Promises Man-Sized Satisfaction

I saw it on my way home.   I wasn’t really hungry.  I’d had a salad at the airport.  But I had the munchies and I wanted something.  I came up out of the Powell St. Station BART and considered the terrain.  It was already 10:00PM and there wasn’t anything around here that was open.   I walked up Powell St. toward my hotel and saw the shinny sign of the only place open.  On almost any other occasion, I would have walked right by but tonight, I quickly talked myself into heading across the street and into Burger King. 

I took my place in the steel corral that lead me along with the other late-night customers to the checkout counter.  What’s the largest damn burger they have?  The Double Whopper is big but the “Texas Double Whopper” promises “man-sized satisfaction” and seems to add cheese of course, and bacon as well as “mouth watering jalapeños.”   I get that, with a fries and a diet-coke for propriety-sake. 

Across the street, up in my hotel room I dive into my fast food purchase.  As expected, the sensation of the beef patties going down my throat is wonderful.  The taste is OK.  But there is a disconnect between my stomach, which is already full and the sensors in my mouth which are attuned to sating themselves.  My mouth was determined to finish this silly mound and my stomach was sending signals, ever more pronounced, that there was no need for more food down here 

The next morning, I woke with a horrible taste in my mouth, craving water.  This hotel didn’t provide any cups, so I dumped the rest of my diet coke down the drain and filled it with tap water.  In thirty-minutes I was supposed to meet a friend for coffee, not far from here and I began to get myself ready. 

Later, I had to wait for a second run at the elevator before I could squeeze in.  If it was the fourth floor I might have walked down.  But sixth floor seemed just a bit too ambitious with my big suitcase.  I took note of the two young Chinese students who manned the counter.  I’d seen them there yesterday.  I’d imagined a whole world for them as daughters or nephews of the Chinese landlord who owned the hotel.  I'm sure the real story is unfathomably more interesting. 

I went through two Uber’s, on my wimpy 3G connection, who didn’t show and then cancelled.    I walked up to the Hotel St. Francis and took a traditional cab from the queue.  Inside the driver whom I guessed to be from China, and the car seemed to be quite familiar.  I tried to discern what the smell was: him or the cab.  I cracked the window, considered the time and told myself that as long as there was not traffic, I’d be fine.

Friday 03/01/19