The first thing he did after the finalization of the divorce was go to McDonald’s. She had banned the family from going to McDonald’s five years ago, when they built the new one on State, replacing the old and venerable State Street Theater. She had tried to stop it from happening. But they bulldozed the theater and built the brutalist McDonald’s there. If they could do that to the theater, what would stop them from bulldozing the library, the courthouse, the community center. She said we must boycott this threat to our community. Plus, their children—it was a good thing to do for them. He agreed. This boycott was a clear and precise example of care. So when he bit into the first of four burgers he had ordered, he felt a distant pang of regret and shame within him. But then he wondered why. She was the one who was to blame for these bites. After all, she was the one who came to him on that dusty autumn day and said she wanted a divorce. He would not be eating these burgers if not for that day. But he kind of had to admit he was really enjoying the burgers. He could see why so many people ate them. He wanted to become a fat, happy fucker. He wanted his children to take care of him. He wanted to be so big it would take an act of God or the jaws of life to get him out of his home. Eventually, he stopped eating the burgers and looked at his phone. Nobody had called him in a while. He had three scam texts. They all promised very good and high-paying remote jobs. $2000 a week! He scrolled the news. “Billionaire’s Yacht Explodes off Coast of Ibiza.” It started raining outside—an intense and angry summer thunderstorm. There were children playing in the outdoor Playplace. One of the children was stuck or thought he was stuck. He could make out the child, a boy, pounding away at the plexiglass and screaming for help. The parents below talking away. Nobody ever asks you how you’re doing in the exact moment you know how you’re doing.
