What is it that a drive-in burger place is trying to accomplish by existing between the standard restaurant form and the drive-thru? Is it so much more comfortable to eat in one’s car than it is to eat in the privacy of one’s home or in a restaurant, a venue designed for eating in? I doubt it, but then, I’m eating on the seat of my motorcycle and the weather has turned chilly again.
An early fall for this part of the country.
‘The drive-in, known only as ‘Eats,’ floats in the distant, unnamed suburbs of Bay Minette. It claims to be open 24 hours a day but this has not been true for some time and the high school age employees do not appreciate being quizzed about the discrepancy. They seem to appreciate very little.
‘Eats’ claims to have pioneered the toy-with-your-meal model of children’s fast food long before larger, more successful chains perfected the approach with the accidental (and nearly fatal) inclusion of three marbles in a child’s burger patty in 1975. An ill-received campaign following the incident featured children coughing up other small toys after taking a bite of their ‘Mini-Eat,’ much to their, and their parent’s, delight. Several branches were forced to close but the flagship store remains a cult favorite.
Because popular IP’s and reliable manufacturing services are beyond the scope of ‘Eats’ budget, their toys are designed and introduced solely based on the whims of the owner. Age has made him cynical and he makes the toys in kind.’
Leaves scrape across the ground and pile up underneath the motorcycle’s wheels. Brown and gold and red, like the colors of a midwestern high school.
Two places to my right is a group of black-teed teens, listening to an old punk song I think I remember and eating their burgers. Two places to the left is a family in an SUV. One of the children hangs out of the window, bored and hungry. The older brother laughs and tries to pull the runaway back in by its pants. The child kicks and laughs and eventually disappears back into the vehicle, leaving a trail of dust and saliva on the door.
Their father taps absentmindedly on the dash. I realize, after several minutes, that he is tapping in sync with the punk song. It doesn’t seem like he should be able to hear it from all that way over there. An unrelated mystery.
I turn my attention back to the teens when he catches my eye. With their windows closed, they might as well be in a different world. I find myself tapping as well, tapping and searching for a comfortable way to sit on my parked bike while I wait for my food.
The nucleus of ‘Eats’ is a roundish building with no windows and just two doors, only one of which ever seems to open. The name of the restaurant is spelled out in faded shingles across the roof- a large, practical font that could likely be read from the highway before the neighborhood grew too high around it. The color scheme is dated: brown, gold, and red like the leaves. ‘Eats’ is not a place that is trying to be retro; it is a building that never left the era that bore it.
When I ordered a children’s meal they asked me whether it was for a boy or a girl; a question that is, no doubt, destined for retirement soon. With little to sway me one way or the other, I went with my gut choice: girl. Why not?
There is a squeal from the SUV as a young man approaches with a heavy tray. It’s made to hang from the door but the woman in the passenger seats waves it away- wouldn’t want to scratch the paint. The food disappears inside before I get much of a look at it, but a few minutes later I catch glimpses of some sort of toy solider, puppeted about the window in the hand of the youngest.
My food arrives shortly. The waiter looks briefly between my bike and the tray.
“I don’t think it attaches to motorcycles,” he says.
“I didn’t expect it would.”
“You had one girl’s Mini-Eat?” he asks.
“That’s right.”
He hands me a bag and turns to go as I open it. Inside is a broken soldier.
“The toy…” I begin.
“It’s supposed to be like that,” he answers before I can finish, “It’s a wounded soldier.”
“This is the girl’s toy?”
The young man turns back to face me, clearly uncomfortable but practiced in this sort of situation.
“The boys get a whole soldier to encourage patriotism. The owner wants…” he sighs, “The owner wants young women to be prepared for taking care of them once they’re back.”
A greasy slip of paper in my hand suggests that the soldier’s stump leg can be dipped in ketchup for added effect. I fold it thoughtfully between my fingers.
“That’s fucked up,” I tell him, “On a lot of levels that’s some fucked up shit.”
“It’s a summer job.”
“It’s autumn,” I remind him.
“They asked me to stay on a couple weeks into school. Just on the weekend.”
“How do people react to these things?” I ask.
“The locals know what to expect. Strangers tend to get upset. I can take it back if you want.”
“No,” I tell him, dropping the toy back into the bag, “That’s all right. I had an inkling of what to expect.”
“Is the food for you?” he asks.
“Yeah.”
“Do you want more fries or something?”
“Do I look hungry?”
“No,” he says, “It’s just that we pack smaller portions in the girl’s meals. The owner says American women are getting too fat.”
“And he wants them to learn young…”
“Most people think he’s just an asshole.”
“He does sound like an asshole,” I sigh, “What’s the chances of me getting an interview with the man?”
-traveler
