Instead of feeding me, my older brother, and official guardian for the weekend, goes to the golf course until nine o'clock, post meridian.
And he calls me when he's done, to suggest we go out and pick up food at Wendy's. Sure. I'm fucking starving, I'd eat the little kid next door if you served him to me on a plate.
Why aren't we going into the drive-thru? Because Mickey wants to sit down and eat as soon as possible.
He says, can we just eat inside?
I tell him, this place is always a freak show.
No. I want to eat inside.
So we walk through the glass doors, synchronized, like in bad-ass movies about bank robbers and other smooth criminals.
And I swear to fucking God, if Wendy's is not the Southern U.S of American haven of Burbank, I'll be damned. Every mullet in the city was having dinner there. The only thing that stopped them from pulling out rifles and shooting at my Mexican self was probably my belt buckle with a huge picture of Tom Petty's face.
They all stood in line talking about what they last saw on COPS and Maury. It seriously felt like everyone in the restaurant had just returned from Wrestlemania. I bet more than half of them owned that compilation CD that sold on TV with hits by Lynard Skynard and a free poster of a hot blonde bro-ho posing in front of a Confederate flag backdrop, exclusively offered if you called within ten minutes of seeing the commercial. Steve Miller was even playing on the speakers, and the tetra-generation family next to us is talking about the situation in Iraq.
My point is, after 6 p.m., Wendy's is white-trash capital of the world.
After we leave the twenty first century Faulkner set, Mickey says he's sorry.
It's all right, I say, I just have to post a blog about it now.
and it's how I realize I am exactly like my father.