Provoking Curiosity with the County Coroner

After spending half of my day with my head in the books and another quarter of it mindlessly flicking through cable's endless abyss of puke programming I quickly realized that if I wanted to see how long my eyes could inhale second hand sitcoms before I inevitably stabbed them with a rusty old ice pick I knew damn well I had to refuel my stomach to keep my mind mildly interested for the challenge. I thought what could I consume that would provoke curiosity with the county coroner after possibly impaling my jugular right before mercifully blinding myself? Scotch and cupcakes maybe?  How would that obituary read?  I know he died peacefully after bleeding out on his kitchen floor with a fat cuban pressed between his grinning teeth. I mean who wouldn't carry a cartoon grin after drowning themselves in 18 year old scotch, chasing that down with some pink frosting, and ending the parade with a stogie the size of Texas. Did I mention it was rolled by a ten year old Cuban coincidently named Elian? If anything we can honestly say that the scotch and cigar proves he was the most interesting man's first cousin while the delicate bite sized cake displayed his more than sensitive side.  I'm getting all warm and fuzzy just thinking about it. But all that crap is beside the point considering my insides were clawing away at my stomach's lining in an attempt to scavenge any kind of nutrients outside in the almost real world. So I grabbed my wallet, flung open the door to an old model import, plunged its key into the ignition, and gave it a twist like I would a nipple on a passed out transvestite bound and gagged in the trunk of a stolen sedan.

It wasn't long before I was watching the rubber lip of my garage door press itself into the smooth but dusty concrete below in the reflection of my rearview. I drove along the drag less than a block away from my abode hoping that some beacon of culinary delight would reel me in like a sweaty three fingered redneck woman would a muddy 90 pound catfish. My head swiveled from side to side as though I placed a million dollar bet on a fast paced game of pong. As my wheels spun over the asphalt I felt as though I was swimming in rays of psychedelic lights cast by the usual fast food chains found along this pothole riddled avenue. My stomach turned at the thought of grinding down a steamed patty with its powerful pepsin so much so that I thought it would be better to just mash my gas pedal into the stained mat below until I plowed into a freshly filled gas tanker instantly incinerating myself just like, you guessed it, that bound transvestite locked away in the trunk of a stolen sedan. But then the county coroner would be bored kicking around the charred flesh of my previous existence without a single "so guess what I found in some jackass' stomach" story to bore his Craig's List boy toy with. And at the end of that thought is when my eyes glanced along an outlet that was slightly illuminated by streams of neon that read, "Fries Burgers Shakes". 

By this time that colorful cursive had me steering onto a path towards this gas station turned burger joint. As the tread on my tires slowly revolved their way to the eatery my eyes quickly nibbled on the sign that read, "Stop N Go Family Drive-in".  The house lights were bright enough for me to take notice of the interior which was wrapped tightly in 50's diner style decor that would have Fonzie setting up shop in the ladies bathroom. Thinking back to all those Happy Days episodes The Fonz was basically a pedophile that spent half of his time hanging out in a public restroom and the other half banging jukeboxes and underage high school teens. But in Fonzie's defense it was pretty much a free for all when it came to women back then. These days when you knock up a girl you peel off a couple of crisp hundreds and point her to the nearest clinic to have the unborn child scraped out like shit on the bottom of your shoe. But in the fifties, if she didn't move away for the summer only to return with a screaming rug rat, it was a casual push into a doorknob or a shove down a flight of stairs that got the job done. Have times changed for the better?

I eventually glided my import into one of the small lot's painted spaces. I stepped through the sally port style doors and was immediately punched in the nose with the familiar aroma of ground beef cooking away on a flat stainless steel grill. That's right no steamed patties in this hut. Just grilled and flash fried food such as fish, fries, and chicken strips that boot your triglycerides smack in the balls, ultimately turning your blood into a sloppy sludge. My eyes darted around the menu looking for something delightfully simple, because right now I want to gobble down a burger, much like Fonzie would the vagina of an innocent teen, and chase that down with some salty fries and a Cherry Coke. 

Most of the time when I walk into a burger hut they tend to sex up your mind by offering foreplay add ons such as grilled onions, fried onion rings, jalapeños, guacamole, ten types of bacon, forty types of cheeses, and the list goes on and on and on.  But not this place! They keep it simple enough that even a tard baby could order a decent meal just by pointing at the bright board above glazed over with limited meals options. So much like a tard baby I glanced upward, pointed, and mumbled, number four, followed by a silverback grunt. The number four is a burger layered with a grilled patty, cheese, a slice of grilled ham, house sauce, pickles, and fresh cut onions. Accompanied with my order are large fries and a large self serve soft drink dispensed by touch screen leaving the option of flavors almost limitless. And after my grunt she happily replied with a bright smile, "that will be six dollars." I'm sorry but what was that, I quickly followed as I tried to make sense of the price? She smiled again, "your order comes to six dollars." You mean before taxes right, as I still tried to make sense of her tally of my edible items? And without losing her pleasantry she said, "nope, just six dollars." So I pulled out my debit card like a zoot suit wearing Mexican would a switchblade and extended it her way. And she replied with the following, "We don't take debit cards sir, just cash." Just cash?! Keeping that wonderful smile she replied, "Yes sir, just cash."

