Burger Heaven

by Steven Bissonnette

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

It’s 12:34 on a rainy Tuesday afternoon in Burger Heaven.

“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.”

“I would like a 47, that way I would be in Heaven. Supersize it if you would, and a Squish Squash Juice would be so good.”

“Pop quiz!” is the reply.

Hank rolls his eyes. “I’m ready.”

“The question is: Who’s in charge?”

Swallowing hard, Hank replies, “Not me.”

“Correct, now you may repeat your request.”

Hank swears under his breath before repeating his request for a number 47.

“Sorry, sir, we are sold out. You may not like it, but you better not shout. You will get a number nine; something tells me that’ll be just fine.”

“Yes, it’s fine, I know the deal. I’ll eat what you feed me and call it a meal.”

“Request adjusted, so drive around to window 11 where your meal is found.”

Hank drives toward window 11 and mumbles to himself, “I wonder which idiot it will be today.”

It’s Louise. “We ran out of number 47; they wouldn’t let me save one for you,” she whispers.

“It’s okay, I will not squeal. I’ve learned my lesson this time for real.”

Louise passes Hank’s assigned meal through the small glass drive-up window. Hank notices the burger crew watching from inside the restaurant. They look so smug, he thinks to himself.

“Know what, Louise?” Hank hands the burger back, “I’m in the mood for a dirty burger.”

“That’s nasty,” she replies. “You’re going to eat unprocessed food?”

“Real unadulterated beef from grass-fed cows.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“Whatever.”

Louise gasps, “You would eat that?”

“That’s right, Louise, I would.”

“Unprocessed food is really dangerous,” she cautions.

Under the counter at the drive-through window is a small red button. Employees have been instructed to press it when a customer becomes unruly. As Louise’s fingers crawl towards it, Hank drives off. Conflicted between her instinct to protect Hank and her sense of duty, she presses the button. Louise doesn’t realize the button is just an obedience test; it isn’t connected to anything. Besides, the system has already notified the authorities.

As Hank is driving toward the dream, he imagines charcoal briquettes giving off white-hot heat while burger grease drips from the grill. Oily raindrops tumble onto the bed of coals and ignite, like tiny hamburger lightning strikes.

Hank smiles, joyful in the hope that somewhere out there beyond Burger Heaven is a man they call “Fat Bob,” his rusty old pickup truck leading the way to nirvana. Lost in this world where ketchup oozes out from under pimento-laden hamburger buns, Hank doesn’t notice a tiny blue light flashing on his dashboard or the police drone hovering behind. When he does, it’s already too late.

Stepping on the accelerator doesn’t work, neither does turning the steering wheel. The computer voice of his car confirms, Remote operator mode active, and Hank glides slowly into a designated pullover area.

A police officer is right behind. “Sir, get out of the car!”

Passenger restraint mode off.

“What’s going on,” Hank asks as he steps out.

“You’re not out here trying to score yourself a dirty burger, are you?”

“Of course not.” Hank pauses. “Don’t you guys have to read me my rights or something?”

“This is a health and welfare check, Mr. Fedderlane, you’re not—”

* * *

The next thing Hank remembers is waking up in a hospital bed, looking at dusty blue walls. The smell of chamomile and antiseptic confirm what Hank fears most: he’s back at the Healthy Haven psychiatric hospital.

“Good, you’re awake.” A nearly bald woman in a white lab coat is standing over him, interacting with a handheld device that holds every bit of data there is for patient 3-2-5-6-7-8.

“What am I doing here?”

“We are very concerned about you, Mr. Fedderlane.” The doctor holds out an enormous hand: “I’m Doctor Nocturne.”

Instinctively, Hank reaches out. Dr. Nocturne pulls back before he connects and notes the incident.

“Mr. Fedderlane,” she says.

“Call me Hank.”

“Okay, Hank; how often would you say you engage in risky behavior?”

“What do you mean?”

“To begin with, how do you know where my hands have been? And you were going to shake hands with me?”

“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”

“And let’s talk about your willingness to ingest unsafe food items. Do you see a problem there?”

“I don’t know,” Hank answers meekly. “I just wanted a burger.”

“Tell me about that,” Dr. Nocturne says.

“What’s there to tell? I just get a hankering for a big ole greasy hamburger sometimes. Does that make me a bad person?”

