The night held an evening chill as we scuttled out of the stadium. Hundreds of us had come for the local football game only to be disappointed by our team’s loss. We moved like tired wildebeest, shuffling to our cars as if the journey to our grazing land had depleted all of our energy.
“I’m hungry,” one of us said.
Suddenly, a small group was in agreement that burgers and fries would boost our morale. Suddenly, a nice burger would help us remember that food would always satisfy the highest of sport disappointments.
The search was simple. It took only one of us to mention a place in downtown. The rest of us shrugged, nodded our heads, and piled into our respective cars to meet at the suggested location. The place was close; the place was fast; and the food was greasy. We knew, through some atavistic instinct, that grease and fat would help to carry our disappointment away. They would certainly make it easier to swallow.
Now, the herd had grown since the last game it went to. There were several new beasts. And though these beasts agreed to the burger joint, the rest of the herd had yet to share its grazing habits openly with these newbies.
As we piled into the diner—five, small brass bells jingling to announce our entrance—we decided on several tables instead of one long one. A surly waitress took our orders and made a comment that everyone was “doing burgers.” Two of us old-timers sat with the three new beasts at the last table.
We peered at the rest of the herd as it was served, watching its members start to handle the wet and steamy patties; the white buns and melted cheddar; the salted fries and sliced pickles. Discussions became muffled as the enchantment of grease took hold.
When the plates were set on the last table, the two old stagers flinched to hear one of the new wildebeest ask the waitress, “May I have a fork, please.”
Lo and behold, before our very eyes this new wildebeest proceeded to eat his burger with a knife and fork. It was a curious concern amongst the herd. Bafflement ensued. Debate was launched. But it was a shrug, a grunt, and someone who said, “This is good stuff.” that made the herd remember even grease could quell a disturbance of tradition.
Copyright © Tyler Gant 2010 for Just Moving Along .com
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