The Beef Manhattan Project
Or: A Secret History of the Hoosier Deli and the Sandwich That Explains Everything
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
By Mason Absher
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
In 1942, the United States government gathered the brightest minds in physics to develop a weapon that would end a war.
They called it the Manhattan Project.
In 2019, I walked into the Hoosier Deli—
a place I'd passed a hundred times but never entered—
and discovered they had something called—
A Beef Manhattan.
Not a project.
Just... a Beef Manhattan.
An open-faced sandwich.
Roast beef on white bread.
Covered in mashed potatoes.
Smothered in gravy.
[Beat.]
And I need to tell you what happened.
THE HOOSIER DELI
The Hoosier Deli is not fancy.
It's not trying to be fancy.
It's a deli in a strip mall between a nail salon and a tax preparation place.
The sign is faded.
The parking lot has potholes.
Inside, there are maybe ten tables.
Linoleum floors.
Fluorescent lights.
A counter where you order.
A menu board with removable letters.
Some of the letters are missing.
It says "B F MANHATTAN" because the second E fell off sometime in 2014 and no one bothered to replace it.
[Beat.]
I'd driven past this place for years.
Years.
And never stopped.
Because it looked—
[He pauses, choosing his words carefully.]
—unremarkable.
THE DISCOVERY
I only went in because my car was getting an oil change next door.
And I was hungry.
And everything else was closed or too far to walk.
So I walked into the Hoosier Deli.
At 11:47 AM on a Tuesday.
[Beat.]
The woman behind the counter looked at me.
Really looked.
The way someone looks at a tourist who's wandered into the local bar.
Not hostile.
Just... knowing.
"First time?" she asked.
"Yeah."
"You want the Beef Manhattan."
It wasn't a question.
It was a statement.
A decree.
"I don't know what that is," I said.
She smiled.
Not a big smile.
Just a small one.
The smile of someone who's about to show you something.
"You will," she said.
THE WAIT
I sat at a table.
One of the ten tables.
There were three other people in the deli.
All of them regulars, clearly.
They had that comfortable body language.
That sense of belonging.
One guy was reading a newspaper.
An actual newspaper.
Physical paper.
I hadn't seen one in years.
Another woman was doing a crossword.
In pen.
In pen.
The confidence.
[Beat.]
And they all had the same thing in front of them.
A plate.
With what looked like...
I couldn't quite tell from where I was sitting.
But it was covered in gravy.
Everything was covered in gravy.
THE ARRIVAL
The woman brought out my order.
Set it in front of me.
[He stops, looks at audience.]
I need you to understand what I was looking at.
This was not a sandwich in any traditional sense.
This was architecture.
[He gestures, building it in the air.]
Two slices of white bread.
Not toasted.
Just plain white bread.
Laid flat on the plate.
On top of that: roast beef.
Real roast beef.
Sliced thin.
Piled high.
On top of that: mashed potatoes.
Real mashed potatoes.
Not instant.
You could tell.
They had lumps.
Glorious, imperfect lumps.
And then—
And then—
Gravy.
Brown gravy.
Covering everything.
Drowning everything.
Making the entire construction into a landscape.
[Beat.]
A fork and knife on the side.
No napkin would be sufficient for this.
This required tools.
THE FIRST BITE
I picked up my fork.
Cut into it.
[He mimes this slowly, deliberately.]
And the layers—
Oh, the layers.
The bread had absorbed the gravy.
It wasn't bread anymore.
It was a vessel.
A foundation that had transformed into something else entirely.
The beef was tender.
Actually tender.
Not deli roast beef from a package.
But real, slow-cooked, falling-apart beef.
The mashed potatoes were buttery.
Rich.
With those lumps that told you someone had actually mashed them.
By hand.
And the gravy—
[Beat.]
The gravy was the secret.
Not too thick.
Not too thin.
Seasoned properly.
Peppery.
Savory.
Right.
[He takes a breath.]
I took that first bite.
And I understood.
I understood everything.
THE REVELATION
This sandwich—
this open-faced, gravy-covered, structurally unsound sandwich—
made sense.
Not just culinarily.
Existentially.
[He stands, starts pacing.]
Because here's what the Beef Manhattan is:
It's a sandwich that gave up.
It surrendered to gravity.
To sauce.
To the inevitable collapse of structure.
[Beat.]
Most sandwiches are about containment.
About holding things together.
About the integrity of the construction.
You make a sandwich.
You wrap it.
You bite it.
It stays together.
That's the deal.
[He stops, turns to audience.]
The Beef Manhattan says:
"No."
"We're not doing that."
"Everything falls apart."
"Everything gets covered in gravy."
"Accept it."
THE PHILOSOPHY
I sat there.
In the Hoosier Deli.
Eating this sandwich that wasn't a sandwich.
And I realized:
This is Indiana.
This is Indiana food philosophy.
[He sits back down.]
Other places have food trends.
Molecular gastronomy.
Farm-to-table.
Artisanal this.
Craft that.
[Beat.]
Indiana says:
"Here's some bread."
"Here's some beef."
"Here's some mashed potatoes."
"Here's gravy."
"Figure it out."
[He leans forward.]
There's no pretense.
No performance.
No one's going to describe the "journey" of the beef.
Or tell you about the "terroir" of the potatoes.
It's just food.
Good food.
Honest food.
Food that doesn't apologize for being what it is.
THE REGULARS
As I ate, I noticed something.
The other customers—the regulars—
they were all eating the same way.
Methodically.
Quietly.
With focus.
[Beat.]
The Beef Manhattan demands respect.
You can't eat it while scrolling your phone.
You can't eat it while having a conversation.
You have to commit.
[He stands again.]
Because if you're not paying attention—
if you're distracted—
you'll get gravy on yourself.
Guaranteed.
The Beef Manhattan is a meditation.
A practice.
You must be present.
THE WOMAN RETURNS
When I was about halfway through, the woman came back.
Checking on me.
"How is it?"
I looked up at her.
Fork in hand.
Gravy on my chin, probably.
"Where has this been my entire life?" I said.
She smiled.
That same small smile.
"Right here," she said.
"Been making it the same way for thirty-seven years."
[Beat.]
Thirty-seven years.
The same recipe.
The same method.
White bread.
Roast beef.
Mashed potatoes.
Gravy.
No changes.
[He looks at audience.]
In a world that's obsessed with innovation—
with disruption—
with making everything new and different—
The Hoosier Deli said:
"We figured it out in 1982."
"Why would we change?"
THE COST
The Beef Manhattan cost $7.95.
$7.95.
For what was essentially a full dinner.
A complete meal.
Protein. Starch. Gravy.
[Beat.]
I've paid more for a latte.
I've paid more for a muffin.
And here was this—
this substantial, filling, genuinely satisfying meal—
For less than eight dollars.
[He shakes his head.]
The economics make no sense.
The portion size makes no sense.
The quality-to-cost ratio makes no sense.
And yet.
There it was.
The Beef Manhattan.
Defying market logic.
THE RETURN
I went back the next week.
And the week after that.
And the week after that.
[Beat.]
I became a regular.
Not intentionally.
Just... inevitably.
Because once you've had the Beef Manhattan—
once you've experienced that specific combination of bread-beef-potatoes-gravy—
Everything else feels insufficient.
[He sits.]
I tried making it at home once.
I bought white bread.
Deli roast beef.
Made mashed potatoes from scratch.
Made gravy from a packet.
[Beat.]
It wasn't the same.
It couldn't be the same.
Because the Beef Manhattan isn't just ingredients.
It's context.
It's the Hoosier Deli.
The linoleum floors.
The fluorescent lights.
The woman who's been making it the same way for thirty-seven years.
The regulars reading newspapers.
The ritual.
THE NAME
I asked once—
about two months in—
why it's called a Manhattan.
"Is it from Manhattan?" I asked.
The woman—whose name I learned was Diane—
laughed.
"I don't know," she said.
"That's just what it's called."
[Beat.]
No origin story.
No explanation.
Just:
"That's what it's called."
[He stands.]
And I think that's perfect.
Because the Beef Manhattan doesn't need a story.
It doesn't need marketing.
It doesn't need a narrative about tradition or heritage or authenticity.
It just is.
And that's enough.
THE LESSON
Here's what the Beef Manhattan taught me:
Lesson 1: Simplicity isn't simple.
White bread, beef, potatoes, gravy. Four components. But getting them right? Getting the proportions right? The timing? The gravy? That's craft.
Lesson 2: Structure is overrated.
Sometimes the best solution is to give up on containment and just... let everything collapse under gravy.
Lesson 3: Not everything needs to be new.
Thirty-seven years. Same recipe. If it works, it works.
Lesson 4: Context matters.
You can't recreate the Beef Manhattan at home. Not really. Because it's not just food. It's place.
Lesson 5: Sometimes the best things are hiding in plain sight.
I drove past the Hoosier Deli for years. YEARS. Never stopped. And all that time, the Beef Manhattan was there. Waiting.
THE CURRENT STATUS
I still go.
Once a week.
Usually Tuesdays.
Same table if it's available.
Same order.
Diane doesn't ask anymore.
She just nods when I walk in.
Brings out the Beef Manhattan about eight minutes later.
[He sits for the final time.]
And I sit.
And I eat.
And for those fifteen minutes—
however long it takes to work through that plate—
Everything makes sense.
[Beat.]
The world is complicated.
Chaotic.
Full of uncertainty and anxiety and variables I can't control.
But the Beef Manhattan?
The Beef Manhattan is constant.
White bread.
Roast beef.
Mashed potatoes.
Gravy.
Every time.
Exactly the same.
Exactly right.
THE GRATITUDE
So this is for Diane.
And the Hoosier Deli.
And the Beef Manhattan.
The sandwich that isn't a sandwich.
The meal that costs $7.95 and delivers ten times that in comfort.
The open-faced, gravy-covered answer to the question:
"What should I eat?"
[He stands.]
Thank you for existing.
For staying the same.
For not innovating or disrupting or changing.
For being exactly what you are—
in a strip mall—
between a nail salon and a tax place—
making the same thing you made thirty-seven years ago.
And doing it perfectly.
THE INVITATION
If you're ever in Indiana.
If you're ever near the Hoosier Deli.
[Beat.]
Stop.
Go in.
Order the Beef Manhattan.
[He looks at audience.]
It won't look like much.
The deli won't look like much.
But trust me.
Trust Diane.
White bread.
Roast beef.
Mashed potatoes.
Gravy.
[Long beat.]
That's it.
That's all you need.
That's everything.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, knowing that next Tuesday, at 11:47 AM, he'll walk into the Hoosier Deli. Diane will nod. The Beef Manhattan will arrive eight minutes later. And for fifteen minutes, the world will make perfect sense. Some projects don't need to be complicated. Some Manhattans don't need skyscrapers. Some sandwiches just need gravy. And that's enough. That's more than enough. That's everything.)
Last Action Hero
Or: The Movie That Taught Me Everything About Everything
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
By Mason Absher
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I need to tell you about Last Action Hero.
Not just tell you about it.
Defend it.
Evangelize for it.
Make the case that this movie—this critically panned, commercially failed, Arnold Schwarzenegger vehicle from 1993—
is one of the most important films ever made.