“No one said you were a bad person, Hank, but you are very disruptive. Your behavior is unfair to the people around you.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Dr. Nocturne says, “as a society we’ve established certain ways of behaving that benefit all of us. Your behavior interferes with the orderly operation of the process, and it’s inconsiderate to others. Now, tell me about the order-switch game.”

Hank chuckles. “It’s a thing me and my dad used to do back in the day when you could order whatever you wanted.”

“Go on.”

“He would order something stupid, like a cheeseburger with exactly two pickles on it, stuff like that. Then he’d say, ‘Never mind’ and order something else.”

“And the purpose of this was?”

“I don’t know, we just thought it was funny. One time he demanded a double cheeseburger topped with vanilla ice cream.”

“I see,” says Dr. Nocturne, “so your dad was a jerk.”

“What?”

“Things that are funny to you are offensive to others. That’s why we have rules in place.”

“Do you have to regulate every syllable?”

Dr. Nocturne tips her head and looks down at Hank from over her glasses. “Yes, if we let you have an inch, you’re going to take a mile. Now, tell me about this Fat Blob person. Have you ever met him?”

“Fat Bob? No, I’ve never met him.”

“How do you know he exists?”

“I’ve heard about him.”

“Where?”

Hank thinks for a minute.

Dr. Nocturne continues, “Fat Blob doesn’t exist Mr. Fedderlane. When’s the last time you saw a pickup truck?”

“I don’t remember,” Hank says.

“Exactly. I’m sorry to say this, Hank, but Fat Blob—”

“Bob, it’s Fat Bob.”

“This ‘Bob’ person doesn’t exist.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“Mr. Fedderlane, don’t you think there would be some record of this person? I mean, a guy driving around in an old pickup truck with a hibachi and a cooler full of beef? Really?”

“It could happen.”

“Perhaps, but have you seen any evidence?”

“No.”

“You’re experiencing a form of delusion. You’ve made up this crazy character that fits your obsession, and you’ve told the story so often that you forget it’s not real.”

Dr. Nocturne makes another entry in her tablet and smiles at Hank. “It’s okay; we know. We’re going to help you regain a grip on reality.”

“How can I get out of here?”

“To begin with,” Dr. Nocturne says, “let’s get you back on a higher dose of Calmitrol. And I think we need to add Cessio. It will help put an end to the wild ramblings of your imagination; help keep your feet on the ground and your nose to the grindstone, so to speak.”

“Okay,” Hank says, “whatever it takes to get out of here.”

“Don’t try to game the system, Mr. Fedderlane. I know you’re not changing easily. This could take two weeks, maybe longer.”

“I want out,” Hank says.

“Thank you for your honesty. If you continue communicating, we’ll untie you.”

* * *

Hank has a difficult time giving up on Fat Bob. When he’s finally free to interact with other patients, he pretends to hold a giant hamburger and bite into it. He does it quickly, hoping a fellow burger conspirator will catch on. The other patients have no idea what his problem is, but the staff at Healthy Haven note his defiance and adjust his medication accordingly.

Over the next several weeks, Hank evolves from flashing signals to tossing out code words, like pimento, under his breath.

As the medication takes hold, the dreams stop. Thoughts of Fat Bob and summer cookouts are lost in the fog that fills his mind. He has no further questions.

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.

Driver 3-2-5-6-7-8 arrives at the requesting station and listens to this week’s recording. “You’re in Burger Heaven, don’t forget the deal. If you play the way we tell you, you just might get your meal.”

Hank recites the only poem he can remember, “Cheeseburger, fries, pickles on the side, with sweet and sour sauce, ’cuz the sauce is the boss.”

“That is not what’s best for you, so let me tell you what we will do: you will get a number nine. That should work for you just fine.”

Hank recognizes Louise’s voice.

“Yes indeed,” he says, “I know the deal. I’ll eat what you give me; I’ll call it a meal.”

It’s 12:59 pm on a typically bleak Tuesday:

Driver 3-2-5-6-7-8 pulls into his assigned parking spot at Maldovius Manufacturing. From somewhere in the distance, he hears an aria, the sweet freedom song of a bird basking in afternoon sun. He vaguely remembers dreams of sailing on verdant waves of summer breeze. Those memories are like photographs of ancestors he never knew; they reside in his brain but never touch his heart.

