A Memory of my Dad

The summer I turned 16 I worked at the McDonald's off 65 Highway in Marshall, MO. One morning early on, I was assigned to run the breakfast register. It was probably the second time I'd ever done so, and I was still getting used to where all the food picture buttons were located, which meant I was not the speediest or most accurate order taker in the world. And to make matters worse, these were the days before numbered meal options, which meant a 1986 McDonald's patron had to list each item he or she wanted to eat, making the odds of missing something on that list astronomical. It was the perfect storm to put me smack dab into full blown panic mode.

Thus was my state of mind when an older man walked up to the counter to get breakfast. "Gimme an egg mcmuffin," he said. I dutifully pressed the button for the sandwich, hit the total button and reported the price with tax. Money changed hands and I proceeded to fill the order.

When I handed him the sandwich, he barked, "Well? Where's my coffee and hashbrowns?!" At the time I was caught completely flat footed. How had I not heard two-thirds of this man's breakfast? (Looking back on it, I can't help but wonder why he wasn't suspicious that, if he'd ordered an egg mcmuffin, coffee and hashbrowns, how is it that his bill came to just over a dollar? No, this particular 'gentleman' didn't question the cost of his breakfast. Just the items included in it.)

"I wanted coffee and hashbrowns! You don't think I'm gonna just eat this sandwich without anything to drink?!"

"No, sir. But I didn't charge you for the coffee and hashbrowns."

"Well fine! Just give me the coffee and hashbrowns. This is ridiculous!"

"Yes sir. Here they are."

The old man mumbled "Terrible service!" and walked off with his food.

I didn't even look up at the next guy in line. I mumbled something like, "can I take your order" and stared down at the register keys hoping they would keep me from crying. And then I heard . . .

"You didn't charge him for coffee and a hashbrown, because he didn't order a coffee and a hashbrown."

I looked up and there, next in line, was my dad. Vindication is a very freeing thing, but it's even sweeter coming from a source you care about. All of a sudden I didn't feel like a failure. In fact, I felt like maybe I could do this job after all. Smiling, I looked up and said, "What do you want to eat, Dad?"

"Just coffee is fine. Are you doing okay?"

"Yeah. It's 59 cents." And I handed the best man in the world some hot McDonald's coffee.

"Thanks," he said, and off he went, back to his truck, to finish his drink and read his paper. Because that's what superman does. He saves the day and then he goes off somewhere to read the paper.

Forget 2012. The real year to fear is 2018.

Mason mentioned to me at his 5th grade graduation that he is in the class of 2018. I said, "No honey, you're in the class of 2011." He shook his head and said, "Mommm! I meant high school! Sheesh!" Okay, he didn't really say sheesh, but I can't accurately encode into written language the meaningful noises that come from my eleven year old. Essentially, sound he made was meant to convey the fact that I'm hopelessly backward and unaware of some very basic facts. In effect, sheesh.

The far off pronouncement of a 2018 high school graduation wouldn't ordinarily be cause for alarm. It sounds like there's plenty of time between today and then. But I am not ordinary, and the truth is I can't remember what happened to the last eleven years and how I ended up here with this beta test man person who is nearly as tall as I am and who wears the same shoe size. It really seems to me that we ought to have just gotten to the year 2004. I would be totally comfortable writing 2004 on my checks, and checking my DSL e-mail connection. Although I'm a fraud, because when it actually was 2004, I remember wondering what happened to 1998. I also distinctly remember in 1992, after getting a notice from Sallie Mae that if I continued my school loan repayment plan as scheduled that my loan should be forgiven in 2002, thinking, "Wow. 2002. Will I even be alive then? That's so far away. Good grief we'll probably be traveling in flying cars by 2002." Now I'm beginning to wonder if 2002, and indeed the whole first decade of the present century wasn't secretly abbreviated by some shadowy government agency while we were all out watching Harry Potter films. Because it sure seems like it. Area 51, I'm looking at you. Not sure why, but I am!

Twenty-eighteen. Only seven more shopping years until my baby goes to college.

I am almost certainly not going to handle it well when 2018 comes about in real time, or in six months as it will seem to me. At least my student loan is paid off. Mason's wont be forgiven until 2032!

Homecomming

Sydney Grace at Arrow Rock State Park, Arrow Rock, MO