[Beat.]
I'm serious.
THE DISCOVERY
I was eleven years old.
Summer.
The movie had just come out.
And everyone—everyone—hated it.
Critics hated it.
Audiences hated it.
It was supposed to be the blockbuster of the summer.
Arnold Schwarzenegger at the height of his powers.
A movie about movies.
Action and comedy and meta-commentary.
It bombed.
Spectacularly.
People called it confusing.
Bloated.
Too clever for its own good.
A mess.
[Beat.]
I saw it three times in theaters.
THE PREMISE
Here's what Last Action Hero is about:
There's a kid. Danny. He's obsessed with action movies.
Specifically, a franchise called Jack Slater.
Arnold Schwarzenegger plays Jack Slater, the ultimate action hero.
Explosions. One-liners. Impossible stunts.
Pure, distilled, 1980s action movie excellence.
[Beat.]
Danny gets a magic ticket.
A golden ticket—literally—that transports him into the movie.
Into Jack Slater's world.
Where the rules of reality don't apply.
Where you can fall from a building and walk away.
Where every woman is beautiful and every villain is evil.
Where everything makes sense because it's a movie.
[Pause.]
And then—
And then—
The villain escapes.
Gets the magic ticket.
Comes into the real world.
Where there are no rules.
Where bad guys can win.
Where action heroes are just actors.
Where Arnold Schwarzenegger is not Jack Slater—
He's Arnold Schwarzenegger.
An actor.
Playing a character.
[Beat.]
Do you understand what that means?
Arnold Schwarzenegger—in the movie—meets Arnold Schwarzenegger—the actor.
The character confronts his own fictional nature.
The movie eats itself.
WHY EVERYONE HATED IT
People didn't get it.
They thought it was supposed to be a straightforward action movie.
With some jokes.
But it wasn't.
It was a deconstruction.
A meditation on storytelling.
On the difference between fiction and reality.
On what we want from movies versus what we get from life.
[Beat.]
It asked questions:
What if the hero learned he wasn't real?
What if the villain discovered there are no consequences?
What if a kid who loved movies more than life realized that movies lie?
That the good guy doesn't always win.
That people die and stay dead.
That there are no second takes.
[Beat.]
And audiences in 1993—who just wanted Arnold to blow things up and say funny lines—
Said: "This is too much. Too confusing. Too weird."
They were wrong.
WHY I LOVED IT
I was eleven.
And I understood it.
Not intellectually.
Not in a "I can explain the themes" way.
But instinctively.
Because I lived in two worlds too.
[He stands, starts pacing.]
There was the real world.
Where I was small.
Where I didn't fit in.
Where kickball was violence.
Where Freedom Christian School was a prison.
Where I was perpetually wrong, perpetually behind, perpetually other.
[Beat.]
And then there were movies.
VHS tapes from Phar-Mor.
Where I could be anyone.
Where stories made sense.
Where there were rules and narratives and meaning.
[He stops.]
Last Action Hero understood this.
It understood that we escape into fiction because reality is hard.
But it also understood that fiction lies to us.
It makes promises it can't keep.
It tells us the hero always wins.
That good triumphs over evil.
That everything works out in the end.
[Beat.]
And sometimes—
sometimes—
we need to learn that life doesn't work that way.
THE SCENE
There's a scene.
The most important scene in the movie.
Danny and Jack Slater are in the real world.
And Jack is struggling.
Because in the real world, he's not invincible.
In the real world, bullets hurt.
In the real world, the bad guy might win.
And Danny—this kid who brought Jack into reality—
realizes what he's done.
He's taken his hero out of the place where heroes can exist.
[Beat.]
And Jack says—and I'm paraphrasing, but the sentiment is exact:
"In my world, the bad guys lose. They always lose. Here? I don't know the rules."
[He sits back down.]
That line.
That line.
It broke something in me.
At eleven years old.
Because I realized:
I was doing the same thing.
I was trying to live in Jack Slater's world.
Where everything made sense.
Where there were heroes and villains.
Where I could be the protagonist.
[Beat.]
But I lived in the real world.
Where there are no magic tickets.
Where the rules are unclear.
Where sometimes—
often—
the bad guys don't lose.
THE LESSON
Last Action Hero taught me that fiction is beautiful.
Necessary, even.
We need stories.
We need escapes.
We need to believe—at least for ninety minutes—
that the world can be simpler than it is.
[He stands.]
But it also taught me that you can't live there.
You can't stay in Jack Slater's world.
You have to come back.
To reality.
To complexity.
To a world where heroes are just people.
And people are flawed.
And stories don't always have endings.
[Beat.]
And somehow—
somehow—
that's okay.
THE META-NARRATIVE
Here's the thing about Last Action Hero:
It's a movie about movies.
But it's also a movie about believing in movies.
Even when you know they're lies.
[He paces again.]
At the end—spoiler alert for a thirty-year-old movie—
Danny goes back to the real world.
Jack Slater stays in his world.
Where he belongs.
Where he can be a hero.
And Danny?
Danny goes to the movies.
Because he still loves them.
Even knowing they're not real.
Especially knowing they're not real.
[He stops, looks at audience.]
That's the point.
The movie doesn't say "grow up and stop believing in stories."
It says "understand what stories are, and love them anyway."
[Beat.]
Fiction is a lie that tells the truth.
And we need both.
The lie and the truth.
THE DEFENSE
People say Last Action Hero failed because it was too smart.
Too meta.
Too self-aware.
[He shakes his head.]
I think it failed because it was honest.
It told audiences something they didn't want to hear:
The movies you love are manipulating you.
And that's okay.
[Beat.]
Critics wanted it to be either a straight action movie or a straight comedy.
It was neither.
It was a tragedy disguised as an action film.
It was a love letter to cinema that also admitted cinema is a liar.
[He sits.]
And in 1993, people weren't ready for that.
But I was.
At eleven years old.
Sitting in a theater.
Watching Arnold Schwarzenegger play a character who discovers he's not real.
I was ready.
THE OBSESSION
I've seen Last Action Hero forty-three times.
I own it on VHS.
On DVD.
On Blu-ray.
Digitally.
[Beat.]
I have shown it to every person I've ever dated.
Most of them didn't understand why I loved it.
One person—one person—got it.
[He smiles slightly.]
I married her.
[Beat.]
Not because she loved the movie.
But because she understood why I loved it.
She understood that this ridiculous, flawed, over-ambitious Arnold Schwarzenegger film from 1993—
Was about me.
About how I see the world.
About the tension between wanting life to be a story—
And knowing it isn't.
THE PARALLELS
Every story I tell.
Every adventure in every storefront.
Every observation about gas stations and grocery stores and customer service.
It's all Last Action Hero.
[He stands, animated now.]
When I catastrophize in an oil change waiting room—
I'm Danny in Jack Slater's world, trying to figure out the rules.
When I returned everything and convinced myself it was fine—
I was living in a fictional world where actions don't have consequences.
When I argued about the Volstead Act while holding cured meats—
I was a character who didn't know he was wrong until reality corrected him.
[Beat.]
Last Action Hero taught me that we're all living in two worlds:
The world as we want it to be.
And the world as it is.
[He sits back down.]
And the trick—
the trick—
is knowing which one you're in.
THE VINDICATION
Here's the beautiful thing:
Last Action Hero has been vindicated.
Not commercially.
It still flopped.
But culturally.
Critically.
[He leans forward.]
People who were kids when it came out—
People like me—
We grew up.
And we realized:
That movie was ahead of its time.
It was doing meta-commentary before meta-commentary was cool.
It was deconstructing genre before deconstruction was a thing.
It was The Matrix before The Matrix.
It was Deadpool before Deadpool.
[Beat.]
Except it did it with more heart.
More sincerity.
Because Last Action Hero doesn't mock action movies.
It loves them.
Even while admitting they're ridiculous.
[He stands for the final time.]
And that's why it matters.
That's why I've seen it forty-three times.
That's why I will defend it until I die.
Because it taught me how to love something—
Completely—
While understanding exactly what it is.
THE CONCLUSION
Last Action Hero is about a kid who learns that movies aren't real.
But it's also about a kid who keeps watching them anyway.
Because even though they're not real—
they matter.
[Beat.]
Stories matter.
Fiction matters.
The lies we tell ourselves—
they matter.
[He looks at audience.]
Not because they're true.
But because they help us survive the truth.
[Beat.]
And that's what I do.
In every blog post.
In every story.
In every theatrical, verbose, over-the-top observation about fountain sodas and Valentine's Day cards.
I'm telling lies that tell the truth.
[Beat.]
Just like Last Action Hero.
Just like Arnold Schwarzenegger playing a character who discovers he's a character.
Just like a magic ticket that transports a kid into a world where everything makes sense—
Before teaching him that nothing makes sense.
And that's okay.
[Long beat.]
I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And I learned everything I know—
About storytelling.
About reality.
About the necessary fiction of daily life.
From a critically panned, commercially failed, Arnold Schwarzenegger movie from 1993.
[He smiles.]
And I wouldn't have it any other way.
[Beat.]
Thank you.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits. Somewhere, a VHS tape of Last Action Hero sits on a shelf, waiting. The magic ticket may not be real. But the movie is. And for Orson, that's always been enough.)
How I Met My Mate Delivering Postmates
Or: Wendy's Woman, My Love for You is Biggie Sized
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
This is a love story.
Not the kind with violins and sunsets.
Not the kind that gets made into a movie starring people with symmetrical faces.
But a real one.
A modern one.
The kind that starts with a Postmates order.
A Wendy's.
And a woman behind the counter who looked at me—
a desperate gig economy worker at 9 PM on a Thursday—
and said:
"You again?"
Not romantically.
Not flirtatiously.
With pure, exhausted recognition.
And somehow—
somehow—
that became love.
THE CONTEXT
I was delivering for Postmates.
Not as a career.
As a survival mechanism.
Between acting gigs.
Between moments of financial stability.
Between versions of myself that I was still trying to figure out.
Postmates was simple:
Accept order
Pick up food
Deliver food
Get paid barely enough to justify the gas
Repeat until you question every choice that led you here.
I'd been doing it for six months.
And I'd developed a route.
A territory.
My domain.
Three mile radius.
Mostly fast food.
Mostly late night.
Mostly people who were too tired, too drunk, or too smart to leave their houses.
And one Wendy's.
The Wendy's.
The one on Madison Street.
Next to a AutoZone.
Across from a Family Dollar.
In a part of town that Google Maps described as "economically transitional."
Which is code for "you should probably lock your doors."
THE WENDY'S
This Wendy's was special.
Not in a good way.
It was always busy.
Always understaffed.
Always operating on the edge of complete collapse.
The drive-thru line wrapped around the building.
The lobby was full of people waiting.
Waiting with the specific energy of those who know they're going to wait a long time and have already accepted their fate.
And the staff—
God, the staff.
They looked like soldiers.
Veterans of the Fast Food Wars.
Tired.
Battle-worn.
Moving with the efficiency of people who've stopped caring but still remember how to do their jobs.
And among them—
Her.
THE FIRST ENCOUNTER
I didn't notice her at first.
I was too focused on survival.
On getting in and out as fast as possible.
Because Postmates drivers and fast food workers?
