Have It Your Way

I remember when this place used to make me the dinner-time savior. Back then, a man could become a hero to his family just by clutching two greasy-bottomed bags of Burger King on a weeknight as he walked into his house. The wife would put out and the kids would shut up after a stunt like that. 

But I doubt any of these people -these kids- could even fathom a time when this building used to be anything but the F.E. building. They sit here glumly in white plastic folding chairs scrolling their phones and waiting for their number to be called. I also sit here glumly in my white folding chair waiting for my number to be called, but I remember. I remember how it used to be before people were required to track their frequency. At least I still have my memory, they can’t take that away from me…yet. It’s amazing how many stalls they’ve managed to put where all the booths used to be; I rotate my head and count 26 lining the perimeter of the former eatery, a red ‘In Use’ sign illuminated on each door. Only once did I personally witness someone being escorted behind the closed doors into what used to be the kitchen. He was an oldtimer like me; but I’ve heard stories of high school aged kids getting taken back there so who knows. ‘Have it your way’, as they used to say in the commercials. What would the old King say now if he could see what they’ve turned his precious palace into? 

But they always have it their way. Even if they have to take it, or break it, or maim it, or kill it…they eventually have it their way.

The old guy never came out, by the way. I know for a fact because I waited in my car until the F.E. building closed. I saw the employees walk out, lock the doors, get into their cars and drive away. Only one car besides mine remained in the parking lot; an old sedan with a sun-crusted roof and a faded yellow Mystery Spot bumper sticker. I was about to give up and leave when a tow truck pulled up and two young bucks jumped out. They had that poor bastard's car loaded and lifted onto the bed of the truck in about 3 minutes flat. I followed them for a few miles on the freeway but they drove too damn fast and my astigmatism made everything too damn distorted to keep up. 

“Mr. Dennison,” a woman calls out from behind a plexiglass shield that protects her and the other front desk attendants from us. God forbid we infect them with our paltry vibrations. I lift my right hand to save her the trouble of raising her voice again and I stand up. She politely nods and then says, “Stall 18 please, to your left.” I shuffle across the room (when did my gait become so unbalanced, so zig-zaggy?) and put my hand on the cool metal of the door handle and wait for it to buzz against my palm. 

“Hello Mr. Dennison,” a droopy-jowled woman sings to me as I close the door and collapse into the only chair inside the tiny room. “Thank you for coming to your Frequency Elevation appointment today. How are you feeling?” She moves towards me and clamps the octopus-like apparatus around my neck and attaches the extensions to each one of my earlobes and index fingers. I don’t acknowledge her banal question and instead close my eyes and remain still as I wait for the reading. We both know how I’m feeling. There is no reason to exchange phony questions and answers. 

“Mr. Dennison,” she says excitedly, “I’m so sorry I didn’t recognize you sooner.” I open my eyes and look at her, wondering where in the hell she could possibly recognize me from. Everyone I’ve ever known or loved is dead. 

“It’s Trudy…From North High…I was in your freshman English class…oh, about 35 years ago now.” She is smiling at me expectantly as I examine her face and see the deep set lines in her forehead, the creases that are permanently etched into her skin all the way from her receding hairline to the folds above her eyelids where her gaudy eye makeup has pooled. I smile blankly, absently and look away, thankful that my age permits me to get away with such transgressions.

“Well, they just moved me to this location so I might be seeing more of you, Mr. Dennison. I guess what they say is true, ‘low frequency = low unemployment’.” She snickers to herself while the machine whirls on tabulating my numbers. “You know, come to think of it, we've had quite a few former teachers here lately. And writers too. But, I guess that’s how it is, huh. You intellectuals tend to have the lowest frequency of all.” She bends down to look me in the eyes, “But that’s why we’re here, to help folks like you get your frequency up and become functioning members of society again.” She pats me on the back twice and turns to the machine which has just barfed out some bullshit report for her to recite back to me. If my legs had any strength left in them I’d have kicked her wide ass flush into the door. 

“Okay Mr. Dennison, it’s not great but I’ve seen worse.” She pauses to see my reaction but resumes reading once she notices that I’ve slumped down into the chair like a wet sandbag and have closed my eyes. “You’re at a 6, which as you know is a little low for our liking. For a gentleman your age we would like to see you with a minimum frequency of 14. Once you obtain the minimum frequency you will notice a marked improvement in your overall well being. Your online shopping activity will resume, your presence at fast food establishments will increase, and you will rediscover the healthy habit of craving caffeine and alcohol.” The machine rattles out a bottle of pills which Trudy picks up and places in my shirt pocket and continues reading the script.

“Please stop by the front desk to make a Frequency Elevation appointment for next week. Continue to take the Elevation pills twice a day until your next appointment at which time we will re-test your levels to see if any adjustments are needed to your medication.” Trudy stops reading the printout and asks, “Mr. Dennison, do you have any questions?”

I shake her question away with my hands and use the armrests to steady myself as I get back on my feet. But when the door buzzes open and unlocks, I finally recall the only question I’ve had all day.  

“Can I be taken to the kitchen next time?” 

Now Trudy is the one with the blank and vacant look on her face. “Mr. Dennison?” 

“I’m ready. Please make a note in my file that I’d like to be taken to the kitchen on my next appointment.”

Trudy presses her palms against her uniform and smiles at me uncomfortably. “There is no kitchen in this building anymore Mr. Dennison. This is a Frequency Elevation center now, not a Burger King.” 

“I know, but please just please make a note that I’d like to be taken to the kitchen next time. I'm ready to see the King.”