The ROMEO Club

Dad and I ritually eat breakfast between eight and eight-thirty at the local McDonald’s. I’ve never been a huge fan of McDonald’s (especially their bland breakfast offerings), but if I’m not awake, dressed and coherent by the requisite time Dad comes over and honks his horn outside of my bedroom window until I am. I believe this serves as punishment for sins against humanity in a previous life; Dad believes this serves as entertainment. Dad’s dog, Odie, goes with us every morning and is given his very own breakfast burrito, a practice I find detrimental to the dog’s manners and well-being. Odie disagrees.

The predominantly Chow-mixed mutt has gotten into the obnoxious habit of barking incessantly the entire way to Mickey-D’s and back, announcing to the world his incredible fortune in having such well-trained humans. In response to this racket, Dad has taken to slamming on the brakes every time the dog barks, propelling Odie forward across the truck bed and into the back window. As a result, the drive to McDonalds has quickly become the most exciting part of my day.

“I need you to get that financial statement printed up today, Sis.”

I brace my knee against the dash as he slams on the brakes, watching the Lincoln behind us swerve in the side-view mirror. “Yeah, I know, Dad. I’ve just been really busy. I’ve still got-“

“Oh, and see if you can’t do something with that order form Ron’s little girl sent over,” he cuts in. “I told them I’d have my secretary get right on it,” he adds with a good-natured wink and another gut-wrenching, tire-squealing attack on the brakes.

His recent habit of constantly referring to me as his secretary has started to get on my nerves. The first month I was here I had taken it upon myself to do everything for Dad: his grocery shopping, taking care of the bills and mail, hacking through all the red tape associated with settling mom’s death and assets and compiling a more accessible filing system for Dad’s records. I felt that because of the insurmountable grief he must be enduring that I should handle all the stressful things, so that he could go out to his shop and distract himself with his projects and toys. Because of this he assumes that I am more than willing to continue handling all the minutiae of his daily life and routinely provides me with a list of things that he could easily be taking care of himself. Even worse, he has begun to sign me up for menial jobs as favors to my grandparents and his friends. I’m suddenly much more sympathetic and aware of all the complaints my mom used to make about having to handle everyone else’s problems.

The problem is that I’m trying to take care of all the rest of mom’s collected things before I leave in December, which has basically turned into a full-fledged, full-time eBay business. This endeavor has left me with little time (and little inclination) to fill out Dad’s magazine subscriptions, do his laundry or mail his bills, jobs I’m certain he should be doing for himself. However, anytime I try to relay any of this to Dad he gets this hurt look on his face, or tells me how I’m “just so much better” at that kind of thing, but that he’ll bravely “try to muddle through.” Behind me Odie yelps as he hits the back window before resuming his high-pitched yipping at a passing jogger.

Mostly due to a lack of traffic this early in the morning we miraculously make it all the way across town to arrive at McDonald’s without having been rear-ended. The Cushing McDonald’s is unlike any other McDonald’s I’ve ever been to. It’s owned by a local elderly lady and her eldest son, and it’s always the same familiar, cheery faces that greet us every morning. They know our order by heart and have most of it assembled and rung up by the time we get from the door to the cash register. The weirdest part of it though, is how freaking friendly everyone is, how happy they seem to be working at Mickey-D’s at six o’clock in the fucking morning. Having never, ever been to a McDonald’s where the employees seemed both thrilled to serve you and thrilled to have jobs as cogs in the wheels of corporate America, I always get the sense I’ve entered the Twilight Zone when we pick up our food.

Usually it’s just me and Dad, but I’m spared from the conversation today as Tubby, one of Dad’s role models, happens to be joining us for breakfast. Whereas Dad has only maybe five or six acres of broken-down stuff, Tubby must have close to fifty. He is the archetypal horse-trader, making his living going amongst his followers, trading this or that for the other thing. Dad recently traded something from his unfinished project pile to Tubby for his favorite new acquisition: a bizarre little motor home, with an outer shell reminiscent of a ‘50’s style space ship and an interior upholstered in resplendent red velvet and faded pink lace. Dad refers to it as his “former-cat-house-on-wheels,” and has proudly taken pictures of this cultural oddity with his mobile phone so he can show it off to his friends at truck and tractor shows. He’s also using the poor little thing as an excuse to buy cheap used pick-up trucks, in case one of them actually comes with a title and can be used to carry the motor home into the great blue yonder of future traveling adventures.

