The State of Our Economy

Finding problems with our country and myself at the McDonald’s self-checkout

The state of our economy is untenable. How do I know? Well, just this morning, I spent $10.27 on breakfast at McDonald’s. Now, I’m no economist, but if that price tag isn’t a recession indicator, Bob’s not your uncle. Rest assured, I’m currently looking into who exactly I should report this pressing fiscal discovery to, but to make matters worse, I had an even more concerning experience this morning: I spent one hour inside of my own head. And, dear reader, it wasn’t looking so good in there, either.

I left my house at about 9am this morning, and headed to the nearest coffee shop in search of a cup of sludge. When I arrived, I noticed an available metered parking spot right outside of McDonald’s, just a few yards away from my destination. Nice. Like most people, I do not like to look for parking. I also do not like to pay for parking meters. At great risk to my reputation, I’m even willing to share here that I don’t think that you should have to pay to park, anywhere. I also think that parking tickets should be illegal (I’ve gotten three in the past month outside of my new house — this whole alternate side parking thing seems expertly designed to punish people like myself, who try not to think about which day of the week it is at any given time). Solid as I am in these convictions, when it comes to monetary penalty, I am a fearful man. And so, I always pay my parking meter. This morning, however, I made a different choice. I parked, hovered over the meter, and then I walked away. “It will only be a moment,” I thought to myself. Then, a pause, a twinge of fear, another moment of confidence, and I was on my way — a bad boy headed to his first coffee of the day.

I was walking towards the coffee shop, still preoccupied with my recent meter decision, when I noticed McDonalds. I’d passed this McDonald’s dozens of times in the past months, but I never really took a moment to see it. Well, there it was. It was a McDonald’s, alright. Why hadn’t I given it my attention before? I guess in a world full of indulgent food, some part of me has blocked out McDonald’s as an option for eating, thinking it trashy or that the food sourcing was freaky or that maybe it didn’t even taste good. But deep down, I do have, as I imagine many people do, a fondness for McDonald’s. I grew up on it — in a family run by a busy single mom, it was a frequent choice for breakfast, and always felt like a treat. Years later, in my Sophomore year of college, the room I lived in (in a massive, dilapidated non-cooperative hippy co-op in Santa Cruz), was about 20 feet from a McDonald’s, right across the street; I’d wake to the smell of hash brown grease floating through my bedroom window. Many squeezed-out mornings, I’d waddle over in my PJ’s and order breakfast and a large coffee with three milks and three sugars. I’d happily gobble it down on one of our many mildewed, outdoor couches, likely stoned in the sunshine. It was, or at least it seems now, a simpler time.

Only God knows what calculations went through my mind in that moment, but as I continued walking the few steps to the coffee shop, I’d pulled up an internet browser on my phone and typed in “McDonald’s Calories” (though, I have a small phone and keyboard, so it was likely closer to “mcdosnals caloria”). By the time the results had loaded, I was already at my destination. Inside the coffee shop, I stood in line contemplating the smoothest way to ask the barista for a side of half and half with my coffee. You see, this particular morning, I was out of half and half and, as I’m not an ascetic, I do not drink my coffee black. I considered going to the closest Vons grocery store, but the thought of scuttling down their fluorescent frozen aisle to the dairy section in the back where I know for a fact they only carry Knudsen Brand half and half — which, though I sometimes purchase their cottage cheese, brings to mind images of cow factories and puss-y utters¹ — felt undesirable. And, as I was in a bit of a time crunch, I thought I might be able to kill two coffees with one purchase; so I made a plan: I’d order a small coffee and a little to-go side of “cream²” to enrich my french press coffee later in the day.

This particular coffee shop, however, like many (most?) I’ve visited in Los Angeles, does not allow their customers to “milk-their-own” coffee. They keep their dairy products locked away in a milken prison, and you either have to take whatever amount of dairy the barista thinks is appropriate, or haggle with them for more. This shift in milk-keeping alone is enough to indicate a pretty troubling reality about the current cultural and financial character of our country. I considered bringing this point up to the other people standing in line, but it didn’t seem like the time or place. For that matter, I thought as I shuffled forward in line, asking for a side of cream in an establishment like this might be as fraught as asking a flight attendant if they could open up a window midair. And furthermore, what would the barista even put my half and half in? Would I have to buy an extra cup?

