For four years I walked by a White Castle two times a day. That’s almost 3,000 times. Some of those times I was too poor to buy a healthy meal. Some of those times I was drunk and craved something greasy. However, I only went in 3 times. The first time was because I had to try the food. Something about the advertised “chicken rings” just drew me in like a tractor beam. 10 Hamburgers, an order of chicken rings and $4 later, and I heard sounds come from my stomach that sounded like a pig getting run over by a steamroller and decided White Castle might not be so great.
I found myself going through the hallowed doors a second time when I couldn’t believe they were actually selling a suitcase of hamburgers for $8. They do and the rest of my weekend was spent praising god for placing so many Starbucks and their relatively clean bathrooms so closely together. 
The final time I went into White Castle was after a night of heroic drinking. I was walking home and decided the night had room for one more bad decision. For some reason I only bought an order of onion rings and for some reason I walked a good thirty feet and then threw them at a passing car. That was the end of my White Castle days.
I didn’t resist going to White Castle because I’m health nut by any means. I think I respect my body as much as a big company respects a college intern. The real reason I didn’t grab a fist-full of burgers everyday on my way home was because I wanted Fast Food to be special.
When I was growing up, Fast Food felt like the only thing in my world that made sense. Everything in small town Vermont looked like crappy shows like Little House on the Prairie while Fast Food places looked like cool shows like Miami Vice. Everything in a Fast Food place came in individual packets, was built to be climbed on and tasted like salt. My house was all about lentils in bulk, “careful, that’s an antique” furniture and food that I described as tasting like a wet pair of underwear.
Even though I loved Fast Food, I almost never got to eat it. Due to the ruralness of my town, the nearest fast food place was almost an hour away and my “You can eat bark and not die”-parents never liked feeding me something as kitschy as a Big Mac. Instead it was reserved as incentive to coax us onto the road at 5:00 a.m. or into a “surprise” that almost always turned out to be a trip to the dentist.
That’s why my head almost blew up when, in 8th grade, my family moved to a town that had every form of Fast Food known to man. Carl’s Jr., Jack in The Box, and Del Taco? We’d never heard of these places before!
The first day after we arrived in our new town, I grabbed my bike off the moving truck and headed towards downtown. The wonderful, world-is-at-your-fingertips freedom! It was almost too much to handle. You know what else was too much to handle? A frosty, a jr. cheeseburger deluxe and a large fries while I rode on my bike. As I was crossing the street of a hectic intersection, my bag ripped open and all my fries fell onto the pavement. I should have just accepted my losses and walked away, but my country boy attitude told me there were a few fries that were still good. I frantically picked up as many loose fries off the pavement as I could while cars honked and people yelled at me.
From then on, I forced my dad to drive me for Fast Food. And drive he did. He felt so guilty about uprooting my brother and me that he caved every time we started chanting “K-F-C!! K-F-C!!”
After a few months my brother and I created “The Perfect Meal,” and on Sunday nights we would make my dad drive from place to place picking up essential elements before The Simpsons came on. Here’s how the meal generally went:
- Whopper from Burger King
- Potato Wedges from KFC
- French Fries from Carl’s Jr.
- Chicken Nuggets from McDonalds
- Soda from Taco Bell (we were convinced they had the best dr. pepper)
My father finally put his foot down when we requested he stop at Wendy’s because they had the best plastic forks.
Through our Fast Food gluttony, we amassed a stockpile of condiments. My brother and I insisted we keep them until we could figure out what to do with 20 lbs of small ketchup packets. My parents, however, figured out a plan first. They handed each condiment packet out at Halloween instead of candy. What better way to say “Hi, we’re new here. Fuck you!” than shoving a handful of mustard packets into someone’s candy sack. I became “The kid who lives at that house that gave away mayo packets for Halloween” and then later “The kid who lives at that house that keeps getting egged.”
Hundreds of Whoppers later, I burned myself out on Fast Food. Now, I only reserve it for when I’m on the road. It gives me something to distract me from wondering “Will I get a speeding ticket” or “How much further!?” I can wonder if the Whopper has as many pickles on it as I remember or if they ever got rid of that stupid bun in the middle of a Big Mac. The beauty of Fast Food has always been the anticipation, the thought of something a little salty, a little greasy. It’s never been the “that feeling you might soil yourself means you’re full” taste.
