little chicken jesus
stine in--
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The hashbrowns are especially greasy tonight. Glistening in pink beneath the neon OPE sign above her table, they waft an aromatic steam cloud that clings to Mitzi's face. She's been stranded in Fields for three days now, and while the burgers are palatable when washed down
with a shake, the hashbrowns still don't charm her. The folks at the counter said the deep fryer was gonna be fixed yesterday, but the guy from Burns never came. At this point, if she had the wheels to get there, she'd go buy the parts herself-- but then again, if she had wheels, she sure as hell wouldn't be sitting in a truckstop in Fields.
She pulls out her three castles and rolls a cigarette. The waitress has finally stopped scrutinizing her like she must be a drug trafficker and now drops off an ashtray when she needs one. Mitzi takes a deep drag and ponders the cultural advantages of a place where you can still smoke and eat at the same time. SHe asks the waitress-- what's her name--
Evelyn? for a side of yogurt and some iceburg lettuce.
She works calmly at first, a chunk of lettuce, a bit of hashbrowns, a thin coating of yogurt-- but soon her hands are moving rapidly and she needs more side orders-- some raisins, a carrot, medium rare ground beef. Evelyn never questions her, happy for the business.
An hour later she requests a single chicken strip, trims it slightly with her fork, and dresses it in the swaddling clothes of yet another napkin. Christ is in the creche, and the nativity, crafted entirely of edibles, foodservice paperproducts and the holy spirit that has taken over Mitzi's body, is complete. She leans back in her chair and gazes out into the night.
On the early evening horizon she sees one headlight lurching forward, curiously.
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