Holy
crap in a Bundt pan...
Due to the
recent well-publicized shortage of
amateur websites produced by assholes who consider themselves to be
clever, I
have been called into action. My name is Jeff Kay, and I’m an
Ugly American living
on the cusp of a mid-life crisis, near Scranton, PA. And I’m here to
serve, baby.
The
State of My Fat Ass A journal of
sorts, updated every once in a while.
--
Yesterday I was walking to the cafeteria at work, and it occurred to me:
there are few things more pleasurable than the workday lunch break. Ya
know? Lunch, in general, is a pretty kick-ass meal, what with its close
relationship to the sandwich and the mountain of fries and whatnot, but
when it comes right in the middle of something like a job...
well, it can often rise to the level of magic. It's the eye of the
shitstorm.
And I thought I'd take this opportunity to pay tribute to the Workday
Lunch Break, something that I don't believe gets its due respect. What
follows are brief descriptions of the places that have brought me so
much lunchy pleasure throughout the years. ....Hello?
My first "real" job was in Greensboro, NC. At least that's the
way I looked at it.... It was at a record store called Peaches, and I
have a feeling that some of the other employees there didn't view the
gig as "real" at all. In any case, I remember two regular
lunch spots from the Peaches era.
Near the store was a small out-of-the-way diner type of joint, called
the Greenhouse Restaurant. I'd go there and order a club sandwich and
sweet tea, and the elderly waitress would call me honey and sweety and
that type of thing. She was an old lady, painfully thin and looking like
a marionette on strings. She had a terrifying smoker's hack, and would
leave the pitcher right at my table. So, running out of tea, one of my
major pet peeves, was never an issue. I'd just top my shit off, at will.
I don't believe too many other Peaches People went there, but I always
liked it.
When payday was still a ways off, and I couldn't afford the extravagance
of a club sandwich and bottomless beverage, I'd hoof it up the parking
lot to Sally's Hot Dogs. It always smelled powerfully of onions and
grease, and by the time your order was ready, you smelled that way too.
I knew a guy who had a friend that worked there, and the funk reportedly
seeped into his skin and not even a series of showers would wash
it away. He'd supposedly be out watching a band at a club somewhere, and
when the temperature rose to a certain level he'd start stinking like a
human onion ring dipped in Calvin Klein cologne. Blecch. But Sally's
served up some good dogs for cheap, and that's a combination you can't
argue with; I tithed ten percent of my weekly pay to them, I believe. Is
it still there?
In Atlanta I worked in an industrial part
of town, and it was a road trip to the food. About five miles from the
office was a stretch of highway with every fast food joint known to man
sitting shoulder to shoulder. So I logged many an hour inside the Taco
Bell and, for some reason, Subway. There was also a Hardee's (a filthy
dump with bullet holes in the windows), an Arby's (with a musky
grandmother's-house funk inside), a McDonald's (that I can't remember
ever visiting), a Shoney's (tip required, so fuck dat), a free-standing
Chick-fil-A (really good, but shockingly expensive), and lots of others.
But it was Taco Bell and Subway that got away with most of my meal money.
When a group of us would go to lunch, we'd usually end up at Wallace
Barbecue, in Austell. Man, I hesitate to even think about that place,
because it makes me too sad. It's quite simply one of the best places on
Earth. I can taste it right now, yet I can't. Know what I mean? Shit!
When I get to work I might check Travelocity and see how much a plane
ticket to Atlanta would cost. I need me some Wallace, urgently.
Sometimes we'd also go to a place called the Beautiful Restaurant. It
was located in the heart of an all-black neighborhood, and served up
some serious kick-ass "soul food." Pork chops, black eyed
peas, collard greens, the world's best banana pudding.... Awesome food,
but some of the other patrons didn't seem too thrilled with this herd of
whities invading their space. There was always just a hint of
cultural discomfort at the Beautiful, but it was impossible to resist
their chops and greens. If you were careful not to make eye contact, I
learned, everything would be fine.
Directly across from the office was a tiny sandwich shop that served up
lame-ass sandwiches on white bread, and I only visited it in the most
extreme emergencies. Many of my co-workers ate there daily, however,
because it was convenient. Technically, a person could walk there, and
many people did. But not me. Hell no. There was a four-lane, high
traffic road between us and the picnic sandwiches, and they sure as shit
weren't worth dying for. I saw a guy almost get clipped by an 18-wheeler
trying to cross that road once, and he probably would've been sucked
into the wheel-well and ended up in north Florida as a clump of blood,
hair, and denim.
One day a true-blue doucheketeer drove over there for lunch, then got
confused and walked back to the office. At the end of the day he
went out to the parking lot, and his car wasn't there. He started
freaking out and called the cops, convinced that somebody'd jacked his
Nova or whatever. Needless to say, he endured much mockery, once the
police found his car parked across the street at the sandwich shop
where he'd had lunch. And it lasted for about a year, until the very
same guy was caught masturbating in the men's room, and the car incident
was pushed off the radar. Heh.
And later today (or tomorrow) I'll post my lunch memories from the California
years, as well as the current Scranton era. If you'd like to join in on this exciting celebration of work lunches, feel free.
--
Yesterday I was walking to the cafeteria at work, and it occurred to me:
there are few things more pleasurable than the workday lunch break. Ya
know? Lunch, in general, is a pretty kick-ass meal, what with its close
relationship to the sandwich and the mountain of fries and whatnot, but
when it comes right in the middle of something like a job...
well, it can often rise to the level of magic. It's the eye of the
shitstorm.