On the outskirts of the Big City there lies a grassy hilltop. The raised patch of land overlooks the bustling township in all its subtle splendour, with several heady high-rises littered in the foreground, plus a myriad of modern monoliths settled against the orange-hued horizon.
Striving for territory among the lost paper planes and construction cranes, a family of humble songbirds soar above the many towering apartment blocks. The poor fools come covered in dirt and drenched in the fumes of foulness and filth...but hey, at least the birds can escape their plight. For down below, hordes of homeless wanderers drink and dance merrily in the doorways of crumbling buildings. Just fighting to be heard.
Yep, the Big City is a place of dreamers...
...of thieves and believers...
...of sleazy streets teeming with like-minded schemers.
Here, you will find many a sunken trove of unpleasantry. You will discover places rugged and rotten. You will see faces best forgotten. And, if you are lucky, you might just stumble across a little-known joint right in the middle of it all. A place specialising in cold fries and cholesterol. In hamburgers and heart-attacks...
The Grease-Shack...
...where all my dreams came shattering down.
*
"...do you want fries with that?"
I had asked those dreaded six words more times than I cared to remember. Each time in the same drab, monotone voice.
"Do...you...want...fries...with...that!?"
Stationed beside the till with a little name tag hanging limply upon my chest, I stood like a wilting flower in my hairnet and red braces. A large plastic counter stood between me and the swarms of hungry customers. Their eyes flitted feverishly through the big red menu screen hoisted above my head.
What made them want to eat in a place such as this!?
It was a question I would often ask myself. What bound those poor people to indulge in such mediocre mains and disappointing desserts? Was it the sweet scent of spray-on cheese filtering through the diner? Did the customers share a certain proclivity for minor salmonella poisoning, perhaps? Or was it simply the chance to enter their names in the inaugural Greaser of the Year competition, that they found so...compelling?
"Give me seventeen chicken nuggets, two double cheeseburgers and a large cherry-bomb sundae!"
"...do you want fries with that?"
"Yes."
Yes. The answer was always, yes. No matter how many items the customer ordered, or how often they waltzed past the windows of the Grease-Shack with a rumble in their stomach or a hankering for something ‘tasty’, those lovely folk out there rarely left the sticky-floored premises without their beloved fries.
"I want the mighty burger and a milkshake!"
"...do you want fries with that?”
"Come on kid, does the Pope look catholic to you!?"
Or...
"Can I have the spicy, lean, mean chicken-grill-deluxe-special?"
"...and?"
"And, what...?"
"...do you want fries with that?"
"Of course I do, ya idiot! What do I look like!? One of those no-nothing health freaks you see on the internet nowadays...?"
The customer is always right, they say. And all day long I am forced to deal with like-minded customers just like them. Customers with greedy mouths to fill and lunch-breaks to kill. Customers with appetites to satisfy and whiney, childlike complaints every time there is a mistake in their order.
But you see, there was more to my life at The Grease-Shack.
So much more…
Some days I was tasked with clearing the table-tops and wiping down the laminated menus until they were finger-licking clean. On other occasions, I was forced to wash the floors and degrease the cookers. But on almost every given day, come rain or shine, they handed me the task of cleaning the windows outside with a bucket of brown puddle water and discounted soap from the local supermarket.
And boy, those windows never stayed clean…
"Get me seven mini-burger bites...I want three of them spicy, two plain, and one to arrive with its own special sun-dried tomato dip..."
"..."
"I'll take the quarter-pounder with lactose-free cheese and a lovely little fried egg to go, but not a real egg mind you..."
"..."
"I want $100,000 in cash, otherwise I will set off the homemade explosive device I have strapped to my chest."
The orders were coming thick and fast that day. But I must admit, there was something rather off-beat about that last request. Something that, despite my best attempts, I could not put my finger on…
"I'm sorry, sir. I didn't quite catch that...?"