Tubby is wearing the same ensemble he was dressed in the last time I saw him: grimy denim overalls, a frayed flannel shirt and an old, abused trucker’s cap. He sits down and happily engages my father in a discussion of transmissions in sixties-era Fords. Since he’s married, I hadn’t taken Tubby as a member of the ROMEO Club, and so I must assume that he only eats breakfast at McDonald’s on special occasions. The ROMEO Club became an inside joke between my father and I after he pointed it out as one of the social oddities of the local McDonalds. Apparently, the small town hot-spot serves as the usual breakfasting choice for most of the town’s older bachelors and widowers, giving rise to the acronym for Really Old Men Eating Out. On any given morning you can find a number of elderly gentlemen sitting alone in their plastic booths, eating their McMuffins, wiping their beards, reading their newspapers and downing the acidic witch’s brew that McDonald’s brazenly advertises as coffee. A few of the local, single lady seniors have caught on to this trend and forgo their own home-cooking in case a romantic opportunity presents itself over the potato cakes and pre-manufactured flapjacks. Ah yes, breakfast at the Cushing McDonald’s is rife with sexual tension and unrequited love simmering beneath a flimsy senior citizen disguise.

“At least the durn music’s not so loud today,” Tubby observes after the transmission discussion has been exhausted. “Usually they’ve got the music blaring out of the speakers so loud, why, you can’t even hear yourself talk! One time when I was here, and they had that music blaring, why I said sumthin’. I walked right up to one of them kids and I said ‘You think you could turn that blasted music down, as I’m trying to have myself a conversation?’ and do you know that kid got fresh with me?” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Yessiree, she got fresh with me. Said how she didn’t have to turn it down. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I don’t have to eat here!’ and I turned around and I left!” His nose it stuck up in the air and he wears the barely-controlled-indignant-fury look of the righteously vindicated. I wonder to myself if he really thinks his bold act of capitalist choice really meant a damn thing to the “kid” or to the behemoth corporation by which she’s employed; somehow, I doubt it.

“Kids today!” A woman at the table behind us interjects. “They ain’t got no respect for nobody! Running around with their spiky hair and their rude t-shirts. All of ‘em need a good beatin’, that’s what!” she adds, slapping an open hand on the table for emphasis. My father and Tubby nod sagely at this opinion. While most small towns carry several brands of social stratification, age is one of the truest. If you are anywhere under the age of 42 you are still resigned to the children’s table, expected to address all your elders with ma’am and sir, and are obligated to listen attentively and respectfully to any stories they think you need to hear or advice you need to be given (no matter how many times you may have heard said stories or advice before). Such social expectations are ignored at your own peril, as most of the elder citizenry seems to believe that good beatings are the best remedy for such misguided behavior, and most of them carry wooden canes.

After breakfast we head across the street to Tubby’s place so Dad can pick up a tractor wheel he’d bought from Tubby last week. Tubby’s lot is covered by row after row of old, neglected equipment and rusted used vehicles, each waiting for some person with skill and vision to come along and pick them out of the sad pile to be put to good use again. As he rummages through piles of miscellaneous car parts looking for Dad’s wheel, Tubby tells us he’s planning on selling out his property in Cushing so he can retire outside of town limits. Apparently, he’s taken offense to new city regulations that have declared the display of his trade wares on the front lawn as a blight on the cosmetic face of the community.

“It’s a whole bunch of new people, younger people… that’s what. New people comin’ in with their fancy ways and city-fied ideas on how to do things. I’ve lived out here for over sixty years, been a pillar of the community, a member of the chamber of commerce! What do they know about this damn town? And here they are, just comin’ in to change things so they can stand up later and say they changed sumthin’. Boy I tell you, it sure ain’t like it used to be.”

“Boy, ain’t that the truth,” Dad agrees solemnly. They stare at the tires of Dad’s truck for a few moments in quiet contemplation of days and ways gone by. Finally Dad breaks the silence by changing the subject to one of his current favorite topics. “Hey Tubby, you see this little pick-up I got down in Agra a couple of weeks ago? I only paid two-fifty for it! Runs like a dream!” Dad says proudly, beaming at the truck with a wide-legged stance, arms crossed over his chest in the eternal pose of Man Admiring Machine.

“Well!” says Tubby loudly as he assumes the same stance in an enduring symbol of commaderie and brotherhood. “Can’t beat that can you?”