Like a Raw Burger Cooked on The Sidedwalk by the Hot Sun,
Only Different
by Todd M.A. Wandio
It was the hottest July on record. Three weeks of steady plus 30 temperatures and no sign of letting up. Ebert Grundel was watching a town dog attempt to cross the asphalt street without actually touching the pavement. It failed miserably and resigned itself to running headlong for the shade of an old Fargo pickup truck. Once safely underneath, the curr commenced in a ritual bathing of scorched paw pads, then fell into its usual habit of napping until evening.
Ebert guffawed to himself, and took a huge bite of his burger. Jackie Chan, it was said, made the best burgers in Carbon Creek. Being that the Golden Dragon Lunch Counter was the only restaurant in Carbon Creek, it was not much of a claim. Still, everyone ate there and attested to the quality of the burger.
In mid chew, Ebert found in him the sudden urge to spit out the mouthful on which he was working. Ebert liked his burgers rare, and this one, though rare like he wanted, had an added bonus flavor of raw sewage that told him the food was unfit for consumption. Calling the waitress over, Ebert commenced in a tirade the likes of which had not been witnessed before of since in the town of Carbond Creek.
Violet, who had been a waitress at the Golden Dragon Lunch Counter for as long as it had been open, by last count thirty-two years, weathered the dressing-down with near disinterest. It was only a matter of time before someone discovered the problem with the burger meat. After thirty-two years, the secret of the Golden Dragon burger would be revealed for the town's scrutiny, and, she imagined, their horror.
When Ebert Grundel had paused in his verbal barage, Violet calmy excused herself, saying that she would get the manager, Jackie Chan himself, ex-football player for the Montreal Alouettes, back in the days when the CFL was an insular Canadian sporting organization with a grass roots following.
Jackie Chan came immediately, all six-foot four and one half inches of him. My, but he was a formidable figure, at sixty-seven still in the peak of fitness. It was his burger recipe, he would tell anyone who asked, which kept him so fit and healthy. And such statements would encourage others to patronize the Lunch Counter, ordering the Golden Dragon Burger, a side of fries and a soft drink.
Chan loomed over Ebert like a mammoth savage, blood staining his once-white but not for a very long time now apron.
"Wassa matta wiff you booga?" inquired Chan, who spoke with an accent only while at work, who was born in Carbon Creek, whose parents were born in Carbon Creek, who knew not one word of the Chinese language. It was one of those things people had come to accept in a town full of eccentrics and oddities. Just like they accepted the presence of the cow who had arrived late the previous month, who refused to go into the corral with the other cows, who mooed angrily at the farmers as they went near it. It kept the grass cleared in the Rotary Club Park in the center of town, and offered the same park free and frequent fertilization. Such was the way of things in Carbon Creek. A town of madmen and fools, someone once said, though the vote to put it on a billboard on the way into town was defeated by a single vote.
"This burger is off, Jackie." Ebert gruffly muttered to the massive cook.
"Wassa matta, you no like Jackie Chan?" the cook gruffly muttered back.
"That's not what I said. Something is wrong with this burger, and I want to know what it is." Ebert glanced outside to the Fargo truck. He noticed the street curr was no longer beneath the pickup, though he hadn't noticed the hooded figure scooting into the alleyway, the dog, all too happy to be carried, in their arms.
Jackie Chan just stared at Ebert. His right eye was twitching noticeably, and his face was becoming flushed in anger.
"You accuse Jackie Chan of selling dogmeat? You bad man, you get outta here." And with that he hustled Ebert out of the Lunch Counter and onto the searing pavement of the July afternoon.
Ebert placed his weathered farm cap on his balding head, wiped the sweat from his upper lip with a soiled handkerchief, and shuffled over to the Fargo pickup, which coincidentally belonged to him. It was black with a black vinyl interior, and Ebert did not relish the idea of getting into the cab on such a scorching day. Though he did not usually go there, he decided that the air conditioned Tavern would be a much more comfortable place on a hot July day. He could chew the fat with the regulars, complain a little about Jackie Chan and the horrid burger he had nearly eaten. Perhaps, if he told the tale well enough, he might start an insurrection, a Down With Jackie Chan movement that would exact the revenge which Evert knew he on his own could not.
He sidled up to the bar, and ordered himself a light beer. To his surprise, the can, upon being opened, piped up with "CONGRATULATIONS, YOU'RE A WINNER!" Ebert asked the bartender what that meant, and was told that the beer was part of a promotion, that receiving a talking can was a good thing. The explanation gave Ebert the opening he needed to deliver his Jackie Chan story, saying that that was a bad thing. Ebert told of the horrid flavor, of the cook himself escorting him out of the restaurant. Then he recalled the cook's final words, and the weapon he would use to deal the killing blow was in his grasp.
