folder zero

on earth, there was something called mcdonald’s, and you couldn’t stop fucking eating it. you could get a big mac which was like their specialty. they would get you with coupons. they were always offering you free things. free fry friday. you could get all the sauces you wanted, in the exact number you asked for. other places like taco bell would disappoint you in terms of sauce. you would say can i get extra fire sauce and they would hand you 1. it made you want to bomb the building.

at mcdonald’s, they didn’t serve you pepsi. you never had to worry that you would be met with a furrowed and visor-dented brow asking is diet pepsi ok it was not. diet pepsi would never be okay. and at mcdonald’s, you could have diet coke. you could have sprite when you’re sick or sad, and it was crunchy. it made your veins cold and it cured most all man-made disease and temporarily relieved spiritual derangement for 3-6 hours. it did nothing in the way of intellectual disability. nevertheless, it was a spirited juice.

the snack wraps looked underwhelming but were actually better than some of the michelin fish you had cut into when you were alive. the guys at the office would do lunch at the japanese steakhouse or mattland’s, a place the new york times called

a great little place to wear a suit at noon, and everyone is named matt. very cool!

$98 dollars a plate, the servers all turn around when you call them by name, and you hated wearing a suit.

oysters on the half shell $98

foie gras $98
lobster thermidor $98
wagyu $98
bluefin $98
pond urchin $98

cocaine $98

“sharon has us eating this carnivore diet. she says it’s going to help us have another baby, or something.”

“she’s 50, isn’t she?”

“who knows. i’m thinking i’ll go with the wagyu—gentlemen?”

you thought of the dollar value menu. there was so much to choose from. there were secret things you could order, like you could add an egg on your burger. but could you add it to chicken? probably. last time you were there, the lettuce tasted so good and cold, rubbing up against the mayonnaise. it was not wet. this was lettuce you could trust around bread. you wanted to add pickles, but you couldn’t figure out how to add pickles on the app. you had 8000 points at time of death.

“no wine, david?”

“i’d better not,” you said. “i’m saving room for cocaine.”

your colleagues laughed. this was not a joke. anyway, how did they get that lettuce so cold? the thought was consumptive.

“i think i’d like a nice red—mark? what do we think? the château lafite rothschild…or perhaps we should do a scotch. where is our matt?”

“matt?”

they all turned around.

“no, this one, you, come here…”

matt stood at the edge of the table, a poised professional.

“yes, we would like a bottle of whatever scotch you have on hand, whatever the cost. and your lafite, matt.”

“wonderful. i will bring you our $98 scotch. it’s from scotchland.”

“thank you matt.”

“matt will be over to pour it for you personally. mr. greathouse is our most esteemed diner.”

you were mr. greathouse.

“did he say scotch-land?”

“mark, they can hear you.”

“do they have better hearing or something?”

“like a dog.”

you usually didn’t deviate from your order, but you recently tried the mcrib, and wow. it was wonderful. you remember that day fondly. rachel was making her moon milk in the kitchen before bed

milk
ashwagandha
ground cinnamon
nutmeg
cardamom
vanilla extract
honey
tumeric
too much fucking time

barefoot and stirring it with a cinnamon clove. she wasn’t wearing pants, and you came up behind her and tucked her hair behind her ear. you said quietly, “i’m going for a drive.” she knew that you got all your best ideas when you were driving, so she nodded and her dimples winked against your temple. perhaps you were going to create something big again, something to duplicate her summer homes or bid on a christopher wool for her podcasting room. yeah, it’s just fucking scribbles, but she’s your wife. anyway, you weren’t going to do any of that. you just wanted to try the mcrib for the very first time. and god, was it good.