mass and sucks everything, including your inner light, into it. The odds were about as great as winning the lottery, that we would find Carol, hale of health.
“You want me to take over driving?” I asked her.
Tracy turned to me. Grim determination and concern mixed in with a heavy dose of anxiety spilled out of her features. “Do you mind? I don’t feel right driving without you bleeding.” We both laughed, the tiny little release of endorphins was like a surge of adrenaline to my flagging spirits.
Ten minutes later and a bunch of potty breaks we were back on the road. The natural order of the universe was restored as I cruised down the highway at a more respectable 75mph. Any faster than that and the Terrible Teal machine began to shudder in protest. How I had got this bucket to 120 was beyond my comprehension.
My stomach grumbled as we passed one of those blue highway information signs. You know the kind that tell you gas, food and lodging are up ahead. This one had the big ‘M’ logo for McDonalds on it. A quarter pounder with cheese, large fries and a thirst quenching Coke sounded like the best thing in the world.
“Oh man I could go for a juicy quarter pounder, aw man with that dripping cheese and sesame seed bun. I’d put a layer of golden French fries on top of the cheese and I’d eat that thing in like a minute in a half.” I know Henry understood what I was talking about because his head was tilted and he had a little drivel coming out of his maw. I scratched his head. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you my good boy.” His small tail wagged vigorously, the better to disperse the deadly gas that exuded from his kiester. “Henry! You’re ruining my fantasy.” I said. The van swerved as I did my best to find the electric window control. I was frantic, the edges of my vision were beginning to blur as I held on tight to the only good air within breathable proximity.
“Oh God, Talbot! Did you run over a zombie?” BT said sitting bolt upright from his nap. Not a pleasant way to return to the world of the awoken. “I can’t breathe.” He hitched.
Tommy smiled as he stuffed a marshmallow up his nose. “Iths noth so badth.”
Tracy once again saved the day as all the windows in the van simultaneously rolled down. Brendon’s van swayed slightly as they passed through the toxic cloud that leaked out from our van. I’d freeze to death before I had to breathe in another piece of Henry’s airified excrement. It was another two or three miles before the last remnants of Henry’s oily feculence made rolling the windows up a doable possibility. It still smelled like dirty feet and burnt Fritos but it was passable. All thoughts of food had been wiped cleanly from my mind.
But again back to the basics, I’m a guy. If not in survival mode (and then sometimes even then) my mind has about three factors that contend with each other. Hunker down ladies because if you’re reading this with your man in some safe zone. I am about to give you all the knowledge you will ever need. If ten thoughts were to pass through your man’s mind it would look like this: sex, sex, sex, food, sex, sex, football, sex, food, sleep, sex. (Did you count? I really put down 11 thoughts. Yup, that’s how important sex is to us.) We’ll only sleep if you’re not offering sex or a sandwich. All that other bullshit we used to do in our ‘regular’ lives, like going to work, or painting the bathroom, or going to the fucking art museum, or seeing ANY chick flick, we did that so we could POSSIBLY get into your pants. Plain and simple. I don’t at this point see any reason to mince words. We love sex in all its pure and depraved forms. Why this most basic of all animalistic rituals has thus far mostly eluded the feminine persuasion is beyond me. I would clean gutters in a hail storm, in my underwear at midnight, if it meant I MIGHT get to have sex. (I’d do all of the above BUT in my regular clothes for an awesome Philly Cheese steak.) And that my dear lady survivors is ALL you will ever need to know about that big, dumb, hairy animal snoring next to you. Sorry guys, I didn’t mean to let the cat out of the bag, but rapid procreation might be the only way we can stave off extinction.
“Don’t you remember what happened the last time you went to McDonald’s?” Tracy asked circling back to my initial intercourse. (Doesn’t seem like the right word to use here, but somehow it does.)
“What about…oh yeah.” I answered.
CHAPTER 16 – THE CUT AWAY 
It was a brutally hot day in July when I had received my layoff notice. I had called Tracy to let her know that she needed to stop the order we had put in for the hot tub in the backyard. I could ‘feel’ the tension and anger that she emitted right through the phone. “Fine.” She had answered me in the curt tone that drove me friggen nuts. (In a bad way.)
“Everything alright?” I asked like an idiot.
“Everything’s peachy.” She had replied. (Just so you know ‘peachy’ means anything but.) “The kids want McDonalds for dinner, and Nicole and Brendon are over.”
Now was not the time but I wanted to tell her that maybe we should start to tighten the belt up a little. “The usual?” I asked abashed.
“What do you think?” She said, and then she hung up.
I would have smashed my phone against a wall if I had the income to replace it. I was screaming in my head. ‘FUCK does she think I fired myself! Yeah it must be all my FUCKEN fault!’ It was with this attitude that I rolled on up to the McDonalds drive thru. You kind of see where this is going? Okay just a little backfill so you can really get a grasp of where I’m coming from. During my Marine Corps days I worked on an airfield and because of this I had lost no small measure of my hearing. Couple that with a cheap ass speaker system at any fast food drive thru and we were already in the midst of a communication barrier. Add to the fact that on that fateful night, Samir from the great republic of India had just got off a plane from his native country and had begun working the ‘hole’ as they call the place where your drive thru order is taken.
The dialog you are about to read is ‘After’ I had put my order in for the third time, and Samir had botched it for the third time.
“No listen! I want a fucking quarter pounder with cheese AND FUCKING extra pickles!”
“You would like a cheeseburger with no cheese then sir?”
“Are you fucking with me?” I was near screaming. “A fucking cheeseburger without cheese is a hamburger, where the fuck are you from?” Although it would have been impossible not to tell where he was from, unless of course you have not used ANY customer support line in the last 5 years.
“I am from Bangladesh sir.”
“You don’t say?! Listen, I want a quarter pounder with cheese and extra pickles.”
“Okay a large French fried with mustard then?”
“Do you smoke crack, Babacunousch?”
“Samir sir.”
“What?”
My name is Samir, sir. And no I have never smoked anything sir.”
“Oh for the love of all that is holy.”
“Would you like to pray sir?”
I just wanted to back the car up and drive forward, running over the speaker. I couldn’t stop looking at the box like it and not money was the root of all evil in the world.
“Sir I have your order for four Mint McShakes, 2 small Dr. Pepper’s. A cheeseburger with no cheese, two quarter pounders with cheese one with extra onions and one without buns, a girl toy chicken mcnugget happy meal with apple slices, and 2 Big McMacs and 18 super sized frenched fries with mustard.”
Not one order, not one fucking order was right. I had nothing left, Samir had beat me.
“Is that not correct sir?” When I did not answer him, he finished. “That will be $52.75 sir.”
I was numb as I pulled my car up to the first window, groping for my wallet. The next car in the growing line pulled up to the box, even from this distance, I could hear that I had in no way been singled out.
“NO! Not a McFlurrie with bacon!”
I pulled up to the first window, hoping beyond hope that I would find an ally to help me through these troubling times. Pimply faced ‘Becka’ was not going to be that person. She was busy talking to, I believe, ‘Tonya’ about what a jerk some guy named Spence was, through her Bluetooth headset.
She didn’t so much as look at me when she fairly demanded the money. “That’s 52.75, oh my gawd he’s the biggest jerk ever.”
“Excuse me miss?”
“So then he says to me, ‘Did you see what Darla was wearing?’ And I’m like why would I care what that bee-itch had on.” She rethrust her hand out seeking something I wasn’t willing to entrust to her.
“Excuse me miss?” I asked again, I would have had an easier time getting a response from Samir. I
