Living the Sign

LIVING THE SIGN

There’s a little handmade cardboard sign hanging over the steaming chicken wings that reads: “LIFE IS WHAT’S HAPPENING TO YOU WHILE YOU’RE MAKING PLANS FOR SOMETHING ELSE.” The splattered sign twirls slowly under the rays of the orange warming lamps. Apocalypse background music moans from hidden speakers. There’s a skinny, anemic-looking kid lurking behind the counter with his cap pulled down tight and his fuzzy pink ears sticking out. Each ear is carrying more rings than a curtain rod and it looks like they’ve been inserted with a device for tagging cattle. His black cap says “WINGS” on the front; “WINGS” in white. The skinny kid is coping with the computer keyboard and the phone at the same time, pummeling those little clacking brown buttons and squishing the phone with his neck. Another phone right beside him rings for a takeout order and a young girl wearing the same kind of cap, ponytail flouncing out the back, leaps across the skinny kid, knocking the phone to the floor. “Shit!” she says, and scrambles for it; picks it up backwards and mashes it to her ear. It’s making a humming, disconnected sound. She slams it down. “Can I help you?” she says to me.

“Yes, I’d like the single order of ten wings, please.”

“What kinda sauce?”

“What do you have?” She gives me an exasperated look like she’s way too busy to be dealing with anyone who doesn’t know the procedure.

“It’s all right up there on the board in the little yellow square,” she says. “Regular. Medium Hot, and Hot Hot.”

“Hot Hot?” I say.

“That’s right. Double Hot.”

“I’ll take the Medium Hot.”

“Good,” she says, then scribbles the order and slaps it across to two more skinny guys in black caps and long black aprons tending the deep-fry baskets.

“Who wrote the sign?” I ask the girl.

“Excuse me?”

“Who wrote that sign right there, hanging over the chicken?”

“I have no idea,” she says, even more peeved that I’m demanding her attention beyond the call of duty.

“I’d like to meet him.”

“Who?” she says in disbelief.

“Whoever wrote the sign.”

“I don’t know who wrote the sign,” she whines.

“Does anybody here know?” Now she swings her mighty hips toward the two skinny fry-cooks, whipping her ponytail past my nose.

“Anybody know who wrote this sign? Guy here wants to know.”

“What?” the fry-cooks say, almost in unison, as they jiggle my wings in the sputtering oil and shake giant silver salt and pepper shakers over the whole mess.

“Who wrote the sign hanging here? This guy wants to know.”

“Not me,” says one of them, dumping my greasy wings in a white paper basket while the other guy pours a red gelatinous goo all over them. The girl whips back around to face me.

“What to drink?” she says.