Before I knew it, I’d stepped up to the register. There, I quickly noticed that this coffee shop's biggest size of to-go coffee was actually rather large. Again, quick calculations ensued. Maybe that would be enough coffee for the day. No, maybe that could hold enough cream to supply me for the day. New plan: I would order a very milky coffee, make a french press at home, and use the milky coffee as the enrichment for my black coffee. I ordered a large drip coffee. “Cream?” the barista asked. “Yes! A decent amount of half and half, please,” I replied. I watched apprehensively as the barista poured black coffee almost to the top of the cup. Fuck, I’d already blown it; I’d said “decent” when I really meant “a lot.” As the barista reached towards the refrigerated penitentiary where the dairy is held captive, I asked apologetically if they could actually pour out some of the coffee to make room for more cream — excuse me, more half and half. They obliged.

The barista returned, having poured a few measly centimeters down the drain. They asked if that was good. I gulped, stammered, then released a feeble “Yeaaaah……….” They looked at me. I hesitated, then tried to mumble something about how I “was going to make french press at home,” where I “didn’t have cream”, “or, sorry, half and half” but so I could “use an extra-milky source coffee to offset my coffee back home.” It came out about just as clearly as I just wrote it. After a brief pause, I asked very quietly and even more apologetically if they could possible make a little more room. They did, and when they returned they filled my coffee up to the top with half and half. I peered down at my coffee, now the color of under-toasted bread. I realized that it was now too milky to drink. Fuck. Would I even have time to make a french press at home? I thanked the barista, lidded my coffee, and walked out.

Outside, I checked my phone and was surprised to see my Google results for “mcdosnals caloria.” I’d almost forgotten. Without much thought, I quickly added “bashbriwn bacon egg chreze vischt” to my search, before correcting it to a complete search of “McDonald’s Calories Bacon Egg and Cheese Biscuit.” Numbers flashed before my eyes, impossible to understand. The next thing I knew, I was inside McDonald’s. A man with neck tattoos, sunglasses, and a shaky disposition apologized to a family that was sitting down eating, seemingly for some disturbance I must have just missed. I walked up to the self-help kiosk (is that what they’re called? Maybe some projecting here…) and started putting together my order.

The self-help screen generously started out on the meal deal portion of their offerings. I immediately saw some sort of buy-one-get-something that had to do with hashbrowns, so I clicked the button, and added a hashbrown to my order. $2.99. Then I navigated to sandwich mode, and clicked on the bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit. I removed the cheese (a holdover from childhood, before I learned to love American cheese), and the machine informed me that my meal now had 50 less calories. Then, I navigated to the check out portion and declined the option to get my food in a to-go bag (I was only driving a few minutes home, after all). This perhaps saved me a few more cents. But there was a problem: there was only one hashbrown in my cart. Everybody knows you need two hash browns with a breakfast sandwich from McDonald’s — one inside the sandwich, and one as a sidecar. Why didn’t my meal deal apply? I navigated back to the hashbrown section, added another, and returned to the check out. There it is: one dollar off. Amazing.

I looked down at my total. $10.27. Dear, and I don’t say this lightly, fucking God. There must’ve been some sort of mistake. It couldn’t be right. I double checked the machine, and to my complete dismay, it was true. I almost walked right out of the store. I mean, if you can’t get a simple two hash brown breakfast at McDonald’s for under $10, where could you? It was at this moment that I got my first inkling that our economy might not be in great shape. For shame, I thought, as I paid with a deep sigh.

I got my receipt and spent the next six minutes with no choice but to watch people. Someone haggled with a manager about a large coffee they were somehow ripped off on the day before. The growing line of people, all waiting for their food, was tense with anticipation. Others tapped away on their giant screens, dead-eyedly ordering their feed. Someone shouted: “this is MY machine!” I remembered my parking meter. Fuck! I leaned to the side, trying to see if I had a parking ticket. Looked okay. Whew. How long had I been waiting? My eyes flitted from the people preparing food, to the people in line, back to the people preparing food.

Then, finally, I saw two hash browns land on top of a wrapped sandwich. Goody! I quickly collected my meal and left, passing the neck tattoo man who was now mumbling to himself and playing with some tortured-looking trinkets. As I headed to my car, a passerby smiled at me. I felt a rush of excitement. Me??? You’re smiling at…me?? I smiled back as they walked by. Next to my car, I examined my appearance: I was in a tie dye hoodie, salmon sweatpants, and opened toed, pink slippers showing off my sparkling purple toes. Maybe a sleepy-casual style works for me, I thought.

