The Reason I was Banned from McDonald's

     When my son, Paul, was eight years old, we had his birthday party at the farm.  Our rule was one guest for each year, so Paul invited eight friends, all boys.  Most of these boys were also in his Cub Scout troop and on his Little League team.  Charlotte and I were well acquainted with all the parents.

     The farm was called the Easy Three Ranch, located near Austonio, Texas, about twenty miles west of Crockett.  Being from West Texas, I called it a farm.  Two hundred acres to me is a small farm, but the other two-thirds of the EZ3 partnership, Ken Black and Hugh Ruggles, deemed it a ranch.  Because most everyone from Houston lived in a condo or on a 5,000 square foot residential lot, they considered it vast acreage.

     After work on Friday, the boys gathered at our home, with their bedrolls and overnight gear.  I loaded the gear into the trunk of my car and put the boys into Charlotte’s Buick Estate Wagon.  I drove the wagon and carried the boys.  Charlotte and our twelve-year-old daughter, Devon, followed in my car.  They were my support group, along to help with food prep and other chores.

     All the seats in the Buick folded down, which created a semi-level, carpeted platform from the back of the front seat to the rear window of the wagon.  Plenty of room for the nine little guys and they loved it.  Seat belts were not mandatory then, and would have impeded the natural flow of busy boys in the back of the car.  I only had three rules—don’t fight, don’t pester the driver, and don’t jump out the window.  Being safety conscious, I locked the doors and windows from the driver’s seat.  I turned on the A/C, tuned in some good country music, and zoned out for 112 miles.

     We got to the farm in time to build a wonderful fire in the pit behind the house.  The boys sang camp songs, roasted hot dogs, and did S’mores all around.  Everyone had a bath, brushed his teeth, and bedded down in the bunkroom before eleven.  They slept very well.

     I fixed scrambled eggs, German-fried potatoes, sausage, bacon, biscuits and gravy for breakfast, with orange juice and milk.  Some of the guys didn’t like some of the food, but most of them found something they would eat.  Josh Spikerman ate everything in sight, and Shane Rogers didn’t like anything.  I offered him oatmeal.  No way.  I finally told him, “Tough stuff, Shane.  Maybe we’ll have something you’ll like for lunch.”

     Paul led the guys on a nature hike, through the thicket, around the lake, and out into the hay meadow. He taught them how to herd cattle by waving his arms and yelling as he charged.  The cows hooked it into the next pasture. We spent the rest of the morning shooting arrows at targets I had set up on the ends of the round hay bales stored in the meadow. 

     Charlotte and Devon brought lunch out at about 1:30.  Cold drinks, deli sandwiches and potato chips. Shane Rogers drank a Coke, ate two thick bologna and cheese sandwiches and two bags of chips.   Charlotte worried that he would get terminal constipation. 

     We finished Saturday with Paul’s favorite dinner—brisket I’d smoked all day and Charlotte’s potato salad, followed by the mandatory birthday cake.   After a session in the hot tub in lieu of showers, everyone fell asleep without any trouble.  Sunday morning, I fixed oatmeal and orange juice, we cleaned up our trash, straightened the house, loaded our gear and left the farm at about 11:30, planning a stop for lunch on the way home.

     I pulled up to the McDonald’s in Huntsville with the after-church crowd at 12:45 and waited in line.  When it was my turn, I eased up to the window and ordered ten assorted drinks and ten Happy Meals, nine with everything and Shane Rogers’ plain, no pickles, no secret sauce.  I was worn out.  My ears hurt. My back hurt. I was bone tired. The girl at the window took my money and asked me to drive forward to the next window to pick up my order.

    The timid little girl at the service window passed our drinks to me and I distributed them.  Then she handed me ten sacks, one marked with a yellow tag for Shane.  I passed them out and prepared to get back on the road.

    “Mine has secret sauce on it!  And pickles.  I can’t eat secret sauce and I hate pickles.”  Shane yelled from the back seat. 

    I put the car in park and asked the girl to give me a second.  “Everyone check your burgers and find the one without sauce or pickles.”  No such luck—all had sauce.  I returned Shane’s to the girl, apologized and asked her to replace it. 

     She smiled and said, “No problem, sir.  We’ll fix another one.  Just pull forward and wait over there and we’ll bring it to you in a few minutes.”

     I put the wagon in drive, then had a thought.  I put it back in park.  “I’ll just wait right here, if It’s all right with you.”