"I said..." the customer repeated calmly, "...I want $100,000 in cash, otherwise I will not hesitate to set off the homemade explosive device I currently have strapped to my chest."
A strange aura had seemingly entered the diner.
And no, it wasn't just the smell of the deep fat fryer...
I stared blankly at the man for several seconds longer. He remained largely unmoved across the counter. The stalemate continued until one of us finally broke the silence.
"Quick..." the customer continued, "...there isn't much time."
The unnamed individual proceeded to unzip the upper portion of his jacket. Inside, a small digital clock with bright red numbering could be seen planted in the centre of his chest. The countdown had initially begun with five minutes, presumably. And before long, a minute and half had already fallen by the wayside.
"Ok..." I motioned, leaning both elbows down upon the counter, "...what is it you want, mister? Say it again for me. Just so I know my ears aren't playing tricks on me."
"I want $100,000." he replied clearly.
"Right..."
"...and I want it in cash."
"And, what if I say, no...?"
"If you say, no..." he smiled briefly, "...I will be forced to follow through with this here bomb...taking you, me, and everyone in this diner out in the process."
"...alrighty then."
Peculiar folk often stumble their way through the doors of The Grease-Shack from time to time. As far as I was concerned, this latest customer was no different to all the other crackpots and cranks I had dealt with in the past.
I observed him up and down for a second time, taking a closer look at the apparent explosive device supposedly hidden beneath his jacket. The man's upper torso appeared particularly flat despite his rather outlandish claims. His clothes seemed to hang loosely from his body, whilst his face remained stoic and statuesque.
I decided that I was not buying his bold story.
Not for one second…
"Ok, mister..." I spoke sternly, "...this is what I will need you to do. I'd like you to order from the menu, perhaps I can recommend the Number Five…if I may be so bold. After that, I would like you to take your food and make your way to the corner table. From there, you will finish your meal and be on your way again, ok mister? And there will be no more nonsense talk about any so-called explosive devices..."
Perhaps I was a little too harsh on the guy. He was rather elderly, after all. Maybe even a touch senile come to think of it. Perhaps he had been given false directions on his way back from the main road. Maybe his medication had been mixed up with somebody else's, leaving the poor fella dazed and delusional.
Or perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the man was deadly serious in-fact. And I should have been observing the guy just a little more closely...
"Listen you..." he hissed aggressively, pulling me closer by the scruff of my collar, "...I already told you once, time is running out! If you don't hurry up and get me my money, this whole place is gonna blow!"
"You talk a lot, old man..." I replied, "...but why should I believe an old-timer like you?"
He proceeded to release me, speaking once more in a quiet tone.
"You really want to find out, do you kiddo?" he whispered in sinister fashion, "...you really want the blood of all these people to lie in your trembling hands?"
By now a small number of customers were beginning to grow restless at the back of the queue. Some were already turning their sights to the side in order to see what all the fuss was about. Others expressed their mounting displeasure in different ways, waving their arms in frustration and tutting loud enough for everybody to hear.
Things were growing rapidly out of hand. And soon, the entire diner had cottoned on to our movements…
"Ok..." I told him softly, "...you'll get your money. But order something from the menu, will you? Just to blend in a little...”
"Fine..." he replied, nonchalantly casting his eyes up towards the board, "...give me the Number Five. It seems to come highly recommended, so I'll take that one."
There I was on just another regular Wednesday afternoon. Stood behind the counter with the prospect of handing over $100,000 in cash to the elderly gentleman at the front of the queue. There was only one problem, however; The Grease-Shack barely made a tenth of that in over a week’s takings...
"Do you want fries with your meal, mister?"
The man with the supposed bomb strapped to his chest, simply shrugged.
“Go on, sir…what’s a meal with a portion of tasty fries, eh?”
“Very well, then…” he said, “…I’ll take them.”
