The Cherub's Hamburger

The Cherub's Hamburger

The smell of household perfume sneaks up my nose and chewing gum pops in my ear. Out of nowhere a waitress stands over me.

“Ready to order, young man?”

She takes my order and verbally applauds my choices.

They say deep breathing cures anxiety, so I do it while eyeballing customers around me. Meanwhile, the food arrives with a lipstick smile and a smoker’s cough. The elderly waitress lays heaps of it in front of me then walks away.

“Enjoy honey!”

I push aside the tap water and replace it with orange soda, then devour my lunch. She reappears, limping like a wounded T-Rex.

“That was fast. I’ll tell the cook you loved it!”

Then comes the food coma, and the struggle to keep my eyes open is annoying the hell out of me. I’m losing focus. Exhausted and sleepy. I need to be on the go and stimulated by different experiences. Regularity equals boredom. If I don’t get up and go, I’ll fall asleep right here, right now.

Outside the diner, vendors with weather-beaten faces sell their famous hot pretzels. The aroma is irresistible. I can almost taste one.

Faintly, I hear a male voice yell obscenities. People around me ignore it but I wander precisely in its direction. It’s a man, minus legs, rolling across the busy street perched on a piece of plywood with metal wheels. Dressed in rags, head to hip, he pounds the pavement with his knuckles. Beige, leather gloves protect his hands as he pushes and pulls himself in all directions. From a distance he looks like a crazed sheepdog on the loose. A hollering head connected to a torso with flailing arms. Absolutely bizarre. His ability to navigate city terrain is remarkable. Cars whiz by and he pretends to be a traffic cop, then darts to safety in my direction. The closer he gets, the more curious I become. We lock eyes, and he threatens to slice me with an imaginary knife. He’s crazy, or highly intoxicated. Probably both. So I step back uncertain of the situation, but he slithers closer. Seconds later, a sanitation truck rolling like thunder drives straight over him. He disappears then reappears resembling minced meat. Blood spatters onto my jacket. Vomit flies out my mouth and onto my shoes. The truck skids fifty meters then stops. A curvy woman with mirrored sunglasses steps out and screams into her hands. Suddenly I’m in a state of shock and can’t move a muscle. I want to walk away but I can’t. It’s like I’m frozen stiff. And I’m scared to death that I’ll pass out in front of all these people, who, by the way, stare at me as if I have something to do with the torso getting run over. I feel like a prisoner in a courtroom.

I wake-up, possibly the next day, confused and completely out of sorts. And I’ve lost my sense of time. Morning, noon, night, I have no clue when it is. My body is numb except for a pain deep in my shoulder. I feel detached from reality, tiny, insignificant and completely alone. Like it’s the end of humanity and I’m the last person on earth.

By now, the torso man is forgotten, but not for me. This is a real tragedy. Somebody needs to dig deep and bring this human dilemma to light.

I zip into the Lincoln Tunnel, feeling better now, and slip out the other end into heavy traffic. Rapidly, I end up in Queens. What normally takes thirty minutes feels like thirty seconds. Obviously I need more time to recover from the incident. And charging seventy-five dollars for parking is absolute robbery! But I pay it anyway.

The film museum in Queens is a good getaway for me. When I walk down one of its many dimly lit hallways, old film devices from the 1800’s play nostalgic film clips. I lose myself in a wonderland of the recorded past. And today, three films by Orson Wells are to be played in the old-fashioned movie theater located in the basement. So much film noir to process and enjoy. It’s the perfect distraction. Just what I need.

When I exit the museum a giant sanitation truck stands idling right there on the street in front of me, and I'm instantly reminded of the torso. That hideous experience haunts me.

Next, I promenade towards McDonald’s located just a few blocks away. All that fancy cinematography, dramatic acting, and strolling through ominous hallways makes me hungry.

As I wait to cross the street, I strike up a conversation with another museum-goer who heads in the same direction as me. I’d like to hear what he thinks of Orson Wells as a film director. Film making fascinates me. It’s my secret, little hobby.

He’s a curious looking fellow. Picture a curly blond guy, then add a dash of one of those famous babies in sixteenth century paintings. You know, the ones with chubby faces and wings. Anyway, he tells me he’s a big fan of all the arts, and his knowledge about it expands far beyond mine. He’s a walking, talking encyclopedia. Hard to believe, but true. And I thought I was smart.

In mid conversation, however, he walks-off onto a side street and waves his hand good-bye.

“Perhaps our paths shall cross again!” He yells.

Sure enough, I remember the second reason why I’m here. To observe the miserable lives living right under my nose. After the torso incident, my perspective on life is rapidly changing.

