So he said he was done with it. Gone dry now forty-eight hours and running. Best thing. Had one of those bad cholest’rols; felt no good; liver shot; blood pressure off the scale.

After a while he began to lose his belly. He began to think of that cool party where somebody knocked over the punch bowl, while forgetting that it was him who stumbled drunkenly into it. The excitement of that moment when he was asked to entertain at a party, while forgetting how he was so wasted he had to quit after several ill-fated tries.

Now he thinks he can re-capture those euphoric moments with just a little sip. Not a problem. He can totally control it better.

I knew a guy once who liked to belly up to the bar…

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Well, he’d gone out one night to get us each a small resupply. I noodled around with this or that on the guitar. When he got home, we watched the beginning of an old movie, and I went home.

At home I turned on the rest of the movie, laid back, rolled up a “pinner”, and considered impure thoughts with Donna Reed. The phone rang and I  distractedly reached across and picked it up.

God! James! Don’t use any of that stuff I gave you. You hear me?! Don’t use it! That stuff was meant for my wife! I…uh, Rest her Soul.

And that’s how Dave saved my life. How will I ever repay him?

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Is he kidding? I’ve always been a vodka martini man. He knows that. You give me sour mash whiskey tonight and tomorrow I wake up feeling like somebody flossed me through the ears with a strand of barbed wire.

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While I’ve been over here awaiting arrival of my long-deserved Publishers Clearing House check—he shows up with a new Beemer, Marc Jacobs sunglasses and a leather Sharks jacket.

I guess I should have been more suspicious when he asked for my autograph last week.

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He said he never talked in his sleep, never has. Told her that when he was a young stud-muffin he used to date four/five women at a time. Some of them married. If he talked in his sleep, he said, he’d be dead.

Yeah.

Now nobody knows whether he talks in his sleep or not. He’s sleeping somewhere else.

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So he goes down to Vegas for a little vacation, and stays in a big Strip hotel. And just for a hoot, he decides to register as Dr. Steven Jones. Then he goes off to see a show, try the tables, whatever.

Pretty soon he’s bushed, been a long day, and he goes up to his room for a little shut eye. About an hour later…BANG!…BANG!…BANG!… there’s a security guy at his door.

“You the doctor?” he asks.

“Well, not exactly. I’m not a med—”

“You the doctor or not? There’s a guy downstairs who collapsed. Manager says could’a had a heart attack. Tells me to bring the doctor.”

“RD…” Steven says, “not MD… I’m a radia—”

“Look, pal. I don’t care if you’re Dr. Seuss. Manager says bring the doctor, I bring the doctor—or it’s my [mild expletive]“.

It takes a while to get everything straightened out and find a real doctor, but eventually, Steven gets back to bed.

He says he learned a very important lesson from this experience.

Next time, stay at a different hotel.

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•          •          •

Phone rings. Caller ID says it’s my friend Dave, who works as a field supervisor for PG&E. I pick up.

“James…”

“Hey Dave, I’m trying to get some sleep here. I was up late working. Do you know what time it is?”

“Ten thirty?”

“Oh…okay. Right. What’s up?”

“I was over at McDonald’s just now. They’ve got this special. If you bring in five real old comic books to show ‘em they give you a free Big Mac.”

“And…?”

“They wouldn’t give me my Big Mac.”

“Gee, that’s too bad. …So?”

“I need your help.”

(This is how I know it’s a dream. No one in their right mind would ask for my help.)

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“I want you to go over there for me. Get me a coupon or something. I’ve gotta get to work. I’ve got a pretty heavy load today.”

“Okay, sure.”

(Remember, just a dream.)

I go over there. Almost hit a cat. Stand in line. Girl taking orders is pretty but vacant. Looks like she couldn’t make change if she had a written script. Fortunately she has a cash register that’s smarter than she is. I tell her my story. No change in expression. (Like, ohmygod, gag me with a spoon!)

I ask for the manager. Manager comes over. Looks like Michael Moore, but heavier. I explain my problem.

“The special don’t start ‘til Tuesday.”

I point to the window.

“It says last Tuesday. Don’t you read your own signs?”

Big sigh. Him, not me.

“Okay. Send him in with the comics. I’ll give him the Big Mac.”

“He can’t come in. He’s workin’. Give me a coupon and I’ll give it to him.”

“He’ll have to come in so we can give him the Big Mac. Okay, he doesn’t have to bring the comics.”

Mr. Magnanimous. “He’s not comin’ in. Give me a coupon.”

Now he looks peeved. Decides to flex some managerial muscle. I think we’re about to lose ground.

“I’ve changed my mind. I didn’t see any comic books. He’ll have to bring them back in.”

Manager stares. I stare. “What’s wrong with just giving me the coupon?”

“I can’t authorize that.”

“Who can?”

“I’m just the assistant manager. You’ll have to talk to the manager. He’s over at our main location fillin’ in.”

I’ve been dealing with underlings.

