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[Review: Metal Gear Solid: The Twin Snakes]
by wedge55 Most fast food restaurants, on-site bathrooms excluded, are remarkably sterile: spick, span, and spotless on both a microscopic and macroscopic level, which is so remarkable because, unlike Disney Land, you never actually see anybody cleaning the licensed franchises dotting our nation's highways. Well, you might, but I haven't been lucky enough to witness such a rare event, often likened to the alignment of the planets, the appearance of a blue moon, and a million and one other rare occurrences, the majority of which transpire in places other than the night sky, honest. The local KFC, an acronym recently adopted to hide the fact that, yes, Kentucky Fried Chicken is fried, from a health-conscious America, was looking characteristically clean on that fateful Saturday on the ninth of March in 1999, or, if that particular date, now lost to five years of history doesn't quite suite you, let's call it the twenty-first of June in 2006 and make this a not-too-distant-future narrative, though the original date still holds true as well. A group (family?) of unmistakingly British Indians (Indians (from India) whose decedents had migrated to the island of Britain, specifically the country of England, at some point in the past) were putting more thought into their impending order than most people put into having a bowel movement. Me, I often consider the bowel movement to be the most important aspect of my day, something I generally spend no less than thirty minutes preparing for (emotionally, mentally, and physically) and over an hour recuperating from, though I have been told I am not part of the national average in this regard. Still, I think if more people would treat their bowels, and their subsequent movements, with more respect than they currently do, seeing the scatological process not as a burden but as a divine right bestowed upon us by our creator, many of this world's larger problems, and perhaps even a few of its smaller ones, would disappear over night. Bowels or not, these British Indians were taking a long time. Me, I was on my lunch break, and afforded a mere twenty-five (unpaid) minutes to acquire food, eat food, and return to work bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and ready to sell useless crap to legions of morons who I was forced to spend time with only because I was being paid to do so. Because I was so pressed for time, and made frequent and exaggerated glances at my watch, most of which were accompanied by a loud, annoyed groan to signify exactly this, most people would have politely insisted I (a single human being ready to order) take my place in line in front of them (in this case, five indecisive British Indians). However, it seems what is considered socially acceptable fast food behavior in England differs from our own views on the matter here in the United States. The youngest of the British Indian family, who was either a very pretty boy or a very unattractive girl, was having a particularly difficult time deciding between a two-piece meal consisting of a single breast and a single thigh, or a two-piece meal which included two wings, remaining extremely vocal about his/her indecision. The mother, or the oldest woman of the group, depending on the exact circumstances of their relationship, had long since decided she would eat the three-piece chicken strip meal, but was engaged in an external debate with her husband, or the oldest man of the group, depending on the exact circumstances of their relationship, concerning which two of the restaurant's many offerings she would choose as her sides. She felt the traditional mashed potatoes would suite her just fine, but was having serious doubts about the Colonel's coleslaw, informing her mate, or whatever, that the image of a large, yellow mass which was conveniently labeled “Macaroni N' Cheese” looked unbeatably appetizing. The man, on the other hand, who I doubt would have any involvement with the consumption of the actual meal his wife, or whatever, was about to order, agreed that sticking with the suggested mashed potatoes was, in fact, an excellent idea, but was quick to remind her that KFC was not especially renowned for its ability to pour nacho cheese over microwaved noodles, demanding she instead opt for the Colonel's famous, and by all accounts delicious, potato wedges, a sentiment I could hardily agree with. The other two children, both of which were unarguably female, most likely ranging in age between fourteen and eighteen years, seemed perfectly content with their selections, standing, arms crossed, slightly off from the rest of the group, their necks tilted slightly towards the menu in silence. Just then, at an arbitrary point in time relative to this point in the narrative, but by no means specific with respect to you, the reader, I noticed two things. First, my fly was undone, a side effect of my using the men's restroom (for urination) just prior to punching out for my lunch break. I made no effort to correct it. Second, I seemed to have accidentally tapped one of the buttons on the face of my watch while waiting in line, revealing that my watch's stop watch timer had been running for the last sixteen hours, forty-seven minutes, and four seconds. Five seconds. Six seconds. Seven seconds. Et cetera. Ultimately, however, these