Behind McDonald’s in an open dirt field lies a homeless man sprawled out on several cardboard pieces. I notice him when I approach the side of the restaurant. It feels intrusive to stop and stare but I do it anyway. Then I sneak closer and stand right next to him.

He’s a stout man wearing a brown, wool overcoat buttoned to his neck. He’s got black, bushy eyebrows that don’t match his gray sideburns growing into his ears. His nose is purplish like the color of his hands. He looks like an exhausted hobo from the Great Depression. Then his eyes begin to flutter, and he rocks himself from side to side as if he can sense me next to him. His attempt to wake up is eerie to watch, and it feels like disrespect on my part. When he opens his eyes, he looks right through me. I turn around to see what he’s staring at. It’s the golden arches of McDonald’s.

If it’s food he wants, then it’s food he shall get!

I power walk to McDonald’s and return with a bulging bag of burgers. Although, by now he’s already picking through a dumpster in plain sight. I walk towards him, fighting the smell of rotten food.

“Hey buddy, do you want fresh food?!”

I hold the bag high in the air. He slowly turns and trudges towards me in visible discomfort, appearing like a cave man. I have no idea what to expect next.

Standing in front of me, he extends his right arm and gestures we shake hands. I pause, concerned about hygiene and only make eye contact.

“Today you don’t need to eat from there.”

I point to the dumpster and give him the bag.

“These are burgers from McDonald’s. I just want to help. You can trust me”

“That’s very kind of you.” He replies.

Carefully, he opens the bag, savoring the moment, then grabs hold of the first hamburger, unwraps it, and offers me the first bite. I decline.

“No, go ahead, dig in.”

He gobbles it down in three bites then unwraps the second hamburger.

“Precisely what I need. How can I repay you, old chap?”

“Not necessary, sir.”

I exaggerate my respect for him and call him sir. This is new for me. And I don’t know what to say to this poor guy.

He lets out a noisy burp and unwraps a third hamburger followed by a sip of his brandy bottle, then bows his head with a smile.

“You are very kind.”

We walk back to his layout of cardboard pieces and begin to chat. But with a belly full of burgers and too tired to hold a conversation, the old man drops his head onto his arm, closes his eyes and snores helplessly like a knackered bulldog.

Walking through the dirt field towards McDonald’s my ego weakens. Strangely, the weight of want is gone. Compared to him I have it all. If this is what salvation feels like, then I like it.

Inside McDonald's again, I wait for someone to take my order. But this time the place is empty as a bird’s nest in January. I stand alone like a fool waiting and listening to the hum of machines running somewhere in the back of the kitchen. I’m confused, and so thirsty I could drink from a street puddle. So I help myself to a soft drink.

Within thirty seconds I lose my balance and topple over.

It’s cold and hard beneath me. But I see small slivers of white light between my eyelids. I manipulate them until I can see. What I see is an endless, borderless, sea of white. And still hear that same humming noise. A voice begins to speak. It echoes from somewhere above me.

"Very good. I see that you are awake now. I hope you cooperate, unlike the last one.”

I know that voice.

A hatch door swings opens on the ceiling above me, revealing the height of this mysterious place. Then I start to wonder how close the walls are.

Peeking down at me from the open hatch is the same distinct baby face from earlier, but now with a mouthful of food. As he chews, I watch his cheeks swell like two small water balloons. And in his hand, between two fingers, is the last bite of a hamburger.

“After this delicious hamburger we shall proceed with the interview.”

He pauses. I hear chewing from several mouths in the ceiling.

“There is much work to do. Time is of the essence. We must return back to our time with a full report based on our recent findings.”

Chewing turns to gulps and slurps. It sounds bizarre, evil.

Suddenly an object falls from the open hatch and lands next to me, clearly on purpose, like a child playing go-fetch with her new puppy.

Horrified by what I see, I begin to scream, then hyperventilate.

“Help!”

“Somebody help!”

“No!”

“God help us all!”

Next to me, settled on the floor, is a beige leather glove worn away at the knuckles.

"My God, I am the cherub’s next hamburger!”

My body suddenly jolts and sways involuntarily. I am no longer in the white room. Instead, I’m riding a small boat through large swells far out into the ocean. But the sudden sound of a harsh cough crosses over to my subconscious.

“Wake up!”

When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is a mouth painted in red lipstick. The mouth opens and a raspy voice comes out.

“What’s the matter honey, you fall asleep”?

And just like that, the waves are gone. The white room inside McDonald’s, the horrific chewing in the ceiling, the homeless man, the unusual curly-headed man, the museum, the torso and his glove, are nothing but a vague memory. I thank the old waitress to the bottom of my heart, tip her generously, pay my bill, and walk out the door. Outside, the amazing sun shines on my face like never before. I feel its divine warmth, and respectfully give thanks for its existence.

Another day in paradise.