Heroin McDonalds

Sitting in the McDonalds on Utica Avenue and Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn. There was a bulge in the plastic behind me. A warped disfigurement that made my lower spine scream. I had been on my bicycle all day, contemplating turning the front wheel into traffic. I always imagined a heavenly hostess for my suicide “we will see you into traffic now” she would say.

I saw a heroin addict begging for a bit of a family’s meal there at the McDonalds. A nice black woman gave this young white man with bleeding face wounds the rest of her caramel milkshake. He had dirt under his fingernails and an expression fit for a child of drone warfare.

I remember the way he stumbled around as he swirled sugar packets into the light brown milkshake. He had stains from either mud or shit on the back of his dark blue Adidas sweat pants. I doubt it was mud.

I thought about being a lawyer once. I even prepared for the LSAT. Maybe he did too.

Now I just eat chicken nuggets at the ends of long shifts at the shoe store and watch these little vignettes play out before me.

I pretend to write in bars to catch the right woman’s attention. Someone who will take care of me. Someone to swirl my sugar.

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