Now things were about to get technical. There were only two options as far as I could tell. Firstly, I could have very well stumbled my way over to the till, praying the contents within were enough to satisfy the customer's needs. Five to six hundred bucks may have distracted him for the time being. Maybe he would have taken what he could, and simply made a run for it.
Yet that particular outcome was risky at best. My only other option was to make a sudden beeline for my supervisor out back, instructing her to call the cops at the first available moment, and to get everyone out of the diner as soon as physically possible.
I somehow felt numb. My knees were beginning to tremble, whilst the palms of my hands had turned moist and sweaty. The dilemma in my brain continued to rumble on, meanwhile...
...but that's when my mind was suddenly made up for me.
"No way..." the colleague to my left remarked abruptly, "...well, would you look at that? I don't believe it..."
I turned on my heels immediately, a look of horror etched on my face.
"Sir..." my colleague continued, speaking to the old man still waiting at the front of the queue, "...you're a winner! You have just won our inaugural Greaser of the Year competition! Congratulations!"
The man at the counter, the same individual demanding $100,000 with a so-called bomb strapped to his chest, had just been made a lucky winner with a golden coupon resting surreptitiously between his fries...
Talk about bad timing.
"That's amazing!" spoke one of the chefs behind us, poking his head out from the fryer.
"Well done, sir!" spoke another, "...what were the chances of that!?"
The elderly gentleman reacted with genuine surprise, zipping up his jacket and shuffling back sheepishly. Suddenly the poor guy was flanked on either side by more intrigued members of the public. A trio of excitable children began throwing up their hands and proceeded to run around him in circles, unable to contain their elation.
"Congratulations sir!" spoke a voice from a backroom somewhere.
My supervisor had finally decided to show her face. Only this time, she came fully equipped with several loud party-poppers and a large, oversized winners cheque resting in her arms…
"Follow me outside..." she spoke, taking the old-timer by the arm "...we need to seal this moment with a photograph, sir. It'll make a nice souvenir for you and your family!"
Never one to miss out on an opportunity for some free promotion, my supervisor then proceeded to lead the elderly man outside and place him beside the outer windows. The customers inside followed one-by-one, leaning up against the same windows with their mesmerised faces pressed up against the glass.
It is at this point, however, where I must choose to interrupt the proceedings ever so slightly. For I know exactly what you are thinking. You must be wondering why I didn't say something, why I didn't speak up at this crucial moment.
Well, the truth is I don’t know. I don’t know why my words so swiftly failed me, or how I had seemingly lost my voice all of a sudden.
All I could think of, in that strange and bizarre moment, were those six words...
"Do...
"...you..."
"...want..."
"...fries..."
"...with..."
"...that!?"
The man, too, remained silent. His lips might have been moving and his tongue may have tried desperately to contort itself into some form of reliable communication, but alas, no word of warning ultimately left his mouth. He simply stood there, idle and dumbfounded, bracing himself for the onslaught of attention soon to come his way.
"Ok, sir..." my supervisor continued undeterred, "...let's get you standing in a nice spot in the sun. And let's think about removing that jacket of yours..."
Surely, he was bluffing. Surely, the old man would have said something if this was serious. Surely, this was all just a silly little game...
...but wait...
....the jacket!
"Stop!" I screamed finally, "...don't take off his jacket! He's got a bomb!"
But it was too late.
In three...two...one...the photo was taken. "Say cheese!" I heard my colleagues all declare in unison. But no one did say cheese. In-fact, no one said much at all…
*
That was the last time anybody ever spoke about the inaugural Greaser of the Year award. It was my last shift working at The Grease-Shack, too. The next day I simply packed my bags and left, vowing never to return.
I wondered if things could have worked out differently in the end. I wondered what might have happened, if all the hours of extra counselling could have been avoided. Perhaps I should have pulled the guy up on his bizarre story sooner. Perhaps I could have acted just a little more decisively. And perhaps, most pertinently of all, I could have changed the entire course of events…
…if only I had never insisted on asking him those dreaded six words!
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