But before anyone could utter a single breath, her head would dramatically sling-shot in our direction as she made things terrifyingly clear. Opening her mouth like a newborn pterodactyl, she screeched boisterously, “NOW EEN NO BUNCH A TING ROUN’ HERE!”

EARLIER…

When it comes to ordering fastfood, there’s usually a great deal of stress that comes attached to it – especially if you’re not the one buying. In such an instance, you find yourself at the mercy and financial kindness of a relative, coworker, friend, or even a complete stranger.

And if you’re semi-humane like myself, (and have deeply-rooted issues willingly accepting kind gestures from others) then you probably wouldn’t want to come off as some greedy, inconsiderate pig. Forget ego and pride – they have nothing to do with it. It’s really your independent willpower and waking paranoia that won’t allow you to feel 100% at ease when accepting these kind of gestures.

It’s bad enough that you’re financially inadequate for a regular burger and fries run. So whenever you find someone offering to treat you, you begin taking-in the magnitude of what’s really going on. Immediately, you come to understand that by taking full advantage of their generosity (this one time), you’re running the risk of them never extending their fastfood freehand to you again.

Indeed, in this game of chess you must know how to play it cool. And if you’re too zealous, the king (i.e. future fastfood favors) can very well end up captured, or worse beheaded!

So what do you do to avoid an instant check-mate? Well, first you fight the urge to pig out. Then, you internally negotiate with your hunger the idea of ordering light – talk to it as if it were its own sentient being. Finally, you meekly place an order that seems reasonable.

Nothing too expensive to merit a raised eyebrow and nothing so minuscule that the person offering gets offended. “That’s all you getting?! You must be ain’t hungry!” “You don’t eat from people aye?” “Why you is carry on like that?”

Oftentimes, the fastfood order you place falls within the lines of being reasonable and you feel a sense of relief. However, sometimes you know that being so considerate isn’t gonna be enough to satisfy that gut of yours.

Admittingly, in the split seconds of “What you getting?” or “Get what you want”, you’ve already analyzed the menu one-hundred times over in your head. And 9-times-out-10, you decide to tell yourself and the orderee a damn lie.

Sure your lips say a 10-piece nugget combo, but your stomach, that gestational motherfucker is screaming on the inside for a Spicy Asiago with loaded fries, a large berry ice tea, liquid cheese, and an apple pie.

[I know, I’m salivating just thinking about it.]

Eventually, as time flies by and your order is ready, you say thank you to the proprietor of the meal. However, as you’re munching away on perfectly salted fries, you can’t help ponder on why you’re really this way. You wonder which presets from the past have you accustomed to such fastfood minimalism?

And then it hits you like a bad case of yesterday…

[*Initiates Flashback*]

Fastfood and college life are two entities that were practically inseparable for me back in my days of tertiary education. Undoubtedly, my best friend Mia and I would be famished from a day of battling the rigors of academia.

So you could imagine the suppressed, overwhelming sense of joy we radiated whenever my grandmother would occasionally treat us to fastfood. We’d entered the backseat of her silver, Mitsubishi Jeep after a long day, knowing the predictable sequence of events to follow.

With windows screwed up to the brim and air conditioning consuming the vehicle’s insides, we’d begin making our way home. Between discussing how the day went for everyone, Grammy would ask the pertinent question “Y’all want something to eat?“

I’d typically go silent and await Mia’s response first. She’d play it coy and ask Grams to repeat her question. She wanted to be certain her hunger wasn’t playing cynical tricks on her again. Afterwards, the second response comes off much more polite than the first, “Would you like a combo dear?”

“Combo? Sure, please”, Mia would mouse sweetly. Grammy would then shift the question over to me in a franker, louder manner. The exchange usually went something like this:

  • “Terran?!!”
  • “Huh, yes ma’am?”
  • “COMBOOOO!!!!!”
  • “Yes please.”

With all the formalities out of the way, we’d make our way to the Wendy’s closest to home. Gracing the order checkpoint in the drive-thru, Grammy would ask rather calmly “What y’all getting?”.

But before anyone could utter a single breath, her head would dramatically sling-shot in our direction as she made things terrifyingly clear. Opening her mouth like a newborn pterodactyl, she screeched boisterously, “NOW EEN NO BUNCH A TING ROUN’ HERE!”

“Y’ALL GETTING NUMBER ONE COMBO! Ine have no bunch of money. Some children wish they had food to eat.” She’d mutter, rupturing the silence right before placing the fastfood order in the sweetest, primmest voice ever. And albeit an intense and facetious experience, I’ve always found myself eternally grateful for my grammy’s loving platitudes.

Nonetheless, this act of constantly being limited in options has somehow cemented an inclination toward minimalism in response to being treated to basically anything. Whenever an offer is being extended, there’s always this itch to go small: “Only one side”, “just a bottle of water please”, “one order of wings would be fine”, and of course “A number one, with no onions please”.

But as time goes on and you take that first bite into your #1 sandwich, you start to question if this kind of behavior is common. You start to question if it’s mindfully good or restrictively bad. And lastly, you start to question if they really left out the onions.

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