We exist in different dimensions of the same hell.
She's trapped inside, making the food.
I'm trapped outside, delivering it.
Both of us underpaid.
Both of us exhausted.
Both of us wondering how this became our lives.
But then—
one night—
I walked in.
Said I was picking up for Postmates.
And she looked up from the register.
Really looked.
And said:
"Order name?"
"Uh... Brandon."
She rolled her eyes.
"It's always Brandon. Why is it always Brandon?"
I laughed.
She didn't.
But I saw the corner of her mouth twitch.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
THE PATTERN
After that, I started noticing.
How often I got orders from that Wendy's.
How often it was her working.
How often she'd see me walk in and just... know.
"Postmates?"
"Yeah."
"Give me a minute. We're backed up."
"No problem."
And I'd wait.
Standing awkwardly by the counter.
Watching her work.
She was fast.
Efficient.
The kind of person who could take three orders, bag two meals, and refill a drink—
all while looking like she'd rather be literally anywhere else.
She wore the Wendy's uniform with the energy of someone in witness protection.
Like this wasn't her real life.
Just a temporary cover story.
Her name tag said "ASH."
Not Ashley.
Not Ashlyn.
Just Ash.
Which felt both mysterious and like she'd given up on formality entirely.
THE CONVERSATIONS
It started small.
"Busy night?"
"Always."
"Yeah."
"You do this full-time?"
"The delivering? No. I'm an actor."
She looked at me.
Really looked.
"Of course you are."
Not mean.
Not judgmental.
Just... knowing.
Like she'd met a hundred actors doing gig work.
Like I wasn't special.
Which, honestly, was refreshing.
"What about you?" I asked. "Is this... full-time?"
She laughed.
A short, sharp laugh.
"For now. I'm in school."
"For what?"
"Nursing."
"That's—"
"Don't say 'that's great.' Everyone says that."
"I was going to say 'that's exhausting.'"
She paused.
Then smiled.
A real one.
The first real one.
"Yeah. It is."
THE RITUAL
It became a thing.
A ritual.
Every few nights, I'd get a Wendy's order.
I'd walk in.
She'd see me.
"Postmates?"
"Yeah."
And while she bagged the food—
while the fryers hissed and the drive-thru beeped and chaos swirled around us—
we'd talk.
Small talk.
But the kind of small talk that starts to feel... not small.
"How's school?"
"Terrible. How's acting?"
"Also terrible."
"Cool. We're both failing."
"At least we're consistent."
She told me about her classes.
About clinicals.
About how she'd chosen nursing because she wanted to help people.
But now she was starting to wonder if she'd just chosen a different kind of exhausting.
I told her about auditions.
About callbacks that went nowhere.
About the constant feeling of being almost good enough.
But never quite.
And she got it.
She understood the grind.
The hustle.
The waiting.
The hoping.
The slow erosion of the person you thought you'd be.
THE SHIFT
It shifted one night.
Late.
After midnight.
I walked in for a pickup.
The lobby was empty.
Just her.
Behind the counter.
Looking more tired than usual.
"Hey," I said.
She looked up.
And I could see it.
The weight.
"Rough night?" I asked.
"Rough semester. Rough year. Rough... existence."
She said it like a joke.
But it didn't sound like one.
I didn't know what to say.
So I said:
"You want to get out of here?"
She blinked.
"What?"
"After your shift. You want to... I don't know. Get food? Not Wendy's food. Actual food."
She stared at me.
For a long time.
And I thought: Oh no. I've made a mistake. This is weird. I'm a weird Postmates guy who's been coming here too much and now I'm asking her out and—
"Yeah," she said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. My shift ends at two. Meet me in the parking lot."
THE DATE (SORT OF)
I waited.
In my car.
In the Wendy's parking lot.
At 2 AM.
Like a creep.
Or a romantic.
Hard to say which.
She came out at 2:15.
Still in her uniform.
Looked exhausted.
Looked beautiful.
Looked like someone who'd been holding it together for eight hours and could finally stop.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"I don't know. What's open?"
"Nothing good."
"Okay. Where's something bad?"
She smiled.
"Steak 'n Shake."
"Perfect."
THE STEAK 'N SHAKE
We sat in a booth.
Ordered milkshakes.
She got strawberry.
I got chocolate.
We didn't talk about Wendy's.
Or Postmates.
Or nursing school.
Or acting.
We talked about... everything else.
Favorite movies.
Worst jobs.
Childhood pets.
The specific kind of exhaustion that comes from working late nights.
How weird it is that we're all just... here.
Doing things.
Trying to survive.
Hoping it means something.
She told me about her family.
About why she left.
About how sometimes the people who are supposed to love you—
don't know how.
I told her about theater.
About why I couldn't quit.
Even though it made no financial sense.
Even though I was delivering Baconators at midnight.
Because some things—
some callings—
you can't let go.
Even when you should.
We talked until 4 AM.
Until the Steak 'n Shake staff started giving us looks.
Until the sun was threatening to rise.
And when we finally left—
when we stood in the parking lot, keys in hand, knowing we had to go our separate ways—
she said:
"You're going to get another Wendy's order soon."
"Probably."
"Good."
THE COURTSHIP
That's how it started.
Postmates orders.
Late nights.
Conversations over bagged Baconators and spicy chicken sandwiches.
Stolen moments between her shifts and my deliveries.
It wasn't traditional.
It wasn't romantic in the Hallmark sense.
But it was real.
We'd meet up after her shifts.
Sometimes Steak 'n Shake.
Sometimes just sitting in my car in the parking lot.
Talking.
Laughing.
Sharing the exhaustion.
She'd tell me about her day.
About difficult customers.
About how one guy ordered "extra pickles" and then complained there were too many pickles.
About how another customer threw a drink at the drive-thru window because it took too long.
I'd tell her about deliveries.
About the guy who ordered $60 worth of Taco Bell and tipped 50 cents.
About the woman who asked me to "just leave it on the porch" of what turned out to be an abandoned house.
About the address that took me to a cemetery.
We bonded over the absurdity.
The everyday violence of customer service.
The small indignities.
The moments that make you question humanity.
But also—
the moments that remind you people are just... trying.
THE MOMENT
It happened three months in.
I picked up an order.
She handed me the bag.
Our hands touched.
Not dramatically.
Just... touched.
And I said—
without thinking—
"I really like you."
She froze.
"Like... I really like you. Not just as the person who gives me Wendy's orders. As... you."
She looked at me.
Then at the bag of food.
Then back at me.
"You're going to be late with that delivery."
"I don't care."
"The customer's going to complain."
"Let them."
She smiled.
That smile.
The real one.
"I really like you too."
And then—
in a Wendy's—
surrounded by the smell of fryer grease and desperate hunger—
we kissed.
Brief.
Sweet.
Interrupted by the drive-thru beeping.
But perfect.
THE NOW
We've been together for six years.
Married for two.
I don't deliver for Postmates anymore.
She's an RN now.
Works at a hospital downtown.
Still exhausted.
But different exhausted.
Meaningful exhausted.
We live in a small apartment.
Nothing fancy.
But it's ours.
And sometimes—
on a Friday night—
when we're too tired to cook—
we order Wendy's.
Not from that location.
She refuses.
Says she can never go back.
Says the smell alone would trigger PTSD.
But we order it.
And when it arrives—
when I open the bag—
I think about that night.
Standing at the counter.
Watching her work.
Not knowing—
not having any idea—
that this exhausted woman in a fast food uniform—
would become my wife.
My partner.
My home.
THE PHILOSOPHY
People ask me: "How did you know?"
"How did you know she was the one?"
And I say:
"She saw me at my lowest—picking up Baconators for $4 tips—and didn't judge."
"She understood the grind."
"She understood that sometimes you're doing things that don't make sense because you're trying to survive long enough to do the things that do."
"She understood that work isn't who you are—it's just what you do to stay alive while you figure out who you want to be."
And also—
Also—
She had the same dark humor.
The same exhaustion.
The same belief that if you can't laugh at the absurdity—
you'll drown in it.
THE DEDICATION
So this is for her.
For Ash.
Wendy's Woman.
My love for you is Biggie Sized.
Extra pickles.
No onions.
Frosty on the side.
You saw me at my most pathetic—
a Postmates driver trying to make rent—
and somehow—
somehow—
you saw something worth knowing.
You taught me that love isn't about grand gestures.
It's about showing up.
Consistently.
Even when you're tired.
Even when the drive-thru is wrapped around the building.
Even when you'd rather be anywhere else.
You taught me that the best relationships are the ones where you're both just... trying.
Trying to survive.
Trying to be better.
Trying to be kind.
Even when the world makes it hard.
You taught me that sometimes—
the person you're meant to be with—
isn't the person you meet at a party or through friends or on a dating app.
Sometimes it's the person you meet at work.
Behind a counter.
While you're both just trying to get through the night.
THE EPILOGUE
We still drive past that Wendy's sometimes.
On Madison Street.
Next to the AutoZone.
It looks the same.
Always busy.
Always understaffed.
Always barely holding together.
And I think about all the other people—
all the other delivery drivers—
all the other workers—
who pass through those doors.
All trying to survive.
All hoping for something better.
And I wonder:
How many other love stories are happening—
right now—
in fast food restaurants and gas stations and grocery stores—
between people who are too tired to notice—
that they're meeting someone who will change their life?
Because that's the thing about love:
It doesn't always announce itself.
It doesn't always arrive with fanfare.
Sometimes it just... shows up.
At a Wendy's.
At 9 PM.
On a Thursday.
And says:
"You again?"
And you say:
"Yeah. Me again."
And somehow—
that's enough.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, holding his wife's hand. In the other hand, a Wendy's bag. Not from that location—never that location—but close enough. They walk toward their car, tired but together, knowing that every Baconator is a small reminder of where they started. The Postmates app sends a notification. He ignores it. Those days are over. But the love that came from them? That's Biggie Sized. And it always will be.)
The Applebee's Affair
Or: A Love Story Set in the Amber Glow of Faux-Irish Pub Lighting
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I am in love with Applebee's.
No.
Wait.
I hate Applebee's.
Actually—
I'm not sure.
The relationship is... complicated.
Like all great love affairs, it's defined not by consistency—
but by passion.
By volatility.
By the constant push and pull between what I know I should want—
and what I actually want at 9 PM on a Tuesday.
We've been on-again, off-again for twenty years.
Sometimes I swear it's over.
That I'm done.
That I deserve better.
That I'm a grown adult who can make better choices.
And then—
and then—
I see the sign.
That apple.
That red, glossy, slightly judgmental apple.
And I pull into the parking lot.
Because apparently, I have no self-control.
And Applebee's knows it.
THE BEGINNING
It started innocently.
As all toxic relationships do.
I was seventeen.
Post-theater rehearsal.
Starving.
And someone said the magic words:
"Applebee's has half-price appetizers after 9."
Half. Price. Appetizers.
At seventeen, this is not a suggestion.
This is a revelation.
This is the economic model upon which I would structure the next decade of my life.
We went.
A group of theater kids.
Loud. Obnoxious. Probably undertipping.
We ordered:
Mozzarella sticks
Boneless wings
Spinach artichoke dip
Quesadillas
More mozzarella sticks
We stayed for three hours.
