Quarter Pounders and Historical Fiction
Yeah, I admit it. I like me the occasional quarter pounder with cheese, the #2 value meal to be exact. So I’ve been hitting up the same McD’s by my work for several years now, and there’s one drive-through worker who’s never copped a ‘tude or rolled one eyeball when I fumble for my credit card, ask for ketchup at the last minute, explain that I want my tea two parts unsweetened or, before I had my newer car, handed her cash through my slighty-ajar door due to a malfunctioning power window.
So a month or so ago, she hands me my Ticket-For-An-Early-Death meal and I hand her my my book (it’s called Escaping The Tiger, btw). She was like, “Dude, you gotta pony up the cash. I can’t trade you a burger for a book.” And I said, “No, it’s a gift. I wrote it.” And she flashed me her typical I’m-Gonna-Be-Happy-‘Cause-I-Choose-To-Be-Happy smile and I went on my way.
Today, she told me it was the only book she owned and she was reading it again. Then she used curse words to describe the horror of what my characters endured. Yeah, Wendy, it IS f’d up. Thanks for reading!
And Wendy went back to her duties at McD’s, smiling and being genuine with people who she barely crosses paths with each day, just like she always does with me, your regular everyday author and quarter pounder with cheese lover.