I was at the McDonald’s in Detroit airport; I had a quick connection and was starving, and a fast burger seemed the best possible use of my time. The guy in front of me was starving too; I knew this because he kept muttering, “I’m fuckin’ starvin’.”
If it is true that the number of an individual’s tattoos is in inverse proportion to their IQ, this guy had the mental capacity of kelp. I surreptitiously studied his body art, fascinated by the editorial content: “Give me liberty or give me meth,” said one, while another boldly declared, “Live free or dye.” Another, with a poorly drawn snake said, “Don’t tred on me.” I thought his patriotism admirable and I was comforted by the knowledge that although he could not spell a monosyllable, this patriot was doing his part, however small, to keep the Republic secure.
When it was his turn to order he told the clerk, “I’m fuckin’ starvin’. Gimme a Quarter Pounder.”
Since the manager was standing nearby, the clerk decided to put her training to work and try to upsell the customer. “If you’re really hungry,” she said, picking listlessly at a pimple on her chin, “why not get one of our third pound burgers?”
The tattoo guy did not bite. “I told you I was fuckin’ starvin’,” he said, “ so gimme the Quarter Pounder.”
The cashier shrugged but now the manager stepped in. “You do know that a Third Pound burger is bigger than a Quarter Pounder?” said the manager.
The tattoo guy was having none of this. “Well, last time I looked, ‘four’ was bigger than ‘three’,” he said acutely, “so a quarter pound burger must be bigger than a third pound burger.” He nodded smugly, the manager fled and the cashier sold him his Quarter Pounder. “Fuckin’ idiots,” he muttered as he left the counter.
Enthralled by my lesson in remedial math, I ordered my lunch and was reminded of the time that I was placing a dinner order in the drive-through and ordered a whole chicken meal. “I’m sorry,” said a Voice. “We are out of whole chickens. How about a half-chicken meal?”
The whole chicken meal was cheaper with better side dishes, but this seemed like an easy fix. “Well, just give me two half chickens,” I said.
“Huh?” said the Voice.
I went into my”reasonable” mode: “Two half chickens make one whole chicken.” I laughed casually. “But you already know that.”
There was an appalled silence. “Nice try,” said the Voice. I tried to explain again but got nowhere so I asked for the manager. “I am the manager,” said the Voice. When I got to the pick-up window I was not surprised to see that the Voice had tattoos everywhere.
Now, as I finished my sandwich and got ready to catch my flight I was tempted to believe that the world of fast food was populated by people on both sides of the counter with many tattoos whose arithmetic skills were lacking, but then I remembered a woman I met at a recent conference.
The woman was a school teacher in West Texas; she was well-dressed, and there was not a tattoo in sight. I learned that she was a middle school math teacher with a Master’s Degree in Education. As we were commiserating about the excessive heat this summer, she went off on a mini-rant about global warming and told me it was Obama’s fault.
“Obama could end this heat wave right now,” she told me decisively, “by abolishing daylight savings time.” I looked at her without comprehension. “You know how much heat that extra hour of daylight produces every day?” she asked me condescendingly. “We need to go back to a 24-hour day,” she said, as though dispensing with a petty domestic problem. “It’s the patriotic thing to do.”
Nodding wildly, I made up an excuse and fled, secure in the knowledge that with teachers like her our Republic was secure.