Angry Birds

	My wife and I are vacationing at our condo in Delray Beach. We’re about to embark on an early morning errand before we go to the beach, but first we stop at McDonald’s for one of our occasional indulgences – a bacon, egg, and cheese biscuit. We’re vegetarians, but if we sin only now and then we forgive ourselves. 
      Florida sun rising in the east blinds me through the windshield. I search for a parking spot. We get out and, as we walk to the entrance, I notice the sky is clear. Even mixed with the stink of fast food, the smell of the air tells me it’s going to be a good beach day. 
Inside, a handful of people are eating. Two are waiting at the end of the counter to pick up orders, and the single register that’s open has a handwritten sign taped to the front – Cash only, Internet down. The young, heavyset Black woman behind the register eyes me warily. Her name tag reads Angela.
       “Cash only, is that all right?”
The edgy tone of Angela’s voice suggests she thinks my answer could go either way and she’s assuming a defensive stance in case things turn ugly. I tell her cash is fine. The muscles in her face relax. She calls out our order to the uniformed workers behind her, pulls a hand calculator from a pocket in her uniform, and punches in numbers to figure what I owe.  I hand her a twenty. She retreats a couple of feet to where the cash drawer from the register has been placed on a card table someone jerry-rigged to address this unanticipated tech failure. She punches more numbers in her calculator, computes the change due, and sorts through drawers to extract the right coins and bills. It strikes me that cashiers no longer need to know how to count money – except, evidently, when the Internet is down. Angela gives me change. I’m impressed how she handles herself. I’ve just become an Angela fan. It’s funny how character shines through the wrinkles of mundane activities if only we care to look. 
      My wife and I back away from the counter to wait. Suddenly, a loud crash makes me jump.
      “What happened?” 
      “Someone knocked over the iced tea cannister,” she says, pointing. Liquid is ponding on the floor between the counter and the kitchen. An Indian guy lifts the empty cannister, sets in back in place. An alarmed and extremely White guy in his thirties appears, stands in the middle of everything, not knowing what to do. The employees address him as Brian. He has brown hair and a mustache, is wearing slacks and a golf shirt instead of a McDonald’s uniform. He’s the manager. 
      A Hispanic man pushes a wet mop to drive the liquid from under their feet. The Indian guy tiptoes through the slickness and chaos, grabs food and drinks for the drive-through window. An older Black woman takes the mop from the Hispanic guy and chases after the liquid flowing past the counter to where customers should stand. She has a resigned look on her face, a mother cleaning up children’s messes. No one looks at each other, as if doing so might trigger a fight, and they especially don’t look at Brian. They are separate countries securing their respective borders with shades of feeling that divide them from each other defensively or protectively draw them into temporary alliances according to race and ethnicity. 
      Angela brings our food to the end of the counter reserved for pick-up. Brian takes over at the register because the crew is tied up with the iced-tea spill. A customer in jeans and button-up short-sleeve shirt steps forward. He places his order with Brian.
      “Cash only, our Internet’s down,” Brian says, smiling aggressively.
      “What?”
      “Cash only, the Internet’s down.”
      An argument begins I can’t quite hear. I edge away with our plastic tray. My wife finds a spot by the window where we can enjoy the sun and blue sky. As we unwrap the paper packaging of our biscuits, we hear a shout.
      “I didn’t walk all the way over here to be rejected!” 
      I look up. The customer in jeans who’d been arguing with Brian stomps away as Brian calls out,       “Please come back,” not as in come back now, but in the cheery tone of consummating a happy transaction. The effect is so lame, I feel dreadfully sorry for him – he’s lost face with his crew and any witnesses. The customer pushes the door open with such force I’m surprised the glass doesn’t break. It’s as if a tornado touched down inside this little McDonald’s. 
					 #
      After the drama at breakfast, we’re back in the car to perform our errand –
a visit to Home Depot a hundred yards down the street. I want plants to fill spots in the little garden behind our condo. 
      As we pull into Home Depot’s parking lot, my wife says, “Look – that’s the guy at McDonalds.” She’s right. It’s the very same disgruntled customer that we just saw stomp out of McDonald’s. Now he’s entering Home Depot. He’s sweating profusely from the humidity and ninety-degree heat. I put two and two together, conclude he works at Home Depot and used his break to walk to McDonald’s to get something to eat. 
	I lock the car. My wife and I walk to the garden center at the side of store. My wife checks out orchids because she admires a neighbor’s orchid pot hanging in a tree and wants one for our place. I survey display tables for hardy plants that won’t get too big. I discover miniature gardenias – my wife loves the fragrance – but before I commit to a purchase, I tour the tables one more time to make sure I haven’t missed any bargains. I’m carefully studying plant tags for size and sun requirements when a man in the next aisle, apparently the boss of the garden center, begins chewing out one of his employees for not coming when he was called.
	“I was helping a customer. At least I wasn’t ignoring them like you always do.”
	I’m surprised at the employee’s sass. I eavesdrop as the two of them fight, both managing the tension but neither giving an inch. There’s no reconciliation, just a pot that keeps boiling. I grab my gardenias and bolt for checkout.
						#
	We’re finally at the beach. We set up our canopy close to the water. It’s peaceful until two couples with a cooler jam an umbrella in the sand beside us. They pop open cans of beer. The men tell coarse stories with punchlines of humiliation or unkindness and all of them laugh. I contemplate striking our canopy and camping somewhere else on the beach, but that would be a lot of work. Instead, I turn to diversion. I pull out my phone. 
	This is the wrong thing to do. The news is a prize fight that never stops no matter how many blows are thrown. It will be 90 degrees in Alaska this week. It was 80 in Siberia last week. Russian trolls and right-wing bots plant porcupine quills in the minds of everyone. Firenadoes burn to ashes what Biblical floods haven’t washed away. Everyone is outraged, everything is ruined, and all of us are impotent to do anything about it. That’s the news. I click off my phone. 
	I watch two boys, brothers, pass a football back and forth on the shoreline, only feet away. The older one taunts the younger about the accuracy of his throws. The younger one is frantic that the older one will allow the ball to land in the ocean. Passing the football seems to be a prop for both of them, secondary to the drama between them. Finally, little brother becomes so angry he quits and stalks back to where his family has spread the beach towel. He picks up a phone to play video games, probably Angry Birds. The older one is alone on the beach with the football, miserable that he has no one to torment. 
	I comment to my wife about all the anger we’ve seen this morning. It seems the way of the world, from which there’s no vacation. I need to escape. I take off my shirt and wade into the ocean, sinking into the comfort of salt water. My body relaxes into something deep and old, wise and alive.
But my thoughts return to humankind and the mess it creates. I realize I’m a child playing hide-and-seek who’s doomed to be found. The ocean isn’t big enough to shield me from what’s waiting on shore – a pot that keeps boiling, little tornadoes touching down, everyone looking for someone to torment. It’s no wonder the planet is boiling, too. It’s not just carbon emissions causing climate change. Human selfishness and anger inflame the consciousness of Gaia. Climate change is a mirror showing us ourselves, if only we care to look.

                                                  ______________________________

Mike Wilson's work has appeared in magazines including The Pettigru Review, Fiction Southeast, Mud Season Review, The Saturday Evening Post, Deep South Magazine, Still: The Journal, Barely South Review, and his book, Arranging Deck Chairs on the Titanic, political poetry for a post-truth world.