If Bobby Finch tries to tell you he invented the twirl-three-sixty, he’s a damn liar.
I’ve been standing out here on the southwest corner of 81st and Sheridan for longer than I care to mention, inviting people to visit the store for huge discounts on custom-made unpainted furniture. Day in and day out, I’m working the twirl-three-sixty, the under-the-leg flip, and a dozen other signature moves engineered by yours truly.
Bobby Finch comes along about a month ago and takes up residence at the northeast corner, spinning his stupid sign for the new burger joint. It’s those same concoctions of saturated fat and grease that are making this great country chubby and brain-dead, and he’s out there peddling them as if they’re the greatest thing since color TV. Why don’t you just advertise heart attack?
Word among the sign-spinner circles is he’s been saying the twirl-three-sixty is his creation, and the burger joint owners love him for it. If I have to hear one more person praise his stolen moves, I’m going to bloody the thief’s nose.
It’s a chilly November day and the morning traffic rush thunders along as usual. Most commuters aren’t going to stop and buy a roll-top desk or armoire, but they pay me to twirl this sign, so that’s what I do. Not to say I’m not invested in whether people buy custom-made unpainted discount furniture; I take great pride in my job and do everything possible to drive business.
But Bobby Finch, all he cares about is jumping around like some kind of epileptic madman. He jiggles the sign so much you can’t even read it! How he’s kept his job for a whole month, I have no idea. Bouncing around and coming dangerously close to falling right into the street. It’s insane.
And the headphones. All day long, he has those little white cords dangling from his ears. How is he supposed to hear traffic, wave at passersby who honk, or– shudder to think– get any kind of advanced warning if some drunk driver happens to jump the curb and drive onto the street corner?
You could almost say the little brat would deserve such a fate. Lord, forgive me.
On his sign today is a double-decker burger, resting on a gigantic bed of french fries, with ketchup rivers streaking red through the yellow spuds. It’s a little too in-your-face, if you ask me.
A smarmy grin contorts one side of his mouth, but from behind his sunglasses, I can’t tell if that smirk is pointed at me or at the cars whizzing by between us.
Then he waves– just a little flick of the wrist– and that’s clearly meant for me.
I adjust the bill of my cap and give him the finger, but by the time I flip the bird, he’s turned the other direction.
Since my ankle’s been giving me so much trouble lately and the various aches in my back have all melded into one super-ache, I’m limited to working the upper body today. It’s a tough job to keep the energy up when you can only move your arms, but you’ll never catch me slacking on the job. No sir.
Around eleven-thirty, I take my break, and I’m sorely tempted to confront him about his wanton disregard for safety. But what good will it do? It’s not as if this punk kid will listen to a word I have to say. What possible advice could a guy who’s been twirling signs for over five years have to impart to a know-it-all like Bobby Finch?
It’s a short trek to the pizza place for lunch. I order a salad, but the tartness of the dressing irritates a canker sore that I can’t seem to shake. Don’t know why I keep coming here, because the food is always terrible. My options are limited unless I want to drive somewhere, and with the traffic at lunchtime? Forget it.
When I come back from lunch, Bobby Finch is standing next to the traffic light, talking up some pretty young thing with a skirt way too short for a virtuous girl. He’s using his sign as a cane, with one foot off the ground and his weight against the sign like the monocle guy on the peanut cans. I forget his name.
All it would take for Bobby Finch to tumble into the street is for that cardboard to bend, and he’d lose his balance and splat, he’s roadkill.
The girl lingers on the corner to talk to him for several minutes. They laugh. She tries on his sunglasses. She touches his arm.
I look at my watch and a half hour has passed. Instead of working, he’s still flirting with this bubbly teenage girl. What would the burger joint owners do about their beloved employee if they knew he was stealing company time to weasel his way into some jail-bait’s panties?
They’d fire his ass on the spot. That’s what they’d do about it.
I can practically feel the heat from the light bulb flickering above my head. It’s time to take some action.
With a couple of folds, my sign becomes compact enough that I can shove it down the back of my pants to keep it out of sight. I’m about to hustle towards the burger joint when I realize that I can’t just stomp in there, flinging accusations left and right… there has to be some kind of hard evidence.
My camera phone!
I wrestle the phone free of my pocket and swipe across the bottom to access the device. With all those little rectangular pictures on the screen, I can never remember which one is for the camera. I have a theory they’re making these devices increasingly confusing on purpose to weed out my generation.
After finally locating the right icon, I hold the phone up and snap Bobby Finch’s picture, just as he reaches behind Short Skirt to pinch her butt.
“Aha!” I yell across the street. “I got you now, you son of a bitch!”
She’s still wearing his sunglasses, so he raises a hand to block out the sun and squints at me.
I shake the phone at him. He’s not going to get away with this.
The girl returns his sunglasses, ruffles his hair, and blows him a kiss as she retreats through the parking lot.
Now it’s a matter of choosing whether I want to confront him or go straight to his bosses. There are pros and cons to each side. Since I have the photographic evidence squared away, I decide there’s no harm in putting some fear into him first. Maybe he’ll admit the error of his ways and beg to keep his job.
