was a cheeseburger,” I said.
Mr. Manager looked up at me like I was intruding and said, “A cheeseburger now?”
“Yes, that’s correct. It was actually always a cheeseburger.”
I was expecting some follow-up questions about the bun, cheese, maybe seeing if I’d like an order of a fries, or possibly a drink. Those never came. Instead, Mr. Manager turned and yelled through the opening to the kitchen crew.
“All hands. All hands. We need a burger. See if someone can find one.”
It was yelled loud enough for the folks a block away to hear.
“Excuse me,” I said, “Why don’t I just change my order. I’d prefer if no one has to “find” a burger for me.”
I was envisioning a line worker rummaging through shelves and boxes in a big walk-in freezer in search of a meat patty.
Mr. Manager ignored the comment, instead took out a little phone-like device and began scrolling, pecking and generally becoming consumed with my request.
Wilson was next to me, staring at the monitor, his eyes wide with anticipation.
“Look, my Clucker is just about ready,” he said.
“Yes, that’s great,” I said.
A muffled voice came over the speaker saying order four-seventy-one was up. That was followed by the clucking sounds of chickens. Wilson raced forward waving his receipt to pick-up his order.
Mr. Manager was agitated and sweaty now, and violently punching his index finger on his device. “Okay, look, store nine-thirty-three, over on the east side, has a patty. The last one.”
Someone in the line behind me yelled. “Come on. What’s he ordering anyway, a hamburger?”
Mr. Manger looked up at me, his face stressed and tense.
“How soon you want this?” he asked.
“My lunch?” I asked. “I’d like it sometime during, well, lunch.”
“Okay, look, I can send an associate over to get it, but I’m going to ask you to step to the side to wait until he gets back with it.”
Wilson brushed past me, nibbling on a delicious looking cauliflower fry.
“Cluck…cluck,” he said, and kept going.