•          •          •

I go over there. Almost hit another cat. I stand in a longer line. Get up front. Ask for the manager. Manager comes over. Medium-size African-American kid, maybe 19. Crooked hat. I tell him my story.

“Can’t he come in here himself?”

“Sorry. He’s at work. He sent me. How about the coupon?”

“Gee, I don’t know…”

“Look, son…what’s your name?”

“Arthur, sir. Arthur Bridges. …It says so right here on my badge.”

One for him. “Okay, look, Arthur, I’m all for following protocol, but all I’m trying to do here is help my friend. He brought in the comics. Sign says one Mac. How about you just give me the coupon and I go away.”

This manager definitely thinks faster and deeper than the other manager. Seems nicer, too. I can see why he got promoted.

“I can’t imagine why they turned him down. Are you sure these comics are real old?”

“Like dust.”

“Well, sir, I’m afraid I still can’t authorize it. I’ll have to call the district office.”

“Fine. Put ‘em on.”

•          •          •

This time I get to use the phone and don’t have to drive anywhere. Probably saved a cat. The district supervisor seems very pleasant. Ms. Grimes. I tell her my story.  She asks the standard questions.

“And it happened right there at our main store? Didn’t Arthur remedy the problem?”

Store? …Right.

“No, ma’am. It happened over at your Parsons location. I’m sure that if it had happened here Arthur would have…remedied the problem. He seems very capable.” You owe me one Art.

“And these comic…er, ‘books’ were very old?”

“They are by now.”

“‘Beg pardon?”

“I said yes, they were very old or my friend wouldn’t have brought them in. He’s as honest as the day is long.”

“Well, I suppose it’s just one Big Mac. I’ll have Arthur give you a coupon.”

“Ten.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Ten coupons. Five for me and five for my friend. It’s been a very long morning.”

Why do I do things like this? I guess I’ll never know. Maybe being tired makes me grumpy.

“Oh, well, I’m afraid—”

“Look, Ms. Grimes, trust me on this: I’m not the kind of guy who’s just going to go away. Or perhaps you and I could discuss this on a rather different level. I don’t happen to be an attorney, but I have a brother in this town who is a very good one. I’m sure after consulting him he’ll advise me to—”

“Very well. Very well. Ten then. I’ll have Arthur give you the coupons.”

This ploy usually works. I’ve always wanted to have a brother.

“Thank you.” We move on to exchange more pleasantries before I hand the phone over to my young friend. He listens carefully, nodding, then hangs up. Moves around the counter. Reaches under and pulls out a stack of mostly curled coupons. Apparently they don’t give out many of these.

“Let’s see,” he says, studying the cache for a while, “I don’t see any Big Macs. How about some Bran McMuffins?”

“Big Macs.”

“Hmmm.” He goes back to the stack. “I do have a few for our new ‘Broasted Chicken sandwich’…?”

“What’s the difference between ‘broasted’ ‘and ‘roasted’?”

“Well, gee, I don’t know, now that you mention it. Maybe you should have asked Ms. Grimes.”

“She seems more the administrative type.”

He re-consults. “How about—”

I figure these must be the slow movers. Time to shut this down. My pillow awaits.

“Arthur…” He looks up, crooked hat and all. “Big Macs. Ten.”

Toward the bottom of the stack he brightens and holds out one treasured prize.

“Arthur…ten.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I can only find one. I’m afraid you’ll have to go back to the Parsons store.”  He seems genuinely remorseful and sympathetic at having to say this. I can’t help but like him.

On my way out of the “store”, I turn and address him once more.

“Arthur?”

“Yes sir?”

“Your hat’s on crooked.”

Thank you, sir.”

(Just a dream.)

•          •          •

On my way back to the other McDonald’s I watch out for cats. Almost hit a dog. I arrive, park, go in. Feeling some unusual generosity of spirit, I wait at the end of this (believe it or not) even longer line. After all, it’s probably during everyone’s lunch hour, and all these people have to get back to work.

When I reach the front I approach the same vacant girl and ask again for the manager. She glances down at the keypad as if trying to find the appropriate button to push for my order, then looks up in frustration. I motion her to the side and call out to the manager. He lumbers over. She goes on to help the next customer with obvious relief.

“Yeah?” he says as if wanting to add “…You again??” I let it pass.

“I spoke to Mr. Bridges at the other store. I also spoke to Ms. Grimes at your district office. She agreed on ten coupons for Big Macs. Mr. Bridges doesn’t have that many. He says you do.”

“Ms. Crimes?”

“I wouldn’t call her that if I were you. Could I have the coupons please?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have them either. We do give out quite a few for promotion, you know.”

“Not to me.” Now I’m getting irritated. Lack of sleep.

“I could just give you the ten Big Macs,” he adds with a smile.

“Look, Einstein…do I look like I could eat ten Big Macs?!”

“Okay. Okay then,” he says with sudden and suspicious resignation. “Go ahead and step back in line. By the time you reach the front I’ll have something written up.”

