A Chelsea Story

He had to wait for his large French fries for more than ten minutes. He hated the wait. McDonalds was supposed to be a fast food restaurant… ten minutes was way beyond his tolerance time, even when he didn’t have much more to do the rest of his day. Before him, in line, a young redneck couple with a child was also waiting to get served. They pretty much did it just to get access to the restrooms, the kid had to use the toilet, and damn he smelled nasty.

Julio was a bit over fifty. His curly, short, greasy hair was already ash gray. He’d been running small errands the whole day and his forehead was sweating a bit. It’d been already too many years since he’d left his country for the US in search for a better future. He’d gotten used to hiding from immigration police, to changing jobs often and fast, to eating these unhealthy burgers that he so much hated, but that were charmingly convenient (secretly he liked them, and he hated himself for it). That day he’d been to western union. He’d been a bit late in his monthly money order and that had spoiled his sleep during four days; but right after sending the money to his family and by letting them know through a lengthy phone call on a public phone, he felt like a new man, like he was 25 again, like when the American dream meant something to him.

The kid in front of him was playing with a straw; he took it out of the paper envelope and threw the envelope to the ground. His father, wearing a wife-beater, red sox cap, beige shorts, long socks, and sandals, didn’t seem to mind. Julio was very pissed at them, but it all paid out once he got his large fries and a bunch of ketchup. That meant he could go and sit calmly at a bench near the window, and stare at the street for a good 20 minutes (maybe even half an hour), before heading back home. He loved looking out big windows, especially when it was sunny.

Half the sits were taken, he had to settle for a table a bit away from the really good spots, but he chose it to at least be able to look outside while he ate. The salty, crispy fries were a good comfort. Their unhealthiness felt good in his fingers and in his stomach.

Meanwhile, two tables away, a huge American (about 200kilos large) on old jeans and an even older t-shirt was saying hi to random people that just walked into the restaurant. It looked like he owned the place (at least that was his attitude). The man had a pink shopping bag next to him, full, with scrapped newspapers popping out of it. He was waiting for someone he didn’t know, and he had to play the idiot until his contact noticed him (a Latino with long hair and sunglasses). Took about three minutes for them to cut the crap and get to business. They exchanged binders, and barely spoke to each other while going through their contents. Julio remembered a T.V. show where they’d made a point about the importance of meeting in public when doing fishy business. The show within the fast-food joint was proving to be more interesting than the window view.

A fairly good looking middle aged woman (also fairly trashy) came in a rush. She went straight to the businessmen and told them a fight was happening outside. They looked at each other. They looked annoyed. The fat guy also looked a bit scared. They left their stuff on the table and headed to the street. The woman stayed inside and just stared at the window while biting her nails. More than two minutes went by in awkward suspense; still, no signs of the gentlemen, and their stuff was just lying there; no one cared (or dared) to take it. Julio started feeling strangely attracted to that pink bag.

He’d never done anything wrong in his life (at least not by his own personal moral code). His fingers started itching a bit, longing to grab the bag and his legs tensed ready for the run. Was he really going to do it? Would he be able to get away? Would there be something worthy of the risk inside the pink bag in the end?

The woman must have realized what was in Julio’s mind. She rushed to him the same way she’d rushed to the fat guy and the Latino guy, except this time she didn’t scream. Her hand touched Julio’s shoulder, and she spoke softly while looking straight into his eyes – excuse me sir, I need some help with my groceries, would you be so kind to lend me a hand? – They smiled at each other. Julio knew this wouldn’t end right (probably); but he didn’t have anything else to do for the rest of the day after all.