Back in the car, I took a picture of my two hash browns and my wrapped breakfast sandwich. “I’m in charge,” I said out loud to myself. “I’m in charge”? I started my car and thought for a moment about why this phrase came out of my mouth. I’m...in….charge. I’m in charge. Perhaps I was auditioning a phrase or caption I could share, along with the picture, on social media? I’m in charge… hm. I considered it further. Perhaps it was like “I can eat whatever I want?” Or maybe the idea was that I was somehow being transgressive? That it’s somehow revolutionary or bravely ironic for someone that writes about food to order a simple Mcdonald’s breakfast? I’m in charge…

“I’m in charge”

Not four seconds after I spoke the words, I pulled a quick U-turn that launched one of my bagless hash browns off the passenger seat and directly onto a cherished and rather expensive vintage Timberland jacket I’d bought a few months ago in Japan. I reached down, grabbed it, and saw a large grease stain left behind in its wake. Amazing. A moment later, I pulled up to my house. I parked, went around the side of the car, and fished the other hash brown out of the crack near the passenger door. A long black hair stuck to it. Great. I’m so glad I didn’t get a bag. As I bent down to grab my sandwich (from deep in the foot-zone of the passenger seat) I spilled a big glug of milky coffee on the outside of the car. I noticed it, and turned to leave. Then, I turned around. What a bad habit, I thought. I wiped the creamy coffee up with my McDonalds napkins.

Back inside my house, I ate my incredibly expensive breakfast standing up, immediately tearing the top biscuit off the sandwich and, in an unusual move, using a hash brown in its place. Was I trying to save calories? I ate quickly, picking pieces off the other biscuit until I eventually replaced it entirely with the other hashbrown. I’d never done this before. What was happening? Right: I noticed the calorie counter was ticking down in my head. I watched myself as I instinctually tore off tiny chunks of hash brown that weren’t crucial to the textural balance of each bite to, it seemed, try and make the meal more “healthy.” Woof.

By the last few bites, my bacon and egg biscuit was totally deconstructed. I lurched around the kitchen with greasy hands, trying to force the dry contents of my mouth down my throat. I probably should’ve gotten the cheese, I thought. Why isn't there any sauce on these sandwiches? Desperate for something — anything — to feel good, I tried to take a bite of the egg envelope by itself. It felt and tasted like a discount sponge. I spit it into the trashcan and tossed the crumbled sandwich paper filled with many torn, waistline-protecting pieces of biscuit and discarded hash brown. What a pleasant breakfast.

I took a deep breath. And another. What a fucked up hour of my life. Was every hour of every day like this, and I just haven’t noticed before? Am I like this? What can I learn about myself in these moments? What kind of person am I? What makes me tick? What are the sticky dark parts of myself I’d do well to dust up and wipe clean? I reflected on the morning. I guess there’s some low hanging fruit:

• I am clumsy

• Sometimes I cause myself undue pain and stress to save a negligible amount of money

• I might have anxiety

• My relationship to food and my body is perhaps worth examining

Easy things. Still, I felt there was something more, like I was on the cusp of some deeper revelation about my own personal character. Perhaps there were more clues somewhere. Then I thought of something my best friend Ben had said to me last weekend. He told me — after letting me know that the cheesecake I’d made was the worst cheesecake he’d ever had in his life — that I’m the most critical person he’s ever met. I wonder what he meant by that.

Tragically, it just so happened that I had a meeting coming up in a few minutes, so I decided it was best not to think about all that much more. Instead, I got into bed and, while I waited for the call to start, I decided to check the stock market. A big line pointed downwards. Turns out, I was right! It seems like things aren’t going so well.

1. Sorry.

2. It is at this moment that I feel I must bring you on a slight detour. There is something that has been bothering me for a long time and I can no longer hold it in. I do not like that coffee shops use the word “cream” when they are referring to half and half. “Room for cream?” “Cream and sugar?” These places do not have cream. These places carry half and half (half cream and half whole milk). Perhaps this tendency is a holdover from a richer time, but I fear this misnomenclatural tendency might be contributing to the wider erasure of everyday cream consumption in our country. Scarce is the appearance of true cream outside of its whipped form; rare is the sight of heavy cream puddled lovingly around fresh berries, or yes — dribbled into a morning cup of coffee. Perhaps the only real creamdom fighter I know personally is my friend, Eliot, who has been known to eat his cereal with heavy cream. May we all be a bit more like Eliot.