Burger.
When I get to Latrobe Street I'm
all danced out and I remember another important ritual that I need
to partake in today. The hangover ritual. Whenever I get shitfaced
and I'm in the city the next day, even though I know it's ideologically
unsound and nutritionally questionable, only one thing can makes
me feel better. A crappy burger from a shitful American burger joint.
There was a time when I felt embarrassed and tried to pretend that
it was just a phase I was going through, and eventually I'd come
to my senses and quit, but these days I accept it as one of the
dark aspects of my personality. I know that it's wrong to consume
the evil pseudo-food that is foisted upon us by the rainforest-depleting
ozone-destroying, greenhouse-promoting, cow-slaughering, employee-exploiting
hamburger franchises, but when there's this many man-made toxins
swimming around in my bloodstream there's only one thing that can
help, and that's the burger that satan made.
I don't pretend to fully understand this unnatural craving that
I get. Maybe it's because the alcohol impairs my judgement and allows
me to buy into the pathetic rationalisations I offer myself as I
stand at the counter and immerse myself in the pinnacle of globalisation:
just one burger isn't going to hurt anyone; if I didn't buy this
burger someone else would... Maybe I really don't care about making
the world a better place, and my hungover behaviour is a glimpse
of the true me - selfish, ignorant and hungry. Or maybe it's just
that I need greasy, salty, crappy fried food to absorb the remaining
booze in my system before I go home and pass out due to a combination
of physical exhaustion and spiritual euphoria. Whatever it is, when
I hit Latrobe I find myself turning left and making a beeline for
the burger joint opposite RMIT. The mental arm-wrestling continues
in my head, but my body knows what it wants and this afternoon it's
calling the shots.
I stand in front of the counter, staring vacantly in the general
direction of the menu board. This is definitely the last time I
do this. There are so many more foods that could help a hangover.
A young girl steps in front of me and asks me how she can help me.
Instead of answering her question honestly, I opt instead to initiate
a simple customer service interaction.
"Um, can I have a whopper with cheese and a large onion rings,
please?"
The girl behind the counter punches a few buttons.I hand over the
money. She turns around and grabs a burger from the rack and tosses
it in a paper bag. Everyone behind the counter is so unhappy. I'm
contributing to their unhappiness by even being here. The decor
is so dehumanising. I look down at the computer screen of the register
in front of me and notice a line of text flashing at the bottom.
It's upside-down from here, but the block letters are easy enough
to read.
"RMIT IS THE BEST!!!"
I look around at the five young girls standing behind the counter,
taking money and handing over burgers. I wonder which of their managers
decided to include that motivational prompt as part of the registers'
programming. I wonder if it helps in any way - does it instil a
sense of personal pride and competititveness in these teenagers
to know that they're working at the best burger joint in Melbourne?
I like the three exclamation marks. To me that says that whoever
wrote that is a firm believer in the truth of that statement. In
his or her mind, ther is no doubt that RMIT is indeed the best.
Exclamation mark, exclamation mark, exclamation mark.
"There's a two-minute wait on the onion rings, is that okay?"
"Yeah, that's fine." I step to one side and watch all
the people unthinkingly grazing on their burgers. How much rubbish
is produced by their meals? How many cows died for this? How many
rainforests got cut down to provide them with lunch? People can
be so selfish sometimes. Ask them to sacrifice even the smallest
part of their regular, comfortable lives and they'll look at you
blankly before turning back to A Current Affair and avoiding the
question. It's a balanced combination of arrogance and apathy that
all human beings seem infinitely capable of exhibiting.
"Here you go, sir. Sorry about the wait."
I take the brown paper bag and leave the restaurant. I eat the
burger on the tram on the way home, feeling the salt and the oil
being taken up by my weary system. The toxins leach into my bloodstream
and face off against the alcohol that's already there. By the
time the tram pulls up at my stop it's a clear win for the poisonous
burger and onion rings. I feel much better. Before it left, however,
I thought I heard the alcohol chuckle to itself and mutter something
about a next time. I sigh as I step onto the footpath. The alcohol
was right - there will indeed be a next time, I can't argue with
that. But I can't be bothered thinking about it either. All I
need right now is a shitload of water, two painkillers and five
hours more sleep. And maybe a shower. Emma was right. I do smell
like a goat.
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