two events had no bearing on the narrative at large. Looking up from my watch, and making no effort to correct the run away timer, I realized that not only had the British Indian family, or group, begun actually placing their orders, but they also seemed to have lost the ability to effectively communicate using the English language. Whereas moments (seconds) before, the family had been actively arguing, debating, and generally communicating via the very same language I'm now using to communicate these events to you, the father, or whatever, was now trying his best to relate his family's orders to the cashier though a combination of extremely broken English and obscure hand gestures. Thankfully, any person who has spent any reasonable amount of time working in a fast food restaurant quickly grows accustomed to dealing with inarticulate customers. Besides, this particular cashier, a young blonde-haired girl whose blue eyes didn't seem to sit quite level on her face, had already listened to the group of British Indians spending the last five minutes verbally deciding the finality of their orders, and she seemed to have caught the tail end of it while I was away staring at my watch and fly, which I still assure you have little to no baring on this narrative. It seemed the youngest of the children, whose new position in the line did little to clear up the confusion concerning its sex, had decided on ordering the two-piece meal consisting of a single breast and a single thigh, graciously accepting the traditional sides of mashed potatoes and coleslaw. The two eldest daughters ordered next, both having decided on the savory chicken pot pie, an item on KFC's menu I tried to steer clear of. The mother, who I have decided to officially refer to as the mother from this point on, despite the fact that her role in this tale is nearly over, went against her husband's wishes and decided to replace the Colonel's world famous coleslaw with the macaroni n' cheese, a decision I'm sure she regretted later, her husband sure to remind her that he had advised her against her illogical course of action. Finally, the father communicated his own order, a tender roast chicken sandwich, and went ahead and ordered a family size container of popcorn chicken, which I can only assume was for the entire family to share. Thankfully, popcorn chicken, which is actually nothing more than the fried leftover scraps of chicken which have been deemed unworthy of any of the Colonel's other recipes, as unappealing as that sounds, was actually in season, as I don't dare to even imagine the delay which would have been generated if KFC's answer to the chicken nugget had been in one of its tri-monthly hibernations. As the British Indians slowly made their way to the fountain soda dispenser, I quickly jumped in front of the cashier, taking my hard-earned place in the front of the line, ready to order. The cashier, who was the same blonde haired girl with off-center eyes mentioned earlier, wore a small red nametag with the word “Liz” etched into its face, a word which I quickly assumed was her name. Liz, as a name, offers many possibilities, as it can be a whole name in and of itself, proudly stamped on a birth certificate by a pair of joyful parents, or it can a shortening of Elizabeth, or possibly even Liza. However, were it short for Liza, it would be pronounced either “Lies” or “Leas,” like “fleas,” depending on the style in which the name's owner chooses to pronounce the root name of Liza. On the other hand, Liz, both as a self-contained name and as a shortening of Elizabeth, is pronounced “Lizz,” like “fizz.” In the fourth grade I knew a kid named Matt, whose name was not short for Mathew. Despite this fact, I took to calling the guy Mathew, knowing full well his full name as it appeared in every official record of his existence was nothing more than Matt, though I suspect he didn't take much notice of my practice as I spent little to no time in his acquaintance before he moved away half-way through the school year. If I had to guess, I'd say one of his parents was military, but without knowing for sure that would just be rampant speculation. I ordered my food, a transaction which went like this: “Hi, for here or to go?” “Hi. For here. Can I get a number seven?” “Okay, that'll be one zinger sandwich meal for here. Anything else?” “No, thanks.” “Would you like to add cheese to your potato wedges for just forty-nine cents?” “No, thanks.” “Debit or credit.” “Uh… Debit.” “Go ahead and press OK and enter your pin.” “Alright.” “Here's your receipt. You're order should be ready in just a few minutes, Dan.” “Dan? How'd you… Oh. I always forget about my name tag. It's short for Daniel.” “Hey, do you know Jill?” “Jill? No.” “Don't you work at-” “Oh, Jill. Yeah, I know Jill. I hardly ever see her ‘cause she works the night shift and-” “Alright, here's your order. Jill's my sister.” “Your sister? Okay.” “You have a nice day.” “Okay.” And Liz disappeared behind a wall of clear plastic bins lined end-to-end with a solid mass of fried chicken: thighs, breasts, wings, and parts not quite so easily recognizable. I filled my bright blue and white paper Pepsi cup, lined with wax to prevent a complete structural breakdown, with just enough ice to keep the drink cold, but not so much as to force myself into returning to refill my cup in order to thoroughly quench my