Burger Heaven
by Steven Bissonnette
part 1
“You could wish upon a star, that won’t get you very far. But go ahead, make your wish. We’ll decide what’s on your dish.”
It’s 12:05 on a bleak Tuesday afternoon.
A line of gray sedans slinks its way around a slate-blue concrete structure. Except for their license plates, all cars are identical: gray cubes with four doors, black bumpers, and one dark-gray pinstripe along the side, like gears in a clock, each numbered cubicle moves in unison with the others: tick-tock, forward-stop, one car length at a time.
This fast-food restaurant looks precisely like the other 50,273 Burger Heaven locations dotting the American landscape. Sound-absorbing materials keep noise at a minimum while a misting system delivers relaxing blasts of fragrance to restless customers. Tinted windows offer only monotone reflections of drivers waiting their turn to ask for a meal.
Inside, a robotic conveyor system whirs as it delivers components; every morsel is measured and tracked. Computer animations guide workers along the assembly line. The end product is unexceptional yet consistent.
Technology has nearly perfected its mastery of mankind. Seven algorithms can predict, with stunning accuracy, how an individual will react in any given situation. Left to its own devices, the system would operate with perfect efficiency, but government regulations stipulate that every business must hire people even though they add nothing to the process and require constant supervision.
Not everyone fits into this rigidly structured society. Individuals who were once considered quirky or eccentric are now labelled as disruptors. Small groups of rebels — disruptors who’ve escaped detection — eke out an existence foraging in the shadows of law-abiding society.
Hank Fedderlane is a man clinging to outdated realities. His notions about individual rights don’t jibe with the technocratic society in which he finds himself. He longs for summer days filled with cheeseburgers and Dad jokes. In his dreams, he can see his father standing over the grill, spatula in hand, smiling. He smells the smoke from a rusty old barbecue and feels the wind in his hair as he slowly rides along a country road in the open back of a pickup truck.
On this gray Tuesday afternoon, there are no barbecues or country roads in sight. Hank is in the requesting lane at Burger Heaven. He sighs in anticipation of the nonsense that is about to begin.
A lanky young man, whose job it is to stare at a computer screen, receives an alert that registered disruptor Hank Fedderlane has arrived. He offers up his best Stank Featherbrain impression. “I’m going to start a boycott. I’m in charge.” His co-workers laugh and offer their own impersonations.
Oblivious to the fun being had at his expense, Hank stares at the reflection of a maple tree, lush and green in its summer splendor, casting a colorless reflection on tinted glass. As he watches, a bird glides into the shadow and settles somewhere in the leaves. “Do you have a number yet?” he quietly asks.
12:07 Driver 3-2-5-6-7-8 calls his wife Louise while she is driving to work.
“Be nice, there’s nowhere else to eat,” she says.
“I hate that stupid rhyming rule.”
“Just have fun with it, that’s what I do.”
“It’s a stupid rule, and the burgers aren’t even that good,” Hank complains.
“Have you taken your Calmitrol today?”
Hank doesn’t answer.
“Hank, did you take your medicine?”
“No,” Hank replies, “I don’t need the pills.”
Louise sighs in exasperation. “Darn it! You know what happens when you go off your meds.”
“Yes, I start to have feelings again. I like it.”
“I don’t,” she answers.
Two cars ahead, Hank spies something unusual. “There’s a guy here with a three-digit license plate, 8-4-7; I bet he doesn’t have to beg for his meal.”
Louise laughs. “Oh, that’s just Jill. I like her, she writes a new poem every day.”
“Every day? I bet she’s a crazy cat lady sitting there at night drinking wine and reading her stupid poems to a bunch of cats.”
“I have no idea if she has cats, but some of her poems are really good.”
“She can order whatever she wants, can’t she?”
“Not really,” Louise answers, “three digits is more important than us, but she still has to play by the rules.”