Refilling our sodas.
Laughing too loud.
Being the exact kind of customers that servers hate.
And I thought:
This is it.
This is freedom.
This is what adulthood looks like.
I was so naive.
THE HONEYMOON PHASE
For a while, it was perfect.
Applebee's was always there.
Consistent.
Reliable.
Open late.
And crucially—
Affordable.
I could go to Applebee's and feel like I was dining out.
Like I was a person who went to restaurants.
Sure, the food was microwaved.
Sure, the décor looked like a TGI Friday's had a garage sale.
Sure, every surface was inexplicably sticky.
But it was mine.
My spot.
My affordable rebellion against home cooking.
I had favorites:
The Bourbon Street Chicken & Shrimp (a name that promised more than it delivered, but still)
The Oriental Chicken Salad (before they changed the name for obvious reasons)
The Riblets (not ribs, riblets—a distinction I didn't understand but accepted)
And of course, the endless refills of whatever diabetes they were calling "lemonade"
I knew the menu.
I knew which appetizers were actually worth it.
I knew that the "sizzling" fajitas were 70% sound effects.
I was fluent in Applebee's.
THE FIRST BREAK
The first time I left, I thought it was for good.
I was in my mid-twenties.
Dating someone who considered themselves a "foodie."
They took me to places with names I couldn't pronounce.
Places that served "deconstructed" things.
Places where the portions were small and the conversations about the food were large.
And they said—
with the casual cruelty of someone who's never appreciated a good mozzarella stick—
"Applebee's? Really? You know that's not real food, right?"
And I—
wanting to impress them—
wanting to be the kind of person who ate at places with exposed brick and Edison bulbs—
said:
"Yeah. You're right. I don't even like Applebee's."
Liar.
I was a liar.
And the relationship didn't last.
But my time away from Applebee's did.
I convinced myself I'd outgrown it.
That I was better than Applebee's.
I went to other restaurants.
Local places.
"Authentic" places.
Places where the servers described the specials with the passion of Shakespearean soliloquies.
And they were fine.
Good, even.
But they weren't—
They weren't Applebee's.
THE RETURN
I came back on a Tuesday.
Late.
After a particularly bad audition.
I was driving home, feeling sorry for myself.
And I saw it.
The sign.
Applebee's.
And without thinking—
without even questioning it—
I pulled in.
Walked through those doors.
Was greeted by a hostess who looked like she'd given up on life somewhere around 2014.
Was seated in a booth with ripped vinyl.
And I ordered.
Bourbon Street Chicken & Shrimp.
Diet Coke.
And when it arrived—
steaming, sizzling (allegedly), covered in that suspicious brown sauce—
I took a bite.
And I was home.
Not good home.
Not "this is delicious" home.
But familiar home.
"I know exactly what this is going to taste like and that's why I'm here" home.
Applebee's doesn't surprise you.
And sometimes—
especially after a bad day—
that's exactly what you need.
THE PATTERN
After that, the pattern was established.
I'd swear off Applebee's.
Go months without visiting.
Tell people I "don't really do chain restaurants."
Pretend I was above it.
And then—
inevitably—
something would happen.
A bad day.
A late night.
A moment of weakness.
And I'd be back.
Sitting in a booth.
Eating food I couldn't quite identify.
Drinking lemonade that was definitely 90% corn syrup.
And feeling... okay.
Not great.
Not transformed.
Just... okay.
And sometimes, okay is enough.
THE CRITICISMS
I know what you're thinking.
I know the criticisms.
I've heard them all.
"The food is microwaved."
Yes. Obviously. I have accepted this. I have made peace with this.
"It's not real ethnic food."
I know! I KNOW! The "Oriental Chicken Salad" was never fooling anyone! The Bourbon Street Chicken has probably never been within 1,000 miles of Louisiana! I'm aware!
"The atmosphere is depressing."
Is it though? Or is it just... honest? Applebee's isn't pretending to be something it's not. It's not promising you an "experience." It's promising you fried cheese and a place to sit. And it delivers.
"You could make this at home for cheaper."
Could I? Could I really? Because making this at home would require:
Planning
Shopping
Cooking
Cleaning
And I'm sorry, but if I wanted to do all that, I wouldn't be at Applebee's at 9:30 PM on a Wednesday, would I?
"There are better restaurants."
Are there? Are there really? Because better restaurants require:
Reservations
Waiting
Dress codes (sometimes)
Conversations with servers who want to tell you about their "journey" with the food
Applebee's requires none of this. You show up. You order. You eat. You leave. It's transactional. And I respect that.
THE DEFENSE
Let me defend Applebee's.
Not because it needs defending.
But because I need to defend my choice to keep going back.
1. It's Predictable
You know what you're getting. Always. The Bourbon Street Chicken in Ohio tastes exactly like the Bourbon Street Chicken in Indiana. This is not a bug. This is a feature.
2. It's Affordable
I can eat at Applebee's for $15. With a drink. And an appetizer if it's half-price hour. Show me another sit-down restaurant where this is possible. I'll wait.
3. It's Accessible
Applebee's doesn't judge. You can show up in sweatpants. You can show up alone. You can show up at 10 PM on a Sunday. They don't care. They're just happy you're there.
4. It's Nostalgic
Applebee's tastes like being seventeen and having nowhere else to go. It tastes like late-night conversations in booths. It tastes like a time when $20 felt like wealth. And sometimes, that's worth more than "authentic cuisine."
5. It's Honest
Applebee's isn't trying to be fancy. It's not serving you "artisanal" anything. It's serving you exactly what it says on the menu. In a world full of restaurants that overpromise and underdeliver, there's something refreshing about a place that just... is what it is.
THE INCIDENTS
Of course, it hasn't all been smooth.
There have been... incidents.
Incident #1: The Quesadilla That Wasn't
Ordered a chicken quesadilla. Received what appeared to be a tortilla that had been briefly introduced to the concept of cheese. No chicken. Just... sadness. Folded.
Incident #2: The Endless Wait
Once waited 45 minutes for mozzarella sticks. FORTY-FIVE MINUTES. For something that is, by definition, supposed to be fast. When they arrived, they were cold. I ate them anyway. This is on me.
Incident #3: The Bathroom
I will not elaborate. If you've been to an Applebee's bathroom, you know. If you haven't, I cannot adequately prepare you.
Incident #4: The Manager
Had a conversation with a manager who looked like he'd been there since the restaurant opened in 1980. He had the energy of someone who'd seen too much. Made too many boneless wings. Heard too many complaints about wait times. I tipped extra. It felt like the right thing to do.
Incident #5: The Birthday Song
They sang to me once. I didn't ask them to. Someone at another table told them it was my birthday. It wasn't. They sang anyway. I sat there, mortified, while strangers clapped. I have never recovered.
THE CURRENT STATUS
Where are we now, Applebee's and I?
It's... complicated.
We're in an "on" phase.
I've been going about once a month.
Always late.
Always alone or with one other person who understands.
Always ordering the same thing.
Always getting exactly what I expect.
And I'm... okay with it.
I'm not pretending anymore.
Not pretending I'm too good for Applebee's.
Not pretending I don't enjoy the predictability.
Not pretending that sometimes—
after a long day—
all I want is to sit in a dimly lit booth and eat something that tastes exactly like it did ten years ago.
THE PHILOSOPHY
Here's what I've learned from my torrid affair with Applebee's:
Lesson 1: Authenticity Is Overrated
Everyone's obsessed with "authentic" food. But you know what's authentic? Consistently getting exactly what you ordered. That's authentic. That's honest.
Lesson 2: Comfort Doesn't Have to Be Fancy
Comfort food isn't about Michelin stars. It's about familiarity. About knowing what you're going to get and getting it. Applebee's is the sweatpants of dining. And sometimes, you need sweatpants.
Lesson 3: Judgment Says More About the Judge
People love to judge Applebee's. And by extension, people who eat there. But here's the thing: everyone has their guilty pleasure. Their comfort zone. Their place they go when they don't want to think. Mine just happens to have mozzarella sticks.
Lesson 4: Consistency Is Undervalued
In a chaotic world, there's something beautiful about knowing that no matter where you are, no matter what's happening, there's an Applebee's. And it will serve you the exact same mediocre food with the exact same level of service. That's not a flaw. That's reliability.
Lesson 5: Sometimes "Good Enough" Is Good Enough
Not every meal needs to be an event. Not every dining experience needs to be memorable. Sometimes, you just need food. And a booth. And a place where nobody knows your name but also nobody cares. And that's okay.
THE FUTURE
Will I keep going to Applebee's?
Yes.
Probably.
Almost certainly.
Will I continue to have mixed feelings about it?
Absolutely.
Will there be more breakups? More returns?
Undoubtedly.
Because that's the nature of our relationship.
Applebee's and I.
We're not healthy.
We're not perfect.
But we're familiar.
And in a world that's constantly changing—
where restaurants close and menus evolve and neighborhoods gentrify—
there's something comforting about a place that never changes.
That never gets better.
But never gets worse.
That just... is.
THE DECLARATION
So here it is.
My official statement.
My public acknowledgment.
I am in a relationship with Applebee's.
It's on-again, off-again.
It's complicated.
It's probably unhealthy.
But it's mine.
And I'm done pretending otherwise.
I'm done apologizing for my mozzarella sticks.
Done defending my Bourbon Street Chicken.
Done explaining why I choose predictable mediocrity over adventurous disappointment.
I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And I eat at Applebee's.
Regularly.
Judge me if you must.
But know this:
When your fancy restaurant closes.
When your favorite local spot changes ownership.
When the world feels chaotic and uncertain—
Applebee's will still be there.
In a strip mall.
Next to a Ross Dress for Less.
With its sticky tables and its questionable lighting and its endless Diet Coke refills.
Waiting.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, carrying a to-go container of leftover riblets he will absolutely eat for breakfast tomorrow. Behind him, the Applebee's sign glows in the night—red apple shining like a beacon, a promise, a comfortable mistake he'll make again next month. The affair continues.)
The Shocking Brutality of Freedom Christian School
Or: Kickball, Cruelty, and the Last Days of Unreformed Recess
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
There was no freedom at Freedom Christian School.
The name was ironic.
Or possibly a threat.
A reminder of what we didn't have.
Like naming a prison "Liberty Correctional."
Or a hospital "Pleasant Death Medical Center."
It was the mid-1990s.
The last gasp of unsupervised schoolyard brutality.
Before anti-bullying campaigns.
Before playground monitors with actual training.
Before anyone gave a damn about whether children were forming healthy social bonds or merely surviving.
And I—
small, imaginative, utterly unsuited for the gladiatorial combat of blacktop kickball—
was in hell.
THE BLACKTOP
The blacktop at Freedom Christian School was not a playground.
It was a coliseum.
A vast expanse of cracked asphalt where the strong thrived and the weak learned important lessons about Darwinism and despair.
There was one game.
Only one game that mattered.
Kickball.
Not just kickball.
Not casual, friendly kickball.
But KICKBALL.
Capital letters.
The kind where rules were enforced with the fervor of religious doctrine.
Where disputes were settled with violence.
Where your social standing was determined entirely by:
How hard you could kick
How fast you could run
How willing you were to peg someone in the face with a rubber ball
I could do none of these things well.
