I wish I had that burger.
I wish he would lift his eyes from that beautifully-crafted, gluten-encased slab of protein and carbs and dairy and fat and spices…who cares about the lettuce? I wish he would lift his eyes from that burger, meet mine, and that somehow, through some miraculous/ telepathic/ cosmological process using more than the standard 10% brain capacity, he would just know what I was thinking. Then, he would lift the corners of his mouth, tilt his head a little to the right, tip the top of his burger forward slightly, and raise his silver eyebrows just high enough so that I would know I’ve been invited to his booth.
Can you tell I’m tired of eating cheap pasta and powdered cheese?
Then somehow, through the same miraculous/ telepathic/ cosmological process using more than the standard 10% brain capacity, he would ask me: Would you like some—no—would you like half—no, even better—would you like this burger?
I would get up and take a slow victory walk to his booth, like the kind you do on your way out of a really good interview. Then I would take the burger from his hands, share a smile of appreciation, turn around, and walk back to my table a little more hurriedly, but still victorious.
I would sit back down with my elbows resting on the table, some of the burger sauce sliding onto my palms. Bringing the burger toward my mouth, I would take the first bite.
Sometime in the midst of this burger haze of chewing, savouring, and digesting, I witness the waiter place a second plate with a new burger in front of the patiently-clasped hands of Mr. Generous with a new side of fries. As he puts a fresh napkin on his lap, our eyes meet again.
My imaginary burger now finished, the fantasy begins to dissipate. Mr. Has-No-Idea, clueless to my vivid daydream, is in the same booth, eating the same burger with intermittent bites of his only round of fries.
The reality is that I am still here, never having gotten up from my table. My burger-less face reflects on my laptop’s black screen that used to show my reading on the Quebec Secession Reference. A cup of the diner’s bottomless coffee rests beside my computer. I mean, why else would I be here other than for unlimited coffee refills? I have no choice but to decide between what is necessary for my life, like water, caffeine and technology, and luxuries, like big, juicy, diner burgers. Don’t get me wrong, of course I eat. I just have to settle for your average, quick, cheap, not-sure-if-I’m-getting-all-my-nutrients, no-tip-necessary, at-home meals.
Is it even possible to eat properly, pay tuition, pay rent, do every reading, and do it all without sacrificing grades or sanity? Probably not, considering I’m not Bill Gates or someone exceptionally brilliant like that.
I could get myself one of those. A burger. Pay it off later. Three years later to be specific. The bank doesn’t loan us law students enough for these luxuries. Funny enough, I didn’t consider this a luxury during my undergrad. OSAP was not in the business of ‘spoiling’ undergraduates, but tuition was around a third of what I pay now. I follow a strict budget these days. At least, I’m trying to follow this unrealistic budget balancing borrowed money.
Is it rude if I ask for his leftovers or half of his burger?
I think I’m better off hoping he doesn’t finish his meal, and then swiping the plate from the table.
He’s been staring off to the side for a while now. This is beyond an acceptable amount of time for a break while eating. He must be full, even though it looks like he only had a few bites since I’ve fantasized about acquiring that burger, eating it whole, and analyzing my finan—wait. His head is tipping. Slowly, yet fast enough that it’s actually happening. In real life. As in, this is not part of my burger fantasy.
What the fuck?
His head, more specifically the top half of his head, pushes his plate away from him, making the cheap ceramic rattle against the table and move a little closer in my direction. The sound of the dinnerware makes the nearby waiter and a few patrons turn their heads toward him. His head is resting on the table now. No more movement.
Is this really happening?
The waiter approaches the man, steady and slow. His arm is slightly extended, ready to make contact with the facedown man.
Is he seriously trying not to startle a man who’s clearly passed out?
He shakes his shoulder. “ Sir?” Again. “Sir?” Again. “Are you alright?”
Clearly he’s not alright.
“Oh my God,” mutters the waiter.
Yes, holy shit. What the fuck is happening? He was just having a burger.
“Call 9-1-1!” the waiter yells in the direction of the bar, where another employee, maybe the manager, stands watching the interaction with his mouth open slightly. He turns swiftly without a word into the entryway leading to the kitchen.
There’s a dome of emptiness surrounding the waiter and the booth containing the passed-out man and the barely-touched burger. And of course, if I’m being honest with myself, deep down I am still thinking about eating that burger.
“I used to be a Skate Patrol!” I yell as if saying it aloud will bring me closer to being qualified to help this man. My body also does this weird thing where it freezes, probably trying to tell me that now is not the moment to be a hero. I agree. I don’t understand what compelled me to speak up since I don’t know anything. I’m a first-year law student. In my first semester. Let that sink in.
The waiter’s wide eyes turn toward me. “Okay, can you help him?”
I’m sure the waiter believes my eyes look terrified for the man, and not because I chose to involve myself.
I walk up to them, gently lift the man’s head from the table, and, while holding the back of his head, tilt his body back so he’s lying on the booth’s bench. I check his pulse by pressing two fingers against his neck artery. Nothing. I repeat the same thing on his wrist. Nothing. I lightly pull his mouth open and hold my ear against the opening. Nothing. No pulse. No breathing. No signs of choking.
I see blue and red lights flash through the diner’s windows, and thank God for that. My training doesn’t go beyond standard first aid and introductory-level tort negligence. What was I thinking volunteering like I’m the protagonist of some action movie when really I might just be volunteering as a tortfeasor? (Note to self: Ask about this hypothetical during class).
I look through the window adjacent to his booth and watch the EMTs as they walk out of the ambulance, about to roll a gurney through the main entrance of the diner. I feel the breath I’d been holding release from my chest. I sigh with relief.
I back up from the booth with my hands in the air as if I had been caught committing a crime. Maybe I was. My stomach grumbles. I still want that burger. It’s probably potential evidence that can’t be tampered with, right? I’m not even sure what that means—I’m a 1L.