Slowly ticking his way around the building, Hank reaches a red line painted over a sketch of a phone. “Gotta go, I’m at the no-cell zone.”
“Remember,” Louise cautions, “just go along to get along.”
12:08: Driver 3-2-5-6-7-8 arrives at a requesting station
Requesting begins with a prerecorded message that might be followed with a quiz.
“You could wish upon a star, that won’t get you very far. But go ahead, make your wish. We’ll decide what’s on your dish.”
Writing poetry sucks; Hank recites his usual request. “Cheeseburger... fries... pickles on the side... with sweet and sour sauce, ’cuz the sauce is the boss.”
“Star light, star bright, fat guy wants a number four; well, all right! You can have that, even though you are fat. Hey big fella, want a drink with that?”
“Today I looked up and saw a goose. French-fry person can I have a Squish Squash juice?”
“Mother may I?” burger man asks. “Yes you may, superior rhyming guy. Supersize it for just ten bucks more?”
“If it’s okay with you, I don’t think that’s what I should do.”
“Not a problem 3-2-5-6-7-8, drive to window 5 and don’t be late!”
On a whim, Hank decides to try the ‘order switch’ game he and his father used to play. “I changed my mind; make it a number 47 please.”
There is no reply.
“On my word, I’d be in heaven, if I could have number 47,” Hank says.
“No sirree, no can do. It’s too bad, too bad for you.”
Hank tries again: “On my word, it looks delicious, number 47 seems so nutritious.”
“I already keyed in number 4, so just don’t ask me anymore.”
“Well, just un-key it. Problem solved. Don’t you see it?”
“Sir, my training was comprehensive, but this situation makes me apprehensive. Changing your meal is a ‘no-can-do’; there’s just no way for me to help you.”
“Let me speak to a manager.”
Hank hears a chuckle as the employee responds, “Manager number 35 activated, sir. Godspeed.”
“What is a manager number 35?”
“Oh, nothing, just a truly intelligent artificial intelligence customer management system. Buh-bye.”
“What seems to be the problem?” asks Manager number 35 in a firm, mechanical voice.
“I just want a 47, I requested a 4 but I should be forgiven.”
A mist of soothing lavender is sprayed in Hank’s direction. “Per corporate policy, I am unable to approve your request at this time.”
“That’s insane; change my meal, burger brain!”
A double blast of calming sandalwood is deployed toward Hank’s car.
“Stop spraying that crap!” Hank demands.
“It is our responsibility as good corporate citizens to uphold the principle of ARFYA.”
“ARFYA?”
“ARFYA is an acronym. Do you know what an acronym is?”
“Yes,” Hank says, “I know what an acronym is.”
“Excellent,” replies Manager number 35, “ARFYA means that you must Accept Responsibility for Your Actions. Your meal, it’s a done deal.”
“Just cancel my request and start over.” Hank pauses to think of a rhyme: “Sesame Street has a guy named Grover.”
“Clearly you’re not listening,” Manager number 35 says. “Request cancelled. Drive back around. That’s what you get for being a clown.”
“I’ve been in line for ten minutes already!”
“The request has been aborted, drive back around or go hungry.”
“I’m not driving back around! And just so you know, I’m going to send a letter to the editor.”
“Registered disruptors will not be issued opinion permits, as per USC 35-27 subsection 3A.”
“I’m going to start a boycott.”
“You’re nobody, you know that’s true. Just another loser crying ‘boo-hoo’.”
“I’m going to teach Burger Heaven a thing or two!”
“We’re not scared, not scared of you.”
“I can’t believe I’m debating a robot. How about I come in there and unplug you?”
“This is not a debate, 3-2-5-6-7-8... request cancelled, just move along. We’ll let you have a burger, once you admit you’re wrong.”
Hank stiffens his right leg, grips the steering wheel tightly, and bears down on the accelerator pedal with all his weight, hoping to screech away in a glorious cloud of melting rubber. His request is denied in the car’s digital voice: Unsafe command, please try again.