thirst. The ice itself was little more than shredded bits of frozen water, though I'm sure the official term, thrown around behind the counter by the employees who had served the Colonel for more than a few months, was crushed. I chose to fill the rest of the cup with Wild Cherry Pepsi, not only because I felt Wild Cherry Pepsi is vastly superior to every other cherry-flavored (or flavoured, as the British Indians, still dutifully awaiting their order, would have spelled it) cola on the market, but also because the regular Pepsi dispenser had a plain piece of white paper, frayed on two of its edges, taped over the focus group-generated, easily recognizable red and blue sphere icon, the words “Out Of Order” carefully printed in soft, gray pencil. Chances are I would have chosen the Wild Cherry Pepsi regardless of the Pepsi Cola dispenser's functionality, as it's my beverage of choice at KFCs and Taco Bells on nine out of ten visits, but the fact that original Pepsi was entirely denied to me made the decision making process, already an extremely simple matter, all the easier. In reality, I don't find Wild Cherry Pepsi any more enjoyable than the original cola in much the same way I don't find getting hit over the head with a sledgehammer any more enjoyable than being beaten with a shovel. At the end of the day, both will get you killed. However, the fact that Wild Cherry Pepsi seems to present itself as a beverage option at every Pepsi soda fountain whereas Cherry Coke, certainly the lesser of the two artificially flavored drinks, rarely shows up as part of the beverage lineup incorporated into a Coca-Cola soda fountain, moves me to fill my cup with the Wild Cherry Pepsi in order to encourage Pepsi to continue and provide such a wide array of carbonated choices in all of their soda dispensaries. With any luck, Coke will notice the efforts of my heart-felt consumerism and move to incorporate Cherry Coke into their own soda fountains, though chances are I would still opt for the original Coca-Cola in its stead, as I'm not particularly found of the drink. By the same token, I always fill my cup with Vanilla Coke when faced with a Coke dispenser that provides the option, as Quiznos Sub has been known to do, in an effort to both help ensure Coke keeps their glorious vanilla flavored beverage in their lineup and simultaneously tip the scales towards Pepsi including their own vanilla cola in their soda fountains, though I find Pepsi's vanilla cola to be inferior to Coke's version. With my drink in hand, I left the British Indians, still waiting patiently for their order, and took a seat in the booth half of one of the booth/chair hybrid tables, positioning myself so as to get an unobstructed view of the cars racing by on the highway (given some easily forgettable number of a name like “107” or “55”). The plastic seating of the booth was cold. I lifted one of the brown potato wedges to my lips, biting it in half and filling my mouth with the warm, pasty potato substance hidden beneath the crunchy, herb and spice saturated outer layer. I always started my meals at KFC in exactly this manor, opening my mouth and panting, rolling the potato paste about my tongue in an effort to prevent myself from burning the delicate skin of my mouth. When the potato is sufficiently cool, I swallow the mass, virtually without chewing it, and fit the other two inches of wedge into my mouth, repeating the process once more before attacking my triple crunch zinger sandwich, leaving the other potato wedges to cool. The sandwich itself receives a similar treatment, as I pry open the bun and remove one of the three crunchy chicken strips within, bits of limp, dull green lettuce clinging to the meat through no fault of their own, stuck in the special thousand-island variant of a sauce which has been infused with a tangy spice, most likely by adding some Miracle Whip to the recipe, and which is the source of the “zinger” name, the only difference between a regular triple crunch sandwich and the infamous zinger variant. I also bit it in two, chewing with my mouth open to again prevent the all white meat chicken from burning the inside of my mouth. Outside cars zoomed by on the highway, but very few trucks were out today. That's probably because it's raining, or foggy, or because the sun is out and there's not a cloud in the sky, I can't tell for sure. Weather has never been my specialty, even though my father works as a meteorologist for KBTV, standing in front of a green screen and smiling as he points at imaginary pressure systems three times a night between six and seven. I suppose I didn't inherit the weather genes from him, or perhaps I've spent so much time around somebody who lives, breathes, and lives (again) weather, I've simply come to not notice it at all, seeing it as an ineffectual piece of my daily existence. Regardless, the highway, four lanes wide, was filled with cars of all varieties, from mini-vans packed with families to giant SUVs with a single driver, but not a single truck, semi or pick-up. Maybe a law had passed in the night, banning trucks of any variety from the state's highway, but I would assume it would take longer to get the thing in the books, although honestly I knew next to nothing about politics or the ways in which this state, or the country at large, functioned. I could only assume a new law wouldn't take effect until some