Curing Jackson Blair: bp9

The sun was plummeting to the horizon on Sterling’s right side while he cruised down the highway to a place in front of his car. Sterling’s car radio hadn’t worked in years but he didn’t mind so long as the engine ran fine, which seemed like a toss up anymore. No sentimentality for this car; no sentimentality for this 1995 Honda P.O.S. However Sterling started to develop a destination in mind as he flowed down the asphalt. It would not be a permanent destination but it would at least be a vague stepping stone. A run of the mill taco place.

Exiting from an exit, Sterling prowled for the hypothetical eatery. After passing two Taco Bell’s and one Taco John, Sterling found a promising restaurant aptly named: Taco Place. The tiny parking lot, probably made for six cars, was filled with eight, forcing Sterling to park at the White Castle across the street. Thanks to Sterling’s experience playing the video game Frogger and from watching friends dodge rodeo bulls, Sterling was able to cross the six-lane road separating the establishments--only getting hit twice.

Sterling walked into the restaurant and up to the ordering counter. Across the counter stood a gangly guy in his twenties, failing to wear any uniform, nametag or other markers of employee identification. As the guy standing across the counter did not smile at Sterling or seem to place Sterling’s value above a pile of algae, Sterling correctly concluded this was an employee awaiting his order.

“I’ll take the Big Burrito Grande,” Sterling requested. The Employee looked at the register—which Sterling swore was just a modified adding machine—and punched a single button.

“Ah man,” the Employee groaned, “Mister Zambowski, the register is broken again!”
“Mister Zambowski?” Sterling questioned, “What kind of taco place is this?”
“Man, I just love tacos so godddamn much. They’re like, just, incredible.”

Zambowski came over the to button box and typed in a twenty-key combination in three seconds before leaving again, without a word. The Employee continued, “Have you ever thought about the word ‘taco’? Like, what does it mean? Why is it called a taco?”
“I’m starving. So please, I just want my Big Burrito Grande. Please.”
“Yeah. I could go for one of those.”
“No. Me. I want one. I will pay you. Money. For one.”
“Yeah, okay.”

Sterling handed over his money, giving himself a fifty-percent chance of getting any food at any point. The frustration to get here had only made Sterling even hungrier. After too long, Sterling’s order was called up and Sterling went back to the counter only to see a plate of chips on the tray being presented to him. Sterling informed the Employee that those were just chips, to which the Employee agreed. Sterling politely reminded the Employee he had actually ordered, and paid for, the Big Burrito Grande. Inexplicably disappointed, the Employee went back out of sight. Near heartbreak, Sterling sat back down at his seat.

Millions of people at this very point were at McDonald’s and Burger King worldwide. Millions more were eating at their home, with loved (or at least mildly liked) ones. Why did Sterling have to suffer this abuse because he wanted something different? Was individuality punishable? Couldn’t Sterling just be happy eating at places everyone else could be happy eating at?

Eventually Sterling did get his Big Burrito Grande. And it was big, kind of. It wasn’t big and grande though, that’s for sure. And its taste was near the middle of flavor bell curve. It was enjoyable but forgettable. Of course it was rendered even more forgettable as Sterling found a newspaper shortly after that included an article about various entertainers being invited to the White House, including his old friends Cookie, Chester and Preston.