"Jackie Chan serves dog meat in his Golden Dragon Burger." Ebert finished, fist raised above his head in mock defiance. At that, the crowded bar was silent. All eyes fixed on Ebert in horror. Dogmeat? In the burgers? Here? In Carbon Creek?
The next three days passed in a steadily growing ball of chaos which was filled to bursting and threatened to explode all over the town, Jackie Chan and the Golden Dragon Lunch Counter. People who hadnŐt seemed to have noticed reported their dogs missing to Sgt. Levesque. People noticed the absence of the usual street mutts, as if, one by one they were abducted and used for who knows what evil purpose. And as the news of Jackie Chan's dogmeat burgers spread, so too did the reputation of Carbon Creek as being the home of the odd, the repulsive and the unexplainable.
Ebert Grundel had said his peace and left for home. Once the ball had gotten rolling, he was content to let it roll right over Jackie Chan. By the third day, he had completely forgotten the incident, and set himself the task of getting his machinery ready for the fall. There was much work to be done, and so he was kept busy for the better part of the month.
It was early August when Ebert again ventured into town. To the untrained eye, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. But to Ebert Grundel great changes indeed had transpired. The entire town was devoid of animal life. Not a dog stirred, not a sparrow chirped, not a seagull squawked at the passing pedestrians. It was still baking hot, though near the end of July the odd thundershower would splash down here and there, so that it was not only hot, but humid at the same time.
Carbon Creek was abuzz with life, an occurence not unusal for the small town. Ebert caught bits and pieces of the gossip as it passed his truck. Mostly people were discussing food. What is being served today? asked one person, Mrs. McAlpine by name. It has an odd but pleasant texture. said another lady, with whom Ebert was not acquainted. Ebert began to notice the pattern in the themes of the gossip, and followed it to the source. It seemed that the town was referring to the Golden Dragon Lunch Counter.
Ebert wondered whether Jackie Chan had been chased out of town and replaced by a wonderful new cook. After his recent discovery, he assumed the ex-footbal player's gig was up. The thought gave him a little smile.
"I think I'll go and give this new guy a try." Ebert muttered to himself, exiting the Fargo and walking the block and a half to the Lunch Counter.
It was not yet noon, and already the Golden Dragon was full to capacity. Ebert had to wait ten minutes before a place was cleared for him. Violet came and took his order. He avoided the Golden Dragon Burger and ordered the meat loaf. Violet wrote the order down and turned, pacing quickly to the back, placing the order. Ebert wasn't certain but he thought Violet had been trying to hide a smirk, her lips pinched tightly closed.
Now that he thought about it, everyone either seemed to be avoiding his look, or else they were wearing the same smug expression. Something was going on. Whatever it was, he was sure he didn't like it.
"Violet." he bellowed, raising his beefy farmer's hand into the air in summons of the smirking waitress. She came. Yes, it was a hidden smirk.
"Violet, what's going on here? I want to see the manager." Violet's eyebrows raised, but she turned and went into the back.
While she was gone, Ebert scanned the menu stuck beneath the plexiglass table cover. It was a new menu, though the familiar logo of the Golden Dragon Lunch Counter was there, and beneath it, the name of the proprietor.
"Wassa matta today, Ebert Gwundo?" the familiar, fake-accented voice bellowed. Ebert's heart sank. He didn't like this one bit. He placed his farm cap on his head and got up to leave.
"Nothing wrong with me," he grumbled, trying to keep his eyes cast down while heading for the door.
"Not so fass, mista." Jackie Chan warned, grabbing Ebert by the shoulder in one large baseball glove sized hand.
Ebert spun around. Jackie's ancient soiled bib had been replaced by a white T-shirt on which the slogan "I Like Dogmeat" was painted atop the figure of a mangy curr with fleas encircling its head.
Glancing around the restaurant, looking for help, or pity, or whatever, Ebert noticed a number of patrons wearing similar garb. The slogans differed. Some said "I like Catmeat" while others had the image of a scrawny seagull being scraped from a road, to which the caption read "The Best Roasted Road Kill in Town." Tom Fergus slapped Jackie Chan on the shoulder as he passed.
"Mighty good field mouse stew, Jackie. What's on the menu for tomorrow?"
Jackie smiled, showing a mouth full of pointed voodoo teeth. Ebert gulped loudly. What had he started?
"Tomowwo special is... fillet of farmer." And with that, he dragged Ebert Grundel, screaming and kicking out back, where all the meals were prepared
This text is Copywright by Todd M.A. Wandio, 1998