       “Oh no, Sir.  You must move—you’re blocking the whole line.  Please drive forward.”

      “You don’t understand.  I want that burger to be as important to you all as it is to me.  I’ll just stay right here till I get it.” 

     The Plymouth immediately behind, knowing I had received my order, gave a polite little toot on his horn.  I put my foot on the brake to show him the size of my tail lights.

     “Oh, Sir!  You can’t do this.  Please move up to that parking space and I’ll get your burger right out.  Please don’t make me call the manager.”   The poor child was almost in tears. 

     A Chevy Blazer, three cars back, started honking.  I noticed Charlotte and Devon had pulled around the line, and were waiting at the edge of the parking lot.

     “It’s not my burger, Ma‘am.  It is for Shane Rogers.  He doesn’t like secret sauce and he cannot stand pickles.  Call your manager.  I’m not moving.”

     The young lady slammed the sliding glass shut and spoke into the microphone.  In a minute or so, a yuppie-looking fellow in his early thirties, with a McDonald’s baseball cap on backwards, a Golden Arches Polo shirt and slacks, came out of the store and motioned with a lot of authority for me to move forward into the parking space he designated.  His manner said I should do so immediately.

     I put my car in drive and moved forward about three feet, enough to clear the service window, but still block the drive.   I stopped, put it in park and killed the engine.  Clear of the service window, I could open the door and step out.  The Plymouth driver went crazy, standing on his horn.  He was six feet from his lunch.  He could see it getting cold in the window.  A jacked-up pickup pulled out of line six cars back and roared past me.  The driver was honking with one hand and shooting me the finger with the other.   A sweet-looking girl in the front seat was shooting me the finger with both hands.

     I stepped out of the manicured ivy bed and onto the sidewalk with the manager.

     “You’ve got to move that car.  No one can get through the line.  This is our busiest time.  We’ve got orders piling up inside.  I’ve been nice about this, but I want that car moved now!”  The young manager seemed to be under a lot of stress.

     “You would be making a lot better use of your time to get back inside and make Shane’s hamburger.  I waited in line to order it.  I waited in line to pay for it.  I waited in line to pick it up.  I’m not waiting in line anymore.  Let the line wait on me.  You have my money.  I want that burger.”  I was growing short of patience.

     “Look here, now!  We can’t be held responsible to instantly produce every special order some spoiled kid wants. These things take time.  I want that car moved.   You need to move it right now!”

     In the great scheme of things, I have to admit that I may have been a bit unreasonable.  I was tired and looked forward to nothing more than getting on my way with all the boys quietly sipping their drinks and munching their burgers.  I wanted to get them back to their parents and away from me as soon as possible.  It had been a great weekend, but enough was enough.   Besides, that yuppie irritated me.  I enjoyed pulling his chain.

     “I’ll move the car as soon as I have that burger.  It is not complicated. “   I held my left hand out, palm up, as I spoke.  My right arm rotated, windmill style, until my right hand slapped down on my left palm.  At the impact of the palms, I did a little hop, both feet coming off the ground. 

     “I want a piece of bread.”  Slap. Hop. “I want a piece of meat.” Slap. Hop. “I want a piece of cheese.” Slap. Hop. “I want a piece of bread.” Slap. Hop.  “That’s it. I’ve already paid for it. I don’t care if you make it yourself or if you get it from Jack-in-the-Box,  I’m not moving until I get it.”

     I turned and started back to the car.  Nine boys, all with eyes wide and mouths open, peered through the windows on that side of the car.  Several people in the line were standing outside their cars, trying to see what was happening.   The jacked-up pickup came around again, honking and shooting fingers from both windows.  I glanced at Charlotte and Devon, parked near the edge of the lot.  Charlotte wore a curious, exasperated look and Devon was laughing hysterically.  Both of them have reacted to my antics much the same way for the last forty-odd years.

     “Here’s your burger, Sir.”  The timid country girl held out the sack with Shane’s lunch.  “Please come back soon.”  I arched an eyebrow.  She realized what she’d said and flushed with embarrassment.

     I got into the car.  Shane checked his burger and found it satisfactory.  I adjusted the mirrors, fastened my seat belt, checked the blinkers, and drove to Houston.  

     Paul turned eight in 1982.  Those kids are in their forties now, and to this day, when I see any of them, they ask if I’ve been to McDonald’s lately.