Half-passed noon, fresh out of class, mom and I in the car, headed down the road. The city is covered in a lightly sobbing white blanket, not so dark or heavy as to be gloomy or grim, but rather a light melancholy draping us, reflecting the nature of our morning.
Mom makes a call—as always, when she gets on the phone her voice shoots up in octaves, as if her receiver were on the other end of a mighty chasm. This person is a friend and fellow member of the high school’s PTA. A check needs to be signed by her—a check that’s currently in mom’s purse. We’re in the area, and this has to be taken care of now.
A meeting is set up on the fly. A landmark on the road we’re already driving down is selected. We pull into a gas station with a convenience store attachment. WILCO.
Because of mom’s handicap, she can park immediately in front of the door. I’m given her credit card. “Go get us something to drink or whatever.” Feeling a bit enamored with the situation in spite of the inconvenience, I slip my trenchcoat on and head inside.
An ugly, unpleasant woman greets me half-heartedly from behind the counter. I passively nod my head, as I’ve become accustomed to doing while not realizing that others find it strange, and head for the fridge section.
A “Mean Bean” Monster coffee-energy-drink for mom. A small bottle of Mountain Dew for me.
I know I have to pick up something to eat before I go. This morning’s rushed breakfast was disappointing, and I’m before a smorgasbord.
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Something I’ve often remarked in half-jest is that I could live off of nothing but 7-11 food. That said, WILCO is NOT a 7-11. In the corner of the store is a machine rotating some hot dogs. It doesn’t have the fancy glean of budget like the ones at 7-11. Whereas the higher-end chains are concerned with thieves enough to make customers ask for a hot dog, this place just has a plastic top on the grill with a “lift here” tab.
For a second, I find myself confused as to how I can make a hotdog without a bun; then I notice that beneath the grill is a literal metal breadbox with doors on it reading “Fresh Buns!”
No one could possibly fall for this idea. The buns are individually wrapped in little plastic bags, and with one touch, I can tell they’ve been here all morning. I don’t particularly mind—something like this is worthwhile for the experience.
I retrieve a bun, pull a hot dog off the grill (with my hands—I didn’t see anything else to do it with), stick it in, and turn to the chili and cheese machine.
The offer of free chili and cheese is nice and obviously the only way this place can sell anyone a hot dog when it can’t be that much farther to a 7-11. I can tell, however, that no one has used these machines today. I squirt a little out of each before putting anything on my hot dog to clear out the crusty bits that’ve been exposed to air all day; this I learned to do through experience.
The next question is how to carry the hot dog, dripping with chili and cheese, while also carrying the drinks. There’s no obvious solution except to shove the dog back into the bun’s little bag.
This doesn’t go as planned. While the bag is large enough to fit the whole hot dog in, it’s made of such thin paper that the chili immediately runs it wet. What a mess. I take all of these things to the register and then to the car.
When I return, mom is booming into the phone again. I have a hard time eating around loud noise, but I suck it up. The plastic bag for the drinks becomes a plate, as the bun wrapper is nowhere near sufficient.
Minutes later, the woman we’ve been waiting for pulls up beside us on my side. I roll down the window and she rolls down hers. None of us get out of the car, which is just as well with the rain and all. I hand the check, protected in a folded piece of paper, and a pen to the woman. She signs the check and hands it back, myself nearly dropping it in the process.
This little meeting isn’t as cool as my imagination wants it to be, and my mom and the woman begin a conversation, yelling between the cars as if they were on the phone (and surely, they’d be just as loud if they were.) Both of them are oblivious to passerbys, one of whom says “excuse me” as he walks between the cars. Some pissed-off older man walks into the store and curses in annoyance; what a douche.
The conversation is running too long. The other woman has her shaggy dog with her, clad in a Steelers t-shirt, standing in the window. I’m trying to eat the hot dog and minimize on mess, which the bun doesn’t support me with, being too hard to squish and fit into my mouth. At least the chili, cheese, and hot dog itself are all actually tasty.
Finally, the conversation ends and I can roll up my window. We still have to head to a school and drop off the check, but the real adventure has ended. I turn to mom and say, “you know, we just took a completely gangster situation and made it as gay as possible.”
“Yup.”
I don’t manage to finish the hot dog. Today, my stomach just doesn’t have the fight.
