what would jesus do at jack in the box
i remember this day and it still bothers me i remember the tiny little square table rounded corners, slightly damp, gleaming formica top then the clean plastic tray, then a paper placemat advertisement “try our exciting new menu items, now with bacon!” an open foil wrapper, at the pinnacle of this fast food ziggurat the burger sacrifice i remember the guy in front of me, his tiny table against the window, his hair is white and wild, his clothes are heavy and filthy. it is spring, and he is dressed to survive a winter storm, and he is insane. he is going to kill them, the fuckers. he has a coke and some french fries, but no hamburger. he's got a newspaper open in front of him. yes, i heard him right, he said it again, he is definitely going to kill the fuckers, whoever they are. i wonder he he comes here often i wonder if he just can't afford the hamburger or if he is just a vegetarian. i wonder if the fuckers are real or just imagined. i wonder how safe i am suddenly like jason bourne i am surreptitiously scoping out the room noting the exits what would jesus do now? would he get up, walk over sit down next to the man, speak enigmatically about a happy meal that would fill him up never to feel hunger again, then the man's white hair would turn brown in an instant transformed, he would tear off his coat, revealing a clean polo shirt walk out of the restaurant to a good paying middle class job, healed by the presence of jesus-in-the-box, hallelujah! i remember the fear telling me if i say anything, or even moved suddenly, i will be one of the fuckers. so i stared straight ahead bite and chew and attend, feigned intensity to the flavor of my very interesting hamburger. in retrospect, listening to that fear, probably did make me one of the fuckers as i casually and calmly, so as not to be noticed crumpled the wrapping paper shoved it into the thank you and got the fuck out of there.