After several tries I get it across: “burger”,
burger with caramelized onions.
This is a fast-food shop. The only one in town.
Something that basic should not have been
so difficult.
The fry cook heaps raw onions onto the patty.
He pushed aside the buns for untoasted baguettes
ungently sawn in half.
The meat looks nearly raw.
I am going to insist it all be re-done.
I slide down to the hub-bub of men
picking up their burgers and the cashier hands mine
to an unkempt man who was walking by.
“Sir!” “Sir!”
He hands it back soiled.
Where is a manager when you need one?
Here he is, a gangly seventeen years old, pimply
and reeking of cigarette smoke.
I explain the situation and he is hopeless.
Sure, there is a problem. Why don’t I just accept it?
What is he
supposed to do about it?
And there she is, the owner walking in,
sympathetic and full of good intent.
She assures me that systemic changes will be made.
I wait for hours.
Nothing is done.
I am hungry.
I’m no longer sure what exactly I want.
A good burger? Better service? An apology? Justice?
I decided to leave and tell everyone I know to stay away,
will post a Yelp! complaint or two.
Yet even I know tomorrow I’ll be back.
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