Now normally most people would be appalled at a place that didn't accept some sort of plastic as a payment option. But not this guy. Call me nostalgic but I miss the times where I needed to pull money out of my wallet to pay for a meal, household goods, and some illegal services. No worrying about things like I wonder if that card is going to go through since I just purchased some industrial rubber gloves, zip ties, large plastic bags, gallons of bleach, a hack saw, a shovel, and a bag of lye. The fact is I appreciate places that have a cash only policy because let's face it the line moves twenty times quicker due to the lack of delays caused by overcharged cards carried by silicon breasted blondes, downed phone lines, and 16 year olds who can't operate a credit card machine let alone a motor vehicle. Even when you're robbed by that random transvestite in the red-light district of your hometown you're better off holding your bludgeoned skull missing a couple of C notes instead of a piles of plastic, because everyone knows it takes most people more time to call the bank and tell them that their cards have been stolen than it takes some jackass to order a dozen X-Box 360's from Nigeria with the string of numbers stamped across your cards. Just ask Chris Hansen.

So there I was holding out my card in perfect tard baby form as I ingested the information about this place being a cash only environment. My salivating mouth quickly fired, where is the closest ATM, as my olfactory system happily embraced the smell of someone else's ham sizzling away on the grill?! She pointed over her shoulder and told me about a major bank that would graciously give me money after raping me over and over again with fee after fee after fee. I then asked, so that's right around the corner right, as I pulled down my pants, grabbed both of my ankles, just before walking backwards towards the extremely hung institution? She humbly replied, "You can't miss it, its right next door to Safeway." Wait a second, did she say Safeway? I would rather swing into a market and buy a candy bar which would allow me to pull out some cash, which is the equivalent of getting fingered, rather than a full on fisting of fees, elbow deep of course, by the bank next door. So I crawled back into my import as my stomach growled at me and made my way to the market.

Moments later, after clipping a few pedestrians in a fee saving rage, I was holding my now beloved candy bar while patiently tapping my foot in the almost express checkout line. In front of me were these bright blue eyes attached to a baby riding bitch in a filthy plastic death cart. Now I know we are somewhat bound by an unspoken code that we shouldn't point out faults in others, especially if that other is around 12 months of age, but believe me when I tell you that those big blue eyes, probably donated to the kid by Sinatra himself, were attached to what I would call a translucent cancer rat. At one point I actually thought this thing had simpered at me, but for all I know it could have just frowned curving it's thick blonde unibrow into a smile. It wasn't long before the animal was wheeled out in its cage by its handler. This gave me the opportunity purchase my bar, steamroll over the hood of my borrowed import like a heftier version of Tom Wopat, and crawl back into the Stop N Go mildly out of breath with a fist full of dollars. I handed her the cash and she forked over the burger and fries, after it was freshly prepared, along with my drinking cup.

I took my food, laid out on a thin black plastic slab, and sat down setting my Cherry Coke at arm's reach. The burger is simple and not overzealously big. In fact I'm inclined to think it's actually of normal proportions. Now most Americans would be livid at the size of the greasy beef patty and the sliver of ham blanketing the pulverized flesh. But let's face it as Americans we place burgers in the "bigger is better" category. Everyone knows that when we place our pupils on a menu board, at any burger hut stamped across our fifty great states, soak in the photo of a more than massive burger much like a ripe tanned Brazilian ass soaks up the sun's cancerous rays, and we devour it with our sense of sight working our way through the veggies, cheeses, bacon, and sauces and then receive its reality between two flattened buns we instantly become completely and utterly enraged and lash out by verbally assaulting the hut to everyone and anyone who is willing to listen. The fact is we've become victims of marketing campaigns that specifically target our appetites by thrusting are visual G spots with images of artery clogging goodies blown up to lather the entire face of our 70 inch flat screen TVs. What happened to the times where a burger was nothing more than a patty pressed between two buns with a little ketchup and mustard? Oh that's right; it ended up on the kid's menu!

After a mild case of starvation and remembering the triathlon of mindless television I set out to endure I picked up my burger and ripped off my first bite. And I was completely delighted that the burger lived up to my expectations. I wasn't dropping 12 bucks on a couple of buns filled with jaw breaking proportions of beef with a salad sprinkled on top of it. I was eating a burger that was a measly two seventy-five but more importantly satisfyingly simple. This delightful ground chuck was enough to hammer my hunger into submission with the assistance of fries, which I enjoyed due to their crisp perfectly salted shell, and the sensational slurp of my Cherry Coke. Safely put, if you're on a budget, not celebrating your 20th anniversary with your loved one, not morbidly obese with an insane Pac Man eating disorder, and want a satisfying meal, well then, this my friend is probably the place for you.

Stop N Go Family Drive-In
6325 N Wall St
Spokane WA 99205