Rolling away from Burger Heaven at a controlled pace, Hank calls his wife. Her stomach knots up. “You didn’t give them a hard time, did you?”
“I hate that stupid rhyming rule. And they wouldn’t let me have a number 47.”
“You’ll get me fired,” Louise replies. “They know you’re my husband. Did you threaten a boycott again?”
Hank doesn’t answer.
“So, Mr. Disruptor, what’s your big plan for lunch today?”
“Don’t you wish we could tell them to stuff it?” Hank asks. “I feel like running naked through the streets and howling up at their glass towers,”
“Grow up,” she scolds, “we’re not 16 anymore. You’re the last one, you know, the only disruptor left.”
“Why should I have to beg for a crappy burger? They should be trying to earn my business, not the other way around.”
“You know that people like your father caused this, right?”
“What do you mean?” Hank asks.
“That stupid order-switch game,” she replies, “and the impossible-order game. You’re the reason they had to make all these rules.”
“Like the rhyming rule?”
“I don’t know what that one’s about,” Louise admits.
“It’s so we know who’s boss.”
“Don’t start with that crap.”
“And they make us pay for everything,” Hank continues. “Pretty soon they’ll be charging us to breathe the air.”
“You need help.”
“I just want a burger.”
“Really? So you weren’t playing the order-switch game?”
Hank pauses. “Well—”
Louise interrupts. “You’re always stirring the pot. It’s like you’ve got this big ole spoon and you just want to disrupt the whole world.”
“It’s not my world. They control everything.”
“Do you even hear yourself? Who is ‘they’? ”
“You know who ‘they’ are, Louise. It’s us; it’s always us. It’s our own fault.”
“I’ll probably regret asking this, but what’s our fault?”
“We let things get to this point. We sold our souls to save a dollar on a television set, and now they tell us what we can watch. Don’t tell me you can’t see it. I mean seriously? I have to recite a poem to get a mediocre hamburger?”
“Poetry doesn’t kill people, Hank. Stop being such a baby.”
“Don’t you remember when we were kids?”
“I remember,” Louise replies, “but I’m a grown-up now. You should try it.”
“You used to have joy,” Hank says, “I remember.”
“I don’t have time for chasing butterflies or counting stars,” Louise says. “And I don’t have time to listen to you blather on. We agreed not to discuss this anymore. Cut it out; come get your lunch.”
“Know what, Louise? I’m going to Fat Bob and get myself a greasy ole cheeseburger loaded with cheese and lots of pimentos.”
“What’s a Fat Bob?”
“He’s not fat; that’s the joke. Bob’s a skinny dude with greasy hair and a Hawaiian shirt. He drives around in an old pickup truck with a cooler full of hamburger, and a hibachi.”
“He sounds cute,” Louise says.
“Whatever; at least I can get a burger made my way. And there’s no stupid rhyming rule.”
“There’s a guy driving around town, flipping illegal burgers?”
“I hear he’s grilling dirty burgers, on the down low.”
“Dirty burgers?” Louise says. “That sounds gross.”
“They’re made with real meat, and they’re delicious.”
“How would you even find someone like that?”
“He’ll find you,” Hank says, “just wait by the old train station. If he has product, he flashes a ketchup bottle, and you follow him.”
“Where?”
“Wherever, Fat Bob always has the fixings for a perfect burger,” Hank says. “I bet he even has pimentos.”
“That’s disgusting.”
“The heart wants what the heart wants.”
“It’s not your heart causing this,” Louise says, “it’s that baby bump of a belly you’re carrying around.”
Hank looks at his tummy while he mulls his options. If Fat Bob exists, that would mean there are other disruptors out there. Maybe, if enough people resisted... On the other hand, if he doesn’t go back to Burger Heaven, Louise is going to have a fit.
Copyright © 2020 by Steven Bissonnette