“Wrong. You see those guys over there? They’re in line. I’m not in line. I’ve been in line half the morning. And if you’re not back here in five minutes with something I like, your “guests” will have the priviledge of hearing me loudly proclaim all these tasty ingredients and nutritional values that you have listed on this poster right here.”

He studies my best poker face.

“Are you sure these comics were real old?…”

Here we go again.

“Get Ms. Grimes on the phone.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have the number.”

“I do. Here. Call. I’ll wait.”

He seems suddenly unsure of himself for the first time, but complies. For a minute I worry that Ms. Grimes might see me on caller ID again, but then realize I have the anonymity of being back where she doesn’t expect me.

“Good morning, McDonald’s district headquarters, Ms. Grimes speaking.”

“Ms. Grimes, it’s me again. I’m back at Parsons. Arthur didn’t have the coupons and he sent me back here. Now I’m having some difficulty with the manager.”

“And the nature of your difficulty?” I can almost feel her veneer of civility peeling off.

“He says he doesn’t have the coupons and refuses to write me a chit for them.” Now of course I’m wondering why Arthur didn’t do just that when I was over there—a fact I hope escapes the notice of the fearsome Ms. Grimes. I still like the guy.

“Well, put him on the phone,” she says, her teeth gritting so hard I can hear them clack. “I’ll see that you get your ten Big Macs.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty!” she says, her composure finally shattering. “We agreed on ten!”

“The gas cost another ten.”

Now I can hear the gears turning.

“Look…Mr.…whatever, since we last spoke I have consulted with my superiors. They have given me complete authority to handle this anyway I see fit. And I see fit to offer you five. If you don’t like it I’m afraid you can contact your prominent lawyer brother and we can escalate this. But I assure you that we have prominent lawyers too.”

Boy, does she sound smug, or what? I take a breath.

“Very well, Ms. Grimes, we can escalate if you want. Would you like me to call Ronald?”

There is a snort at her end. She can smell the kill.

“I’m afraid there is no Ronald McDonald. He’s just our corporate icon.”

“I wasn’t speaking of Ronald McDonald. I was referring to Ronald “The Hammer” Hummel. Consumer advocate. Channel 10. He lives for stuff like this.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“As sure as the meat’s hidden under the pickle chip.”

“Very well. Put the manager on. You’ll get your burgers.”

“Twenty.”

“Twenty.

“Plus one of those broasted chicken sandwiches to eat while I’m waiting.

Arthur says they’re very good.”
“Done!”

“With fries.”

“Fries! Coke! Apple turnover! Just go away!”

“Ms. Grimes, I accept your generous offer.”

Her instructions to the manager are so loud through the earpiece he has to hold his hand away. Several people in line also follow the sound and look over.

Several minutes later I exit the building with the chit and a sandwich containing a fairly decent imitation of chicken with whatever secret sauce they’ve decided to slather it with. The wilted lettuce and other condiments I scrape off into the receptacle on my way out of the “store”.

I watch very carefully on the way home for any sign of cats, dogs, alligators, rinoceri or beached blue whales and somehow manage to avoid making acquaintance with any. At home I wipe my greasy hands on my pants, then drop the keys twice because now they’re greasy too.

Finally being home feels so good I reel my way into the bedroom and plop on the bed with a thump. Then I pick up the phone and it rings six times. Dave answers.

“Hello?…”

“Dave!  I didn’t know if you’d pick up. I’ve  figured they’d have you way out somewhere where you couldn’t get a signal. Where have they got you running to now?”

“Oh, that. Well, actually, I called in sick.”

“Sick?…”

“Well, yeah. I’ll tell ya buddy, you weren’t the only one who was up late…if you know what I mean. I thought I’d just catch a few z’s, then head out clubbin’.  Say, you wanna go?”

“So you’ve been—”

“Yeah…but only three, four hours, something like that. But y’know, I was just thinking, ain’t this a kick? First I wake you up while you’re sleepin’, now you wake me up.”

“A kick.”

“Oh, yeah, I almost forgot, you were going to go down to that the burger joint for me. See if you could get me that burger coupon. How’d that go? You get the coupon?”

(Long pause.)

“…James…James?…”

“Naw…sorry, buddy. Wouldn’t budge, I’m afraid.”

“Oh darn. I really like those Big Mac’s too. I guess now I’ll just have to pay.”

“You might put it that way.”

Just a dream.

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Boy, some people aren’t very trusting.

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“Hey!” says Steven, “I thought you guys were open 24 hours?”

“We are,” snaps the owner, clearly annoyed.

“But not in a ROW!!”.

Steve Jones told me that. He’s a funny guy.

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The conversation turned ominously toward the specific chemical reactions required for the creation of acid deposits around battery posts. My contribution was feeble—while his involved the drawing of arcane strings of symbols down the side of my dusty Astro. All I remember is something about the formation of salts and how, um, the peptides got transmuted into Pepto Bismol…or something.

Kathy says not to worry about it. It’s just crud, and crud can only be dissolved with anti-crud.

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