I press the crosswalk button, my eyes trained on him the whole time. He’s back at it, this time marching in tight circles, pumping his arms and legs like he’s conducting a John Phillip Sousa number.
Go on and dance, pretty boy. It’ll be the last time you do.
The light changes, the timer starts ticking, and I walk to the southeast corner and wait there for the next crosswalk indicator so I can get to his corner. He’s not looking at me but I know he wants to. Maybe he’s feeling the pinch already. I can feel the slippery stickiness of perspiration forming on my palms and my heart thumping against my ribcage like a bass drum. This is going to make it all worthwhile.
The little walking man changes from red to white and I stride towards his corner with my head held high. He’s ten feet away. I hold my phone at arm’s length.
He finally stops what he’s doing and notices me. “Hey,” he says, “you on a break?”
“I got the evidence right here,” I say, wiggling the phone, “and you’re not going to get away with this.”
He laughs. “Dude, you always crack me up. What are you talking about? Did you get a new phone?”
Insolent little bastard. “Get ready to dance your ass down to the unemployment line, Bobby Finch.”
“Unemployment line? Oh, hey, my mom wanted me to ask you why you didn’t try out for Joseph in the nativity play this year.”
I take a step towards him, and I’m close enough to see the baby whiskers on his chin. “Don’t worry about that. You just keep shaking that sign for your oily, saturated fat-drenched burger and fries. The twirl-three-sixty is my move. You had no right. You could at least come up with your own.”
“Are you talking about the one where you toss the sign in the air and turn around and catch it? That’s a sick move, dude. I wanted to do that from the first time I saw you bust it out.”
I chew my lower lip. So maybe he hasn’t been telling people he invented the move, but that’s hardly a license to steal.
“Took me a whole week to get it right. I was practicing at home and everything,” he says, sniggering. “How dumb is that? Like I have nothing better to do than practice twirling in front of a mirror like a little ballerina?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “Dumb? Dumb?”
No more deceits. No more trickery. I brush past him, with the burger joint firmly in my sights.
“Catch you later,” he calls after me. “Have a good day.”
My ankle stabs at me with every step, but I’m determined to cross this parking lot and report him. Not even the threat of discovery for my own dereliction of duty can stop me. It’s worth it, for justice.
Approaching the front door, the nauseating aroma of frying lard infiltrates my nostrils, wafting through the air as if blown from exhaust vents. I have to take short breaths to keep from up-chucking the remnants of my salad everywhere.
I open the door and step inside the fast food lair. Directly in front of me is a barrel of peanuts, with a half-buried scoop and a stack of baskets adjacent to the barrel and a sign inviting customers in line to take as many as they want. I love peanuts. And since there’s about fifteen people in line (wow, this place is popular), I have some time to kill, so I scoop a basket-full.
They’re honey-roasted, and better than I was expecting. Not salty enough to irritate my canker sore.
The line moves along at a slow clip, so I busy myself by munching peanuts and reading the menu above the counter. Typical burger joint fare, but they also have a fish sandwich with muenster cheese. That’s an interesting combination. And they have thai chili ketchup and chipotle mayo as dressings. I’m quite a fan of exotic mayonnaises.
Doesn’t matter. I have a job to do.
Five people ahead of me in line. My stomach rumbles but I’ve exhausted my peanut supply. There are now at least a dozen people between me and that barrel, so a refill is out of the question. Damnit.
Four people ahead, then three, then two. With each step closer to the counter, I take one leap closer to vindication.
I ready my phone to display the indisputable evidence of Bobby Finch’s malfeasance, and it’s finally my turn in line.
A young lady smiles at me from behind the counter, her blonde locks corralled inside a hairnet and her thick glasses magnifying her eyes into cartoonish orbs. “Good afternoon, sir. What can I get for you today?”
“I’ll tell you what you can get for me,” I say, and I’m about to demand an audience with the manager when a burger jockey slides a tray next to her on the counter. A gigantic hamburger dripping with mayo and ketchup stares back at me. Between the tomato and the meat, a slice of cheddar cheese softens and curls from the rising heat.
She squints at the stitched insignia on my baseball cap. “Are you, by chance, a veteran, sir?”
This catches me off guard. “I am indeed.”
“First of all, thank you for your service. All this week, you get a free burger with purchase of drink because of Veteran’s Day.”
Welling saliva stings the back of my throat. “Free burger, you say?”
She nods. I’m paralyzed.
“Would you like me to take you through the menu? I’d be happy to.”
My teeth squeak as they grind together. “I would like,” I start to say, but no more words come.
Her smile falters. “Do you need some more time?”
I slip the phone back into my pocket. “I would like… a jumbo burger with bacon and cheddar and chipotle mayo, but hold the onions.”
Damn you, Bobby Finch.
* * *
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS:
1. In the nativity scene, would Bobby play one of the wise men, or is that too ironic?
2. Are burgers and fries making this country chubby and brain-dead?
3. Can a move like the twirl-three-sixty truly be invented, or has it always existed in our hearts?