To The Drunk Guy in McDonald’s When I Was Six

Going to McDonald’s was a treat and though I don’t know what the occasion was, I know my dad took me. Maybe it was just the two of us, but more likely, not.

 

I remember sitting down on the molded benches. I remember the hamburger in front of me, checking to make sure it had nothing on it--no pickles or onions or ketchup--nothing but a thin grey burger on a bun. I remember fries.

Toddst2 at English Wikipedia [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)
or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons

 And then, I remember a man on across the aisle. I remember a long beard or long hair. He had a drink and he was not really sitting up the way my dad did. He started talking to my dad, at my dad really, and I remember thinking he seemed maybe angry or upset.

 

He was very skinny. I remember his arms.

He was asking my dad questions, but not real ones. Things like, “You know what I mean?” and “Am I right?” He pulled out a cigarette. Perhaps my dad did, too. Maybe he lit my dad’s. Maybe my dad lit his.

Maybe not.

I keep listening and I feel fear creep in. I can see his eyes aren’t really looking at anything and I hear him get louder and then softer. I know, even this young, that people don’t normally talk like this to people they don’t know. Especially at a McDonald’s. Especially when with a little girl sitting there. I’m here with my dad and the drunk guy doesn’t seem to notice.

And then he says it.

“Fuck it. Am I right? Fuck. It.”

I freeze.

Even a six-year old knows this is wrong. We understand we are supposed to be guarded, protected from language like this. We know when adults are saying it, right in front of us, something is wrong, the situation is bad. The adults who are supposed to be in control are not.

I look at my dad. He is smiling in a way I’ve seen before, a way that says he’s going to be polite but that he doesn’t like you. I know his I-like-you smile and this, this is not it. He looks away from the drunk man, but he doesn’t look at me. Not directly. His moves here are subtle and I watch him closely. Will he scoop me up and take me away? Will he point to me and ask the guy to watch his mouth?

My dad puts out the cigarette and is the very essence of calm. He makes no sudden move as he pulls our trash together and slides out of the booth. Whatever small, potent chaos the man is pulling him towards, my dad escapes it with ease, a kind of 1940’s nonchalance that gives absolutely no regard to the rants of this drunk guy.

I’m safe in my dad’s calm.

Later, I will remember the drunk guy, the fear.

And then I will remember driving home. The windows open. Dad singing “Splish Splash” like it was every other day. Any other day.