later date, perhaps January with the start of the new year. Maybe this was January and the law had been passed long ago, Proposition 521, declaring it illegal for any and all trucks to travel on the highways. But if that was the case, how did the food get to this KFC? I couldn't imagine a convoy of mini-vans and sports cars, their trunks and back seats filled with shredded lettuce, frozen chicken, and thousands of packets of honey mustard sauce pulling up to the back door early one frosty morning, the first shift employees running back and forth between the row of cars, filling their store with the ingredients used to produce some of the finest fast food in the city. I wiped my hands on my pants, leaving behind millions of those small, bread-like balls which coat KFC's buns. I'm not entirely sure what they are, as they're not sesame seeds or some other sort of seed variant; they're just small, hard specks of a substance that might be bread, the same dull orange-white as the rest of the bun. Whatever they are, they have an incredible knack for clinging to everything around them, which usually happens to be the two hands which are gripping the bun as the sandwich is being thoughtfully shoveled into some kind patron's mouth. I took a sip of my Wild Cherry Pepsi. The British Indians had just sat down in the farthest booth, blocking my view of the window and forcing me to stare at the wall to my right rather than at them. I could only assume it was the popcorn chicken which held up the order, as it often does when a batch is not yet ready. They prepare the stuff in absurd quantities, leaving it under the heating lamps for hours on end as even the family size is small enough, barely making a dent in the monstrous pile of fried chicken scraps. They do this because the actual process of preparing the popcorn chicken is a long and arborous (of or related to trees) one, though I don't know exactly what the procedure entails other than laying the chicken out under the heating lamps or nuking them in the microwave. Either way, as far as I could tell from the corner of my eye, the British Indian family now seemed to be enjoying their meal, though I doubt the mother had tasted her macaroni n' cheese just yet. My zinger triple cruncher was delicious, as it always was, the delightful combination of crispy chicken strips, limp lettuce, and the tangy special sauce always makes for a good combination, especially with a tall cup of Wild Cherry Pepsi to nurse throughout the meal and a piping hot side of potato wedges. The chicken strips in the sandwich were a little saltier than usual, but I tried not to let my thirst overcome me, as I always spend most of my meal time eating the actual food, leaving the soda to be enjoyed afterwards. After years of experience and practice, I've learned that finishing a fast food meal and having already finished your soda is a grave mistake. Most fast food meals are especially salty, and while your thirst will beg to be quenched throughout the eating process, ultimately the salt makes for a long lasting thirst which outlives the meal itself. However, this can be easily combated my simply sipping sparingly from the soda over the course of the meal, leaving the vast majority of it to be enjoyed once the meal is over, as this sudden massive influx of soda goes a long way towards preventing future thirst outbreaks as a result of the salty nature of the food. This is even more important when eating frozen food, as its bland, flavorless nature is generally counteracted by the inclusion of ridiculous amounts of both salt and garlic. Looking down at my watch I realized I only had five minutes before I needed to be back at work, though if it were up to me, I would've taken all the (unpaid) time in the world, but being late from lunch effectively puts off the lunch schedule for the entire day, and though I'm not particularly fond of most of my fellow employees, I understand that the lunch break is a bastion of hope which one looks forward to over the course of the work day. I hastily stuffed the remainder of the potato wedges into my mouth, and I must have done so rather noisily as the British Indians looked towards me in disgust, recognizing my existence for the first time since I had entered the KFC. My soda I would need to finish on the three-minute drive back to work, but given the way in which I was now devouring the potato wedges, I would need additional beverage in order to combat the resultant salt-thirst. After pushing the black plastic tray and thin paper placemat which sat atop KFC's larger, “Do Not Throw Away” tray, into the garbage can, leaving the larger tray atop the can's cheap, fake wood container as it instructed me to do, I refilled what little of my Wild Cherry Pepsi I had sipped away. Though it wasn't much, every ounce helps in the ongoing battle against thirst. I glanced once more at the British Indian family, whose father must have just finished telling a fantastic joke as all three (two?) of the daughters burst out laughing. The mother was busy pushing the macaroni n' cheese around its Styrofoam carton with her plastic spork. “I'll tell Jill you said 'hi,'” Liz called from behind the counter, recently reoccupying her spot behind the register, despite no new customers having entered the building. “Okay,” I said before heading out the door. |
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