I was small.
Slow.
And fundamentally opposed to the concept of intentionally hurting someone for recreational purposes.
Which made me—in the ecosystem of Freedom Christian School—
prey.
THE KICKBALLERS
They had names.
I won't use them.
But I remember them.
The Enforcer - a kid who was somehow already six feet tall in fourth grade. Wore oversized basketball jerseys. Kicked the ball so hard it once cleared the fence and landed in the church parking lot. The game stopped. We all watched it bounce between cars. Someone whispered "holy crap." The Enforcer just stood there, hands on hips, like a victorious warlord.
The Strategist - smaller, but vicious. Knew every technicality. Would argue for fifteen minutes about whether someone was "safe" or "out." Always won the argument through sheer exhaustion of everyone else's will to live.
The Screamer - exactly what it sounds like. Celebrated every victory by screaming directly into your face. Every loss by screaming at teammates. Just... constant screaming. I think about her sometimes. Wonder if she's okay. If she ever found peace. Or if she's still out there somewhere. Screaming.
And then there was—
The Pack.
The mass of kids who weren't individually remarkable but collectively formed an impenetrable wall of kickball culture.
They spoke in sports references I didn't understand.
They wore Nike.
They knew things about professional athletes.
They were... normal.
And I was not.
THE IMAGINATIVE EXILE
I didn't want to play kickball.
I wanted to play.
Real play.
Imaginative play.
I wanted to be in the woods at the edge of the blacktop—
the thin strip of trees that separated the school from the real world—
where you could pretend to be anything.
An explorer.
A wizard.
A scientist discovering new species.
Anything but... this.
But the woods were off-limits.
"Too dangerous," the teachers said.
Which was hilarious.
Because the blacktop—where children were actively injuring each other—was somehow safer than trees.
So I was stuck.
On the edges.
Watching.
Occasionally being forced to participate when teams were uneven and they needed "one more person."
I was always picked last.
Not because I was bad—though I was—
but because picking me was seen as a penalty.
A punishment for losing the previous game.
"Ugh, fine, we'll take Orson."
Said with the enthusiasm of someone accepting a participation trophy they didn't want.
THE TEACHERS AS JAILKEEPERS
The teachers at Freedom Christian School were not educators.
They were jailkeepers.
Wardens.
Guards stationed at the perimeter to ensure we didn't escape.
They didn't teach so much as... recite.
Recite Bible verses.
Recite Christian commercial rhetoric that sounded like it came from a marketing pamphlet.
"Jesus loves you, but you must also love discipline."
"God has a plan for your life, and that plan includes obedience."
"Freedom in Christ means freedom from sin, not freedom to do whatever you want."
Everything was a trap.
Every concept twisted into compliance.
They'd say "freedom" but mean "submission."
They'd say "love" but mean "fear."
They'd say "grace" but mean "you're one mistake away from punishment."
MRS. HENDERSON
I need to tell you about Mrs. Henderson.
Fifth-grade teacher.
Fifty-something.
Hair sprayed into a helmet.
Wore long denim skirts and turtlenecks even in summer.
She had a way of smiling that felt like a warning.
Like she was about to tell you something "for your own good" that would haunt you for years.
She loved to remind us—
constantly—
that we were "blessed" to be at Freedom Christian School.
"Public school children," she'd say, with a mixture of pity and disgust, "don't have the truth."
As if truth were a commodity.
Something you could only get at a Christian school.
Like a membership to Costco.
She'd tell us stories.
Cautionary tales.
About children who left Freedom Christian for public school.
And how they "fell away."
Got into drugs.
Became secular.
Lost their way.
Died spiritually.
She said this to ten-year-olds.
And we believed her.
Because we didn't know any better.
Because she was the authority.
Because questioning her meant questioning God.
And questioning God?
That was the one thing you didn't do.
THE RHETORIC
The Christian commercial rhetoric was everywhere.
In the textbooks—published by companies with names like "Bob Jones University Press" and "A Beka Book."
In the posters on the walls—cheerful cartoons of children praying with captions like "Start Your Day with Jesus!"
In the daily announcements—reminding us to "walk in the light" and "be good witnesses."
It was branding.
Jesus as a product.
Christianity as a lifestyle brand.
Complete with merchandise—bookmarks, pencils, stickers—all featuring Bible verses in Comic Sans.
And we—
small, impressionable, desperate to belong—
bought it.
Literally and figuratively.
At the book fair, I bought a bookmark that said "Jesus is my Homeboy."
I didn't know what a homeboy was.
But it seemed important.
THE ISOLATION
Here's what they don't tell you about Christian schools:
They're designed to keep you isolated.
From the world.
From "secular influences."
From anyone who might make you question.
We didn't watch regular TV.
We didn't listen to secular music.
We didn't have friends outside the church.
Everything was contained.
Controlled.
A closed loop.
And if you were someone like me—
someone who already felt different—
someone who wanted to play pretend instead of kickball—
someone who asked too many questions—
The isolation was absolute.
THE BULLIES
The bullies at Freedom Christian School were different from public school bullies.
Or so I'm told.
I've never actually been to public school.
But the difference, I think, was this:
Our bullies had God on their side.
They could be cruel—
pushing, shoving, mocking, excluding—
and then turn around and sing "Jesus Loves Me" in chapel.
Without irony.
Without cognitive dissonance.
Because they'd been taught that being a "good Christian" didn't mean being kind.
It meant being right.
And if you were weak?
If you didn't fit?
If you couldn't kick a ball hard enough or run fast enough or perform masculinity correctly?
That was your sin.
Your failure.
Not theirs.
THE BREAKING POINT
There was a day.
I remember it clearly.
Recess.
Kickball.
I was in the outfield.
Where I always was.
As far from the action as possible.
Hoping—praying—that the ball wouldn't come to me.
It came to me.
Of course it did.
A high, arcing kick.
Straight toward me.
I ran.
Positioned myself.
Reached up—
And dropped it.
The ball hit my hands and bounced off.
Like I'd been trying to catch water.
The groans were immediate.
"ORSON!"
"COME ON!"
"WHY ARE YOU EVEN PLAYING?!"
And The Screamer—
bless her tormented soul—
ran across the entire field.
Got in my face.
And screamed.
Just... screamed.
No words.
Just sound.
Pure, distilled rage.
I stood there.
And I thought:
I don't want to be here.
I don't want to be at this school.
I don't want to play this game.
I don't want to be this version of myself.
And something inside me—
something small but vital—
broke.
THE AFTERMATH
I stopped trying.
Just... stopped.
Stopped trying to fit in.
Stopped trying to be good at kickball.
Stopped trying to be the kind of Christian they wanted me to be.
I became invisible.
Walked the perimeter during recess.
Sat in the back during class.
Gave the answers they wanted to hear.
But stopped believing them.
I learned to perform.
To say the right things.
To bow my head during prayer while thinking about anything else.
Star Trek.
Books.
Anywhere but here.
I became a ghost.
Haunting the halls of Freedom Christian School.
Waiting.
Waiting to leave.
THE ESCAPE
I did leave.
Eventually.
Seventh grade.
My parents—God bless them—finally listened when I said I couldn't do it anymore.
We switched to public school.
And it was...
Different.
Not perfect.
Not a utopia.
But different.
There were options.
You didn't have to play kickball if you didn't want to.
You could join drama.
Or art.
Or just... sit in the library.
Teachers didn't tell you that secular music was demonic.
They just... taught.
And I—
for the first time in years—
could breathe.
THE RECKONING
Sometimes I wonder what happened to those kids.
The Kickballers.
The Screamer.
The Enforcer.
I wonder if they remember Freedom Christian School the way I do.
Or if, for them, it was just... childhood.
Normal.
Unremarkable.
I wonder if they ever think about the kid in the outfield.
The one who couldn't catch.
Who didn't fit.
Who eventually disappeared.
Probably not.
I wasn't important enough to remember.
I was just... there.
A background character in their story.
But they are central to mine.
Because Freedom Christian School—
with its kickball brutality and its jailkeeper teachers and its commercial Christian rhetoric—
taught me something important:
Not every place that calls itself "freedom" actually is.
And sometimes the most Christian thing you can do—
is leave.
THE LESSON
I don't blame the kids.
Not really.
They were just... kids.
Doing what kids do.
Forming hierarchies.
Establishing dominance.
Surviving.
But I do blame the system.
The adults who saw what was happening—
the cruelty, the exclusion, the violence of the blacktop—
and called it "character building."
Who saw children suffering and called it "discipline."
Who turned Jesus into a brand and compliance into virtue.
They failed us.
All of us.
The kickballers and the outcasts alike.
And Freedom Christian School—
with its blacktop coliseum and its commercial rhetoric and its complete lack of actual freedom—
remains, for me, a monument to everything that's wrong with American evangelical culture.
A place where belonging required conformity.
Where love required obedience.
Where freedom meant captivity.
And where a small, imaginative kid—
who just wanted to play in the woods and ask too many questions—
learned that sometimes the cruelest prisons—
are the ones that claim to set you free.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, carrying the weight of kickballs he never caught and prayers he never meant. Behind him, the blacktop remains—cracked, unforgiving, and still hosting games where someone always loses. He does not look back.)
When The Canned Goods Were No Good At All
Or: How I Learned the Ways of the Soup Trade
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I need to tell you about the soup.
Not just any soup.
The soup.
The soup that taught me everything I know about commerce, deception, and the fragile social contract that holds our civilization together.
The soup that came from a food pantry in 2009.
During what historians call "The Great Recession."
And what I call "The Year I Ate Nothing But Expired Soup."
THE CONTEXT
2009 was not kind to anyone.
But it was particularly unkind to aspiring theater people with no marketable skills and a belief that "the universe provides."
Spoiler: The universe does not provide.
Food pantries provide.
And credit cards you'll regret.
And the occasional mysterious five-dollar bill you find in an old jacket.
But the universe?
The universe just watches.
I was living in a basement apartment.
$400 a month.
Which sounds cheap until you factor in:
No natural light
A ceiling you could touch while standing
Neighbors who fought at volumes previously thought impossible
A shower that produced water in exactly two temperatures: scalding or hypothermic
But it was mine.
Or at least, I was paying for it.
Which, in 2009, felt like an achievement.
THE PANTRY
The food pantry was in a church basement.
Because of course it was.
Churches and basements.
The twin pillars of American poverty infrastructure.
It was open every Wednesday from 2-4 PM.
You had to bring ID.
Proof of address.
Proof of need.
Which, let me tell you, is a special kind of humiliation.
Having to prove—officially—that you are struggling.
That you can't afford food.
That you are, by all measurable standards, failing.
But I went.
Because pride is a luxury.
And I was out of luxuries.
THE SELECTION PROCESS
Here's how it worked:
You'd wait in line.
They'd check your paperwork.
Then they'd let you into a room.
A concrete room with folding tables covered in donated food.
And you could take—
according to the rules posted on the wall—
"One item from each category."
The categories were:
Protein (canned tuna, beans, sometimes mystery meat)
Grain (pasta, rice, expired crackers)
Vegetable (canned corn, green beans, things that used to be vegetables)
Fruit (canned peaches, fruit cocktail in heavy syrup)
And... Soup
Soup had its own category.
