What would you like in it?

Six months after arriving in the Newnited States of Amreeka:






Brain speaking: "I got it. Got it. Got it....I wanna hamburger and fried fries. No, a hamburger with French or fried french --shoot--again, hamburger and soft drink, no, soda, a hamburger and french fries and a small soda. Please. Do not forget the 'please' "



"Next person in line!"



"Uh, ya, a hamburger and french fries, a medium soda please."



"What would you like in it?" "Miss, what would you like in it? I do not have the whole day!"



Okay, meat, 'ya.

Looking at me like I just disrespected her.



"Mayo, lettuce, tomato, pickle...what else would you like in it?"



Looking at her like I just got disrespected.

“Yes, give me a hamburger with mayo, tomato, no pickle.” “Please.”



"Hambuger with mayo, lettuce, tomato. Want cheese?"



“Yes.”



"What kind?"



Hmmm.....a slice!?



"Say what, Okay One cheeseburger, right? Mayo, lettuce, tomato, hold the pickle!"



Brain speeding: "Who is holding the pickle. Throw it away! Nevermind."

That sucked! Wait, I would not have said "sucked" then. I did not know that expression. That word is a verb, not an adjective. I am sure I would have thought, "That was awful, terribly humiliating!" How could she not know that when one wanted a hamburger, one expects meat in it and certainly, there should be some kind of grease---and what's with the cheese? I never had hamburger with cheese before. So why was I made to feel like an idiot who was so provincial that I did not know what a hamburger deal was? Bread. Meat. Mayonnaise. Kectchup. Sweet pickles. Ya?! StuFid!



The truth is, a hamburger by any other name, is nothing but a giant flattened meat ball, without any personality or character. Or one can bake two pounds of hamburger in a meatloaf pan and come out with a rectangular hamburger. Serve with rice. Do not forget the ketchup. StuFid!



I was told that flipping burger is a rite of passage for kids out of high school in the U.S., an honest but greasy way to make money during summer. And yet, in this stressful situation I was in, it represented most everything that was new and foreign and intimidating to me. I was glad I never had to flip any burger or cut any onions and call out, "May I help the next oppressed, hungry, angry, customer please?"



Instead, I typed letters, I typed, and typed, and typed on an IBM Selectric. I typed until my fingers were achingly numb from hitting those keys. I typed letters asking for deadbeats to pay their credit card bills. I typed the same letter over and over again. The letter was a template. But I had to type at least fifty letters a day. The only thing that changed were the names and the addresses. But it said the same thing, "Dear Mr. or Mrs. or Ms. or Miss Deadbeat, We have not received your payments on your credit card. What were you thinking? Your time is up. Pay up, loser!" That was what that letter was all about. I was a bearer of bad news. A repo man, no, a repo gal. A debt collector in a fancy outfit in a cramped 7th floor office of a very elitist department store. I worked with overweight but kind men and shrill overweight women who wore girdles and support hose. I worked with fashionable nice young women who did not go to college, I worked with classy and elegantly dressed married middle aged women with wrinkles that resembled cobwebs on their faces. And they worked with a young giggly woman who was in awe of the men and women who worked with her.



In the meantime, the burger lady and that young woman....





I heard: "For where to go?"



Me, I am going nowhere. Nowhere.



"Miss, FOR HERE, or to go?



(Where was I supposed to go? )

“Here, I am going to eat inside. Here.”



(She avoids eye contact.

Calls out, I was sure,) I imagined:



"Next idiot in line!"