Eyes everywhere. All looking. Questions incoming. The same ones again. An endless repetition, a Twilight Zone Truman Show. Just want the McDonald’s. 30 cents extra for another quarter pounder. They’re taking pictures now. “My god,” they’re saying. My god. Their god. Walked by two men last year. Knives in their hands, insults out their throats. Faces full frontal, jawing in Journal Square. They saw and turned, getting Cheshire Cat grins. Put their weapons down, lost in wonderland. “Jesus,” one said. “Are you real?” the other asked. Didn’t reply, then crossed the street. Might’ve prevented a murder. Screen’s malfunctioning. Card reader error. Credit declined. Bullshit. Paid off yesterday. Just want the McDonald’s. Have to get in line. Three people ahead, two notice. High schoolers. They’re startled and stumble back. Shivering down their spine. The horror, the terror. “Monster,” they’re thinking. Don’t need to hear to know. Remember being their age, and that week in the ward. “Freak,” they whispered in the hall. Didn’t think it audible, but it was. Picked it up, and never set it down. Kept it, and carry it now. Always. Can’t leave it behind. Reach the counter. There’s a young cashier. They’ve been watching, peeping over the pedestal. They bite their lip. “Hey,” they say. “What’s your number?” Goddamnit. Just want the McDonald’s. Flashback to Fairway, buying fair trade. Store clerk there did the same. Observing then objectifying, fucked in their head. Not exaggerating, see to be true. Never engage and never will. Need to pass up to keep sane, or even safe. Step back. Waiting for the burgers, wanting not to be bugged. To be at peace, and without provocation. To feel normal, and without preconception. But won’t be, and can’t be. “You’re special,” someone whispers from behind. “You get that?” Heard before. Many times before. Whole life. Told so much it’s meaningless. Hate it. Don’t deserve it. Really want to deserve it, fuck. And just want the McDonald’s. Order called. See the pick-up tray. Little cardboard boxes containing joy and pleasure. Fries glistening, begging for a taste. Finally have the McDonald’s. Sit down, take a bite. Sated by fast eats. On the road to a heart attack, but need it to keep driving. This is comfort. Take another fry to further the feeling. Feels real. Want to be real, even if there’s no such thing.