1,575 Tuesday afternoons later:

In an unpainted cinder block building at the edge of town, human-sized tubs roll along a robotic conveyor system. Each tub is coded with a number to track it as it moves through the process. 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. Employees are kept busy pushing buttons that don’t do anything.

Cadaver number 3-2-5-6-7-8, his forehead numbered in magic marker, is slowly transported through a dissolution process which extracts vital chemicals. The end product will be an environmentally friendly sludge that can be flushed into the municipal waste water system.

It’s a sunny Wednesday morning. Louise Fedderlane receives a call

“Mrs. Fedderlane, this is Jon from rendering... I mean, this is Mr. Dubey from the Deliquesce Funeral Home.”

“Yes, how can I help you?” she asks.

“I’m calling to see when you’d like to pick up your husband’s remains.”

“What do you mean?”

“The finished product, I assume you’re waiting for it.”

“Product? I thought he was going to be flushed.”

“Well, yes,” Jon answers, “that is the standard procedure. But your husband wanted to be made into a bird.”

“A bird?”

“It’s really cool actually,” Jon responds enthusiastically. “You see, we’ve all got a ton of plastic in our bodies from the food we eat. We can extract that from the sludge and make things out of it. I’ve seen people make cups, flowers, you name it. We can do almost anything. One guy had enough plastic in him that we were able to make two lawn chairs.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Louise says. “How does that even happen?”

“The plastic? Oh heck, it’s in the water and in our food. Sometimes it’s even mixed in as filler. I saw a thing on the net last week where the guy was saying that our bodies have evolved—”

“Can you just tell me what this is about?”

“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Fedderlane paid for the bird package. We extracted his plastic and shaped it into a robin.”

“Wait, so you’re saying that my husband is now a plastic bird?”

“Well, it’s not exactly that simple, but yes.”

“Doesn’t all that cost extra?”

“It does.”

“I can’t afford that,” Louise says. “Just dissolve him like a normal person.”

Jon checks the files. “It looks like he paid for this about thirty years ago. And he paid for you, too.”

Louise chuckles. “Oh, Hank, you couldn’t just be normal?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Louise says, “you have no idea what I went through with that man. Did he pay for me to be a bird, too?”

“Nope, you’re gonna be a butterfly.”

Louise smiles at the thought, then quickly recovers. “Can I just have the money back?”

“We can cancel the agreement for you, but it’s going to be more expensive to switch. You know... inflation.”

“Never mind, then, I’ll come get him before I go to work.”

“One more thing, Mrs. Fedderlane, he requested that you take the product — the bird — and put it in a tree. I’m required by law to advise you that this is illegal.”

* * *

It’s closing time at Burger Heaven:

As workers clean the conveyor system, the air is filled with the smell of machine oil and cleaning solution.

Louise Fedderlane has just finished her shift. She’s been carrying a plastic bird with her for weeks, and it’s starting to freak her out. She can’t afford the permits required to put it in a tree.

This can’t go on, she decides. The tub of food waste is right there and no one is watching. Louise reaches into her bag and drops the bird into the mess. “Sorry, Hank.”

* * *

In the early morning hours before the world is awake, a group of unregistered disruptors emerge from a foggy patch of woods to forage the dumpster at Burger Heaven.

“Oh look,” an unshaven young man in torn clothing says, “a bird!”

A short, gray-haired woman snatches the bird from his hand. “That’s not food,” she says as she turns to throw it into the woods behind the dumpster.

The young man takes it back. “I know, but we can’t just throw it away.”

“You gonna keep it?” she asks with a snicker.

“I don’t know... maybe.”

“Whatever,” she says, “more junk to weigh you down.”

He doesn’t hear her admonition. On the edge of the Burger Heaven parking lot, a lush green maple tree catches his eye. Looking at the plastic bird in his hand, he knows what he has to do.

“Don’t be goofing off,” the old woman warns. “We have to get out of here.”

Ignoring her warning, the young man climbs the tree. He finds a spot where he can safely tuck the bird so it’s looking out over the restaurant. As he finishes, an employee arrives.

“Come on!” the old woman yells.

Jumping out of the tree, the young man vanishes into a thicket. Before rejoining his group, he turns toward the tree. “You’re free,” he says. Then he turns and fades into the morning mist.