Back when I was living in Big Bear, I used to walk to the Carl’s Jr. next door for lunch. My standard meal was a Santa Fe chicken sandwich and criss-cut fries, which, back then, would come out to $6.66, tax included. There was one guy at the counter, a skinny dude with a beard and a hollowed-out look that said, I have seen my whole life spread before me, and it will be nothing but selling fast food to an endless stream of fat bastards like this one, and the only things I can turn to for comfort are alcohol or Jesus. It was the same look I’d seen on people who’d partied hard until they had a moment of clarity on the vomit-streaked bathroom tiles of the men’s room at Senor Frog’s. It was a look that said, I live in fear of superstitious bullshit.
And he would never repeat my total to me. He would look at the cash register tape, flap his mouth like a landed sturgeon, and not make eye contact as I forked over my money. Remember, I worked at Carl’s before college, and this kind of behavior would’ve gotten me the business. But I took pity on the poor sod and never smirked or gave him any crap. Life had already murdered his soul, and the last thing he needed was a kick in the ribs from my catsup-stained shoes.
I’m only bringing this up because it’s 6/6/06 and everyone’s all a-tizzy. The only people who should be worried are the idiots who greenlit the remake of The Omen, because they’re going to get creamed once Cars comes out.