Because there was so much of it.
So much soup.
Donated soup.
Expired soup.
Soup that grocery stores couldn't sell.
Soup with dented cans.
Soup with labels barely hanging on.
Soup from brands you've never heard of and will never hear of again.
THE SOUP WALL
The soup section was overwhelming.
Not because of variety.
But because of volume.
There must have been 200 cans.
All different.
All suspect.
And you had to choose one.
One can of soup to sustain you for the week.
Or until you came back next Wednesday.
Whichever came first.
This is where I learned the soup trade.
The art of evaluation.
The science of survival.
THE PRINCIPLES OF SOUP SELECTION
Over time, I developed a system.
Principle 1: Avoid The Dented Cans
A dented can is a gamble.
It might be fine.
It might give you botulism.
Botulism sounds like a character from a Jane Austen novel.
But it's not.
It's death.
Or at least severe gastrointestinal distress.
And when you're already struggling?
You can't afford severe gastrointestinal distress.
Principle 2: Check The Expiration Date
Most of the cans were expired.
That's why they were there.
But there are levels of expired.
Six months expired? Probably fine.
Two years expired? Questionable.
Five years expired? That's not food anymore. That's a science experiment.
Principle 3: Read The Ingredients
Some of these soups had ingredients I'd never heard of.
"Modified food starch."
"Hydrolyzed soy protein."
"Natural and artificial flavors."
What's an artificial flavor?
How do you artificially create... flavor?
If it's not real flavor, what IS it?
These are questions you ask yourself in a church basement at 2:30 PM on a Wednesday.
Principle 4: Consider The Brand
Campbell's? Safe bet.
Progresso? Reliable.
"Soup Time"? Never heard of it, but okay.
"Chef's Pantry"? Concerning.
"Hearty Harvest"? Sounds made up.
"Lord Wellington's Aristocratic Bisque"? I'm not making that up. That was a real can. I still think about it.
Principle 5: Avoid Cream-Based Soups
Cream doesn't age well.
Cream in a can that's been sitting in a warehouse for three years?
Definitely doesn't age well.
Stick with broth-based.
Tomato.
Vegetable.
Things that were always kind of questionable so you can't tell if they've gone bad.
THE CHOICE
Every Wednesday, I'd stand there.
Evaluating.
Strategizing.
Playing soup roulette.
Sometimes I'd choose based on what sounded good.
"Chicken noodle. Classic. Comforting."
Sometimes based on perceived nutritional value.
"Minestrone. Has vegetables. Probably."
Sometimes based on pure chaos.
"Beef barley? I've never had beef barley. Let's do this."
And I'd take my can.
My one can.
My weekly ration.
And go home.
THE PREPARATION
Here's the thing about eating donated soup:
You can't just heat it and eat it.
You have to interrogate it first.
Open the can slowly.
Smell it.
Does it smell... normal?
Define normal.
Does it smell like food?
Or does it smell like regret and industrial preservatives?
Look at it.
Is the texture... right?
Is it soup?
Or is it some kind of... suspension?
A liquid holding chunks hostage?
Taste it.
Small sip.
Wait thirty seconds.
If you're still alive?
Proceed.
THE VARIETIES
Let me tell you about some of the soups I encountered:
Tomato Basil (Expired 2007)
Tasted like someone described a tomato to a robot and the robot did its best.
Not inedible.
But not... food.
Chicken with Wild Rice (Dented, Brand Unknown)
The chicken was gray.
Not white. Not brown. Gray.
I ate it anyway.
Survived.
Barely.
French Onion (From A Brand Called "Château Délicieux")
There was no château.
There was nothing delicious.
Just onions suspended in what I can only describe as "brown."
Clam Chowder (Expired 2005)
I didn't eat this one.
I looked at it.
Smelled it.
And made the executive decision to go hungry that day.
Some risks are not worth taking.
Split Pea with Ham (Progresso, Only 3 Months Expired)
This was the good stuff.
This was what you hoped for.
Recognizable brand.
Recent-ish expiration.
Actual pieces of ham.
I ate this soup slowly.
Savored it.
Made it last two days.
This was luxury.
THE EDUCATION
The soup taught me things.
Important things.
Lesson 1: Desperation Has No Flavor Preference
When you're hungry—really hungry—you stop being picky.
That French onion soup I complained about?
I ate every drop.
And was grateful.
Lesson 2: Expiration Dates Are Suggestions
Not rules.
Not laws.
Suggestions.
Gentle recommendations from a more optimistic time.
Lesson 3: Texture Matters More Than Taste
You can tolerate bad taste.
But bad texture?
That stays with you.
Haunts you.
I once ate a soup that had... lumps.
Unidentified lumps.
I still don't know what they were.
I never will.
Lesson 4: Gratitude Is Complicated
I was grateful for the soup.
Genuinely.
It kept me alive.
But I also resented it.
Resented needing it.
Resented the church basement and the paperwork and the proof of failure.
Both things were true.
Gratitude and resentment.
Simultaneously.
Lesson 5: The Soup Trade Has No Honor
Only survival.
THE HIERARCHY
Among the people at the food pantry, there was an unspoken understanding.
A hierarchy based on how frequently you came.
The regulars—people who'd been coming for years—they knew the system.
They knew which days had the best donations.
They knew how to negotiate for extra items.
They knew the volunteers by name.
I was not a regular.
I was temporary poor.
Theater poor.
"This is just until I get cast in something" poor.
Which is different from poor poor.
And everyone knew it.
The regulars could tell.
I was a tourist in their world.
And they treated me accordingly.
With polite distance.
Not unkindly.
But not warmly either.
I was taking soup that could have gone to someone who needed it more.
And I knew it.
And they knew I knew it.
And we all just... existed in that knowledge.
THE TURNING POINT
I stopped going to the food pantry in 2010.
Got a job.
A real one.
Waiting tables at a place that served overpriced sandwiches to people who didn't notice the price.
I could afford groceries again.
Real groceries.
Fresh vegetables.
Bread that wasn't stale.
And soup—
soup that I chose.
Not because it was available.
Not because it was expired.
But because I wanted it.
The first time I bought soup at a grocery store after that year—
I stood in the aisle for fifteen minutes.
Just looking.
At all the options.
All the varieties.
All the cans that weren't dented.
Weren't expired.
Weren't mysteries.
And I cried.
Just a little.
Right there in the soup aisle.
Because I could choose.
THE LEGACY
I still eat soup.
All the time.
But I'm different about it now.
More deliberate.
More appreciative.
I check expiration dates—not out of fear, but out of respect.
For the food.
For the fact that I can afford to be picky.
For the privilege of not having to eat something questionable.
And sometimes—
when I'm in a grocery store—
I buy an extra can of soup.
A good one.
Campbell's. Progresso.
Not the store brand.
Not the cheap stuff.
The good stuff.
And I donate it.
To food pantries.
To church basements.
To the concrete rooms with folding tables.
Because I remember.
I remember what it's like to stand in front of the soup wall.
To evaluate your options.
To make choices based not on preference—
but on survival.
And I want someone else—
some other broke theater person or struggling parent or temporarily displaced human—
to open a can of soup and think:
"Hey. This one's actually pretty good."
THE CONCLUSION
The canned goods were no good at all.
Most of them.
But they were what I had.
And they taught me more about commerce, class, and the fragility of stability than any economics class ever could.
They taught me that poverty is expensive.
That dignity is a luxury.
That gratitude and resentment can coexist.
And that soup—
humble, unpretentious, often-expired soup—
can be both sustenance and teacher.
The soup trade has no honor.
Only hunger.
Only need.
Only the quiet desperation of Wednesday afternoons in church basements.
But it also has something else:
Community.
Unspoken.
Uncomfortable.
But real.
We were all there.
In the soup aisle.
Making our choices.
Surviving.
Together.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, carrying a can of Campbell's Tomato Soup—fresh, undented, properly dated. He pauses at the donation bin. Adds a second can. Then a third. The soup wall will always be there. But maybe—just maybe—it can be a little less desperate. A little more dignified. One can at a time.)
My Arduous Valentine
Or: The Quest to Find a Card That Says "I Love You, But Not Too Much, And Also I'm Sorry About Tuesday"
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
Valentine's Day is a trap.
Not a romantic one.
A logistical one.
A test designed to expose every weakness in your character.
Every failure in planning.
Every gap in your emotional vocabulary.
It is February 13th.
7:47 PM.
And I am standing in a Walgreens.
In the Valentine's Day card aisle.
The picked-over Valentine's Day card aisle.
Searching for the impossible:
A card that expresses affection without being saccharine.
Humor without being dismissive.
Sincerity without being performative.
And also—crucially—
A card that acknowledges that Tuesday happened.
Tuesday.
When I may have said something.
Something I didn't mean.
Something that needs addressing.
But not so directly that it ruins Valentine's Day.
This card must thread a needle.
Navigate a minefield.
Perform emotional alchemy.
And I have—
I check my phone—
Thirteen minutes before this Walgreens closes.
THE SITUATION
Let me explain Tuesday.
We were cooking dinner.
Ash—my wife, my love, the person I'm now desperately trying to buy a card for—
was telling me about her day.
A difficult patient.
A coworker who said something passive-aggressive.
The usual trials of hospital nursing.
And I—
exhausted from my own day—
said:
"At least you have good benefits."
"At least you have good benefits."
I heard it come out of my mouth.
Watched it land.
Watched her face do that thing.
The thing where she's deciding whether to engage or just... let it go.
She let it go.
Which is worse.
So much worse.
Because now it's there.
Hovering.
Unaddressed.
Waiting.
And Valentine's Day is tomorrow.
And I need—
need—
a card that somehow says:
"I love you deeply and also I'm an idiot sometimes and also please don't hold Tuesday against me forever."
But in card form.
With a nice design.
Under $7.
THE AISLE
The Valentine's section is devastated.
A retail crime scene.
Like a tornado touched down specifically here.
Cards scattered.
Envelopes missing.
Some cards bent.
Some cards clearly opened and read and rejected and shoved back wrong.
This is what happens when you wait until February 13th at 7:47 PM.
This is what you deserve.
The remaining cards fall into several categories:
Category 1: Too Much
"You are my EVERYTHING. My WORLD. My REASON FOR BREATHING."
No.
Too intense.
We've been married for two years.
We're comfortable.
We're in love.
But we're not "reason for breathing."
We're "reason for buying the good coffee."
Category 2: Too Funny
"Roses are red, violets are blue, I tolerate you more than most people, and that's pretty cool."
Cute.
But not after Tuesday.
After Tuesday, "tolerate" reads as passive-aggressive.
I need earnest.
Earnest.
Category 3: Too Generic
"Happy Valentine's Day to Someone Special."
Who? Who is someone special?
This could be for anyone.
My wife.
My dentist.
The person who makes my sandwich at Subway.
TOO VAGUE.
Category 4: Too Specific (Wrong Specific)
"To My Sexy Valentine" with a cartoon of a muscular man and a woman in lingerie.
We are not cartoon people.
We are real people.
With real bodies.
And real exhaustion.
This card is for a different marriage.
Category 5: The Ones Clearly Left Behind For a Reason
"You're like a fart—silent but deadly."
No.
Just... no.
THE PANIC
I'm running out of time.
Running out of options.
I pull out my phone.
Text Ash:
"Hey, you still awake?"
Typing...
"Yeah, why?"
I stare at the message.
Consider telling her:
I'm at Walgreens trying to find you a card and they're all terrible and I'm sorry about Tuesday and I love you and—
But I don't.
Because that would ruin the surprise.
The gesture.
The performance of Valentine's Day.
Instead I write:
"Just wanted to say I love you."
Typing...
"Love you too. Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Just thinking about you."
Typing...
"Okay weirdo. See you soon."
I pocket my phone.
Look back at the cards.
Eight minutes until closing.
THE WORKER
A Walgreens employee approaches.
Young guy.
Maybe twenty-three.
Name tag: KYLE
"Sir, we're closing soon."
"I know. I'm looking for a Valentine's card."
He glances at the decimated aisle.
"Yeah, uh... good luck with that."
"Do you have any in the back?"
"In the back?"
"Yeah, like, stock. More cards."
He looks at me with the patience of someone who's had this conversation seventeen times today.
"If it's not out here, we don't have it."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Because last year—"
"Sir. We don't keep extra Valentine's cards in the back. What you see is what we have."
I nod.
Defeated.
Kyle starts to walk away, then pauses.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why didn't you buy a card earlier? Like... last week?"
Valid question.
Devastating question.
"I thought I had one," I lie.
I didn't think I had one.
I just... didn't think about it.
Until today.
When I remembered that tomorrow is Valentine's Day.
And Tuesday happened.
And I'm a fool.
Kyle nods slowly.
"Yeah. You're not the first guy to come in here tonight with that look."
"What look?"
"The 'I'm in trouble' look."
He's right.
He's so right.
"Good luck, man," Kyle says.
And leaves me.
Alone.
In the Valentine's wasteland.
Six minutes until closing.
THE COMPROMISE
I start grabbing cards.
Any card that's not actively offensive.
I'll buy several.
Read them all at home.
Choose the best one.
Return the others tomorrow.
Wait.
No.
I can't return them.
I'm reformed.
I don't return things anymore.
Damn it.
Damn my newfound ethics.
I put the extra cards back.
Stand there.
Staring.
And then—
Then—
I see it.
One card.
Partially hidden behind a "Congratulations on Your Divorce" card.
(Who puts that in the Valentine's section?)
I pull it out.
The front has a simple design.
Watercolor hearts.
Muted colors.
Not too cutesy.
Not too serious.
I open it.
The pre-printed message inside reads:
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying. Happy Valentine's Day."
I read it again.
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying."
It's perfect.
It's perfect.
It addresses Tuesday without mentioning Tuesday.
It's sincere without being overwrought.
It's an apology wrapped in a declaration of love.
It's—
I check the price sticker—
$6.99.
I'm buying it.
I'm buying this card.
THE CHECKOUT
I approach the register.
Kyle is there.
"Found one?"
"Found one."
He scans it.
Looks at the message.
Nods approvingly.
"That's a good one."
"You think?"
"Yeah. Covers a lot of bases. Apologizes without being too specific. She'll appreciate it."
"You sure?"
"Dude, I've seen like forty guys tonight. Trust me. This is a solid choice."
"What if she thinks it's generic?"
"It's not about the card, man. It's about the fact that you got one. You showed up. You tried."
He bags it.
Hands it to me.
"$7.52 with tax."
I pay.
"Good luck," Kyle says.
"Thanks. And hey—sorry for asking about stock in the back."
"It's cool. Everyone asks."
THE ADDITION
I sit in my car.
In the Walgreens parking lot.
Card in hand.
And I realize:
The card is good.
But it's not enough.
Not after Tuesday.
I need something else.
Something to show I thought about this.
Planned.
Tried.
I look around.
The stores nearby are closed.
Except—
The gas station.
Still open.
I drive over.
Walk inside.
Scan the options.
Flowers: Wilted carnations in plastic sleeves. No.
Candy: Those heart-shaped boxes that are 90% air. No.
Stuffed animals: A bear holding a heart that says "I Wuv You." Absolutely not.
And then—
In the back—
The refrigerated section—
Cherry Coke Zero.
Her favorite.
The one she can never find.
The one she always mentions when we pass it.
"Oh, they have Cherry Coke Zero! Should I get one?"
And I always say, "If you want."
And she says, "No, I'm good."
But she's not good.
She wants one.
She always wants one.
She just doesn't buy it.
I grab a six-pack.
And a single rose.
One of those single roses in a plastic tube.
It's not fancy.
But it's something.
It's more than just the card.
THE RETURN HOME
I get home.
9:03 PM.
Ash is on the couch.
Watching something on her laptop.
"Hey," she says.
"Hey."
She looks at the bag in my hand.
"What'd you get?"
"Uh... supplies. For tomorrow."
"For what tomorrow?"
"Valentine's Day."
She smiles.
That smile.
The one that says: Oh, you remembered.
"You didn't have to get anything," she says.
"I wanted to."
She closes her laptop.
Looks at me.
"You know you don't have to do Valentine's Day, right? It's... it's a made-up holiday."
"I know."
"And I'm not expecting anything—"
"I know. But I want to. Because—"
I pause.
Consider whether to mention Tuesday.
Decide against it.
"—because I love you."
She stands.
Walks over.
Hugs me.
"I love you too."
We stand there.
In the kitchen.
Holding each other.
And I think:
The card is in the bag.
The Cherry Coke Zero is in the bag.
The slightly sad gas station rose is in the bag.
Tomorrow, I'll give them to her.
And maybe—
maybe—
she'll know what I'm trying to say.
VALENTINE'S DAY MORNING
I wake up early.
Set the card on the counter.
Next to the Cherry Coke Zero.
Next to the rose, which I've put in a glass because we don't own a vase.
It looks...
Fine.
Not Instagram-worthy.
Not impressive.
But fine.
Sincere.
Ash wakes up.
Comes into the kitchen.
Sees the setup.
Stops.
"Orson..."
"Happy Valentine's Day."
She walks over.
Picks up the card.
Opens it.
Reads.
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying."
She looks at me.
"Is this about Tuesday?"
Damn it.
Damn it.
"Maybe a little."
"You don't have to apologize with a card."
"I know. But I wanted to. Because I was—I shouldn't have said that. About the benefits. You were telling me about your day and I—"
"It's okay."
"It's not. I was being dismissive."
"You were tired."
"That's not an excuse."
She sets the card down.
Picks up the Cherry Coke Zero.
"You got me Cherry Coke Zero."
"Yeah."
"You remembered."
"I always remember. You just never let yourself get it."
She smiles.
Opens one.
Takes a sip.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome."
"And the rose?"
"Gas station. But it's... it's a rose."
"It's perfect."
She's lying.
It's not perfect.
But she appreciates it.
That's what matters.
THE REAL GIFT
We spend Valentine's Day doing nothing special.
Watch a movie.
Order takeout.
Sit on the couch.
No fancy dinner.
No elaborate plans.
Just... us.
Being together.
Not performing.
Not pretending.
Just being.
And at one point—
during the movie—
she turns to me and says:
"You know what I appreciate?"
"What?"
"That you try."
"I don't always get it right."
"No one does. But you try. And that matters."
"I don't always get it right. But I'm always trying."
The card.
She's quoting the card.
Which means she actually read it.
Actually appreciated it.
Actually got it.
And I realize:
Kyle was right.
The card was good.
Not because of what it said.
But because I showed up.
I tried.
I remembered.
And sometimes—
sometimes—
that's enough.
THE LESSONS
Lesson 1: Don't Wait Until February 13th at 7:47 PM
This is obvious. But apparently I needed to learn it the hard way.
Lesson 2: The Card Doesn't Have to Be Perfect
It just has to be sincere. Even a semi-generic card can say what you need it to say if you mean it.
Lesson 3: Small Additions Matter
A six-pack of their favorite soda they never buy themselves? That shows you're paying attention.
Lesson 4: Apologize Directly, Not Just Through Gestures
The card was nice. But saying "I shouldn't have said that about Tuesday" was necessary.
Lesson 5: Valentine's Day Is Not About Grand Gestures
It's about showing up. Trying. Remembering. Doing the small things that say "I see you and I appreciate you."
Lesson 6: Kyle From Walgreens Gives Good Advice
Listen to Kyle. Kyle knows what he's talking about.
THE EPILOGUE
It's February 15th now.
The day after.
Valentine's Day clearance is in full effect.
Cards: 50% off.
Candy: 75% off.
Those sad stuffed bears: 90% off.
I walk past the Walgreens.
Consider going in.
Buying next year's card now.
Being prepared.
But I don't.
Because I know myself.
I'll forget where I put it.
Or lose it.
Or convince myself it's not quite right.
And I'll be back here.
Next February 13th.
At 7:47 PM.
In the picked-over Valentine's aisle.
Panicking.
But at least I'll know:
It's not about the card.
It's about showing up.
Trying.
Remembering.
And maybe—
maybe—
that'll be enough.
Again.
THE DEDICATION
To Ash.
My arduous valentine.
Not arduous because you're difficult.
But because loving you—
loving anyone—
properly—
is work.
Good work.
Important work.
Work I'm honored to do.
Even when I forget to buy a card until the last minute.
Even when I say stupid things about benefits.
Even when I show up with gas station roses and Cherry Coke Zero.
You see the effort.
The intention.
The trying.
And you love me anyway.
That's the real gift.
Not the card.
Not the candy.
Not the manufactured romance of February 14th.
But the daily choice.
To show up.
To try.
To love.
Even when it's hard.
Especially when it's hard.
Thank you.
For being my arduous valentine.
Every day.
Not just tomorrow.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, card tucked in a drawer for safekeeping. Next to the empty Cherry Coke Zero cans. Next to the gas station rose, now dried and preserved. Not because it's special. But because it represents something. The effort. The trying. The showing up. Valentine's Day ends. But the work continues. Every day. Forever. Arduous. Beautiful. Worth it.)
The Modern Major General of Dollar General
Or: How I Accidentally Became a Strategic Consultant to the Discount Retail Empire
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I am the very model of a modern Major-General,
I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral—
Stop.
Wrong kind of general.
Though... not entirely wrong.
Because for six months—
six glorious, confusing, utterly accidental months—
I became something far stranger:
The Modern Major General of my local Dollar Generals.
Plural.
All of them.
THE BEGINNING
It started innocently.
As all great disasters do.
I needed paper towels.
Simple.
Mundane.
The kind of errand that barely qualifies as an event.
I went to the Dollar General on Fifth Street.
The one near the Taco Bell with the broken sign.
I walked in.
Found the paper towels.
And noticed—
as one does when one has too much time and too many thoughts—
that they were in the wrong place.
Not wrong like "criminally wrong."
Just... inefficient.
They were on the bottom shelf.
In the back corner.
Next to the motor oil.
Which made no sense.
Paper towels are high-frequency items.
Everyone needs paper towels.
They should be visible.
Accessible.
Optimally placed.
I said this.
Out loud.
To no one.
Or so I thought.
THE MANAGER
A voice behind me:
"You're absolutely right."
I turned.
A woman in her forties.
Manager name tag: Brenda.
She looked exhausted in a way that suggested she'd been exhausted since 2008 and had simply learned to operate within it.
"I've been saying that for months," she said.
"But corporate doesn't listen."
"They just send the planogram and we're supposed to follow it."
I nodded.
Because I understood planograms.
Not because I worked in retail.
But because I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And I notice things.
Brenda looked at me.
Really looked.
And then she said the words that would change everything:
"You seem like you know what you're doing."
I did not.
But I do know how to appear confident while having no idea what I'm doing.
It's one of my core skills.
"Would you mind," Brenda continued, "just... looking around? Tell me what else is wrong?"
And I—
because I have never been able to resist a creative challenge—
said:
"Of course."
THE AUDIT
I spent ninety minutes in that Dollar General.
Ninety minutes.
Taking notes.
On my phone.
Like a deranged consultant.
I documented:
Seasonal items (Halloween decorations in July) taking up prime real estate
The greeting card aisle facing the wrong direction
Impulse buy items (candy, gum) positioned too far from checkout
The toy section somehow both overstocked AND inaccessible
A clearance endcap that hadn't been updated since the Obama administration
I presented my findings to Brenda.
She read them.
Slowly.
Then looked up and said:
"This is... actually really good."
"Can you come back tomorrow?"
THE EXPANSION
Tomorrow became next week.
Next week became monthly.
And then—
this is where it gets weird—
Brenda told the other managers.
There are seven Dollar Generals in my area.
Seven.
Within a fifteen-mile radius.
Which says something troubling about late-stage capitalism, but that's another essay.
The other managers started calling me.
Not officially.
Not through corporate.
Just... calling.
"Hey, Brenda said you helped reorganize her store?"
"Could you maybe... stop by ours?"
And I—
because I am a fool—
because I cannot resist the allure of unsolicited retail optimization—
said yes.
THE STRATEGY
I developed a system.
A methodology.
The Orson Optimization Protocol™ (not actually trademarked).
It went like this:
Step 1: The Walk
Enter the store.
Walk every aisle.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Notice the flow.
The bottlenecks.
The dead zones where no customer ever ventures.
Step 2: The Shopper Simulation
Imagine you are a customer.
A tired customer.
A customer who just wants laundry detergent and a Snickers bar.
How quickly can you find them?
If the answer is "not quickly," then something is wrong.
Step 3: The Heat Map (Mental)
Identify the high-traffic zones.
The areas everyone passes through.
Put the high-margin items there.
Put the impulse buys there.
Make them UNAVOIDABLE.
Step 4: The Clearance Purge
If something has been on clearance for more than two months?
It's not going to sell.
Move it to a "last chance" endcap near the exit.
Or accept defeat and donate it.
Step 5: The Seasonal Rotation
Seasonal items should NEVER occupy permanent shelf space.
They go on temporary displays.
Near the entrance.
Where they create excitement.
Urgency.
Then they disappear when the season ends.
No lingering Christmas décor in March.
No Easter baskets in July.
Respect the calendar.
THE RESULTS
The stores started... improving.
Not dramatically.
They were still Dollar Generals.
Still fluorescent-lit temples of "good enough."
But better.
Customers could find things.
Checkout lines moved faster.
Sales—according to Brenda—went up 7%.
Seven percent!
In retail, that's basically a miracle.
The managers started treating me like a visiting consultant.
They'd have coffee ready when I arrived.
They'd walk me through their problem areas.
"The toy aisle is a disaster."
"No one can find the cleaning supplies."
"Why do we have so many bird feeders?"
And I—
with the confidence of someone who has no formal training whatsoever—
would offer solutions.
Move this.
Consolidate that.
For the love of God, put the lightbulbs near the batteries.
THE NICKNAME
It was Brenda who started calling me "The General."
As a joke.
But then the other managers picked it up.
"The General's coming on Thursday."
"Have you asked The General about your seasonal display?"
"The General says we need better signage."
And then—
because I am dramatic and cannot help myself—
I leaned into it.
I started wearing a blazer when I visited.
Carrying a clipboard.
I'd walk in and announce:
"The General has arrived. Show me your problem areas."
It was absurd.
It was ridiculous.
It was glorious.
THE CORPORATE INCIDENT
It couldn't last.
Of course it couldn't.
Because corporate eventually found out.
Not through official channels.
But because one of the district managers noticed that several stores in the same region had:
Similar layout improvements
Better sales numbers
Mysteriously consistent organization strategies
And started asking questions.
"Who authorized these changes?"
"Did you hire a consultant?"
"Where are these memos coming from?"
The managers—bless them—tried to cover.
"Oh, we just... collaborated."
"Shared some ideas."
"You know, team building."
But corporate wasn't buying it.
They sent someone.
A guy named Todd.
Regional something-or-other.
He walked into the Fifth Street store while I was there.
Clipboard in hand.
Mid-consultation.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
Brenda looked at both of us.
Todd said: "Who are you?"
I said—and I will never regret this—
"I am the Modern Major General of Dollar General."
There was a pause.
A long one.
Todd blinked.
"That's... not a real position."
"And yet," I said, "here I am."
THE END
They asked me to stop.
Politely.
But firmly.
Something about "liability."
And "unauthorized store modifications."
And "we appreciate your enthusiasm but please don't come back."
The managers were apologetic.
Genuinely sad.
Brenda gave me a gift card.
$25.
To Dollar General.
I still have it.
I can't bring myself to use it.
It feels like accepting a severance package from a job I never officially had.
THE LEGACY
But here's the thing:
The changes stuck.
I drive past those Dollar Generals sometimes.
The ones I "consulted" for.
And I can see—through the windows—
that the paper towels are still in the right place.
The seasonal displays are rotated properly.
The clearance endcaps are current.
My work remains.
I didn't change the world.
I didn't cure disease or end suffering.
I just... made it slightly easier to find paper towels in seven Dollar Generals in a fifteen-mile radius.
But in its own small way—
in its own absurd, unnecessary way—
that mattered.
At least to me.
And probably to Brenda.
THE REFLECTION
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if corporate had embraced it.
If they'd said: "You know what? Let's hire this weirdo."
"Let's make him an actual consultant."
But they didn't.
Because corporations don't work that way.
They don't want clever solutions from theater people who wandered in off the street.
They want metrics.
Credentials.
Compliance.
And I—
I am none of those things.
I am just a man who noticed that paper towels were in the wrong place.
And couldn't let it go.
THE ANTHEM
So yes.
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.
I know the layouts vegetable, seasonal, and mineral.
I've reorganized clearance from the recent to the trivial,
In matters of endcaps I'm the expert most tribunal.
I'm very well acquainted with the flow of customer travel,
I understand the science of why certain products sell or unravel.
About the planogram I'm teeming with a lot of news—
With many cheerful facts about the placement of children's shoes!
(I'm sorry. I had to.)
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, blazer draped over one arm, unused $25 gift card in pocket. Behind him, in seven Dollar Generals across the region, paper towels sit exactly where they should be. His legacy, modest but undeniable, endures.)
Volstead Homestead Volstead Instead Ousted
Or: The Day I Confidently Argued About Something I Didn't Understand While Holding Cured Meats
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I need to tell you about the day I lost an argument.
Not just lost.
Devastatingly, publicly, humiliatingly lost.
An argument I started.
An argument I was confident—certain—I would win.
An argument about American history.
About legislation.
About the Homestead Act.
Except it wasn't about the Homestead Act.
It was about the Volstead Act.
And I—
standing in a FedEx—
holding a box of cured meats—
did not know the difference.
THE SETUP
It was a Tuesday.
2:30 PM.
I was at FedEx.
Mailing a package to my brother Darrell.
Darrell lives in Montana.
On what he calls a "homestead."
What I call "a house with a large yard."
But he's committed to the bit.
Raises chickens.
Has a garden.
Talks about "living off the land" while ordering half his supplies from Amazon.
But I love him.
And he'd asked me to send him some specialty cured meats.
Salami. Prosciutto. Pepperoni.
The kind you can't get in rural Montana.
Or can, but won't, because he's "avoiding corporate grocery stores."
So I went to a specialty market.
Bought $87 worth of cured meats.
Packed them carefully in a box with ice packs.
And took them to FedEx.
To ship them to my homesteading brother.
My homesteading brother.
This detail is important.
THE LINE
The FedEx was busy.
Always is.
Everyone mailing packages.
Returns, probably.
(I felt a pang of guilt.)
I waited in line.
Box of meats in hand.
And in front of me—
two people.
Having a conversation.
A loud conversation.
About history.
About legislation.
About—
and I perked up—
The Homestead Act.
THE CONVERSATION
Man #1, wearing a "Don't Tread on Me" shirt: "The Homestead Act was the greatest piece of legislation this country ever passed. Gave people land. Gave them opportunity. That's what made America great."
Man #2, wearing glasses and an air of intellectual superiority: "Greatest? It displaced indigenous populations and led to environmental devastation."
Man #1: "It gave people FREEDOM. The freedom to own land. To build something."
Man #2: "It gave white settlers stolen land."
Man #1: "Here we go with the—"
And then I—
I—
holding my box of meats—
waiting to mail them to my homesteading brother—
having recently listened to a podcast about Prohibition—
chimed in.
"Actually," I said.
"Actually."
The worst way to start any sentence.
Both men turned.
"The Volstead Act—I mean, the Homestead Act—was repealed because it was causing too many problems."
Man #1 blinked. "What?"
"Yeah," I continued, confidence growing. "It was supposed to help people, but it ended up creating all this illegal activity. So they repealed it. In, like, the '30s."
Man #2 stared at me. "The Homestead Act... was not repealed."
"Yes it was," I said. Because I was SURE. I had just listened to that podcast. About legislation being repealed. About the problems it caused.
"The Homestead Act," Man #2 said slowly, "gave 160 acres of public land to settlers. It was passed in 1862. It's still technically in effect in Alaska."
"No," I said. "No, that's—you're thinking of something else."
"I'm not."
"You are. Because the Homestead—the one about giving people land—that was causing all the bootlegging and the illegal activity, so they—"
Man #1 interrupted. "Are you talking about Prohibition?"
"What? No. I'm talking about the Homestead Act."
"The Volstead Act," Man #2 said, with the patience of a kindergarten teacher, "was the legislation that enforced Prohibition. It was repealed in 1933."
I stood there.
Box of meats growing warm in my hands.
And realized—
slowly—
horribly—
what I had done.
THE REALIZATION
I had conflated them.
The Volstead Act (Prohibition enforcement).
And the Homestead Act (free land for settlers).
Two completely different pieces of legislation.
From completely different eras.
About completely different things.
And I had—with full confidence—
merged them into one.
In my brain, they were the same.
Because they sounded similar.
Volstead. Homestead.
Both old.
Both acts.
Both... legislation.
That was enough for my brain to file them together.
Into one super-act.
A hybrid law about giving people land and also banning alcohol.
Which made NO SENSE.
But I had committed.
Publicly.
THE DOUBLING DOWN
Here's the thing about being wrong:
The moment you realize it—
you have two choices.
Admit it immediately. Apologize. Learn.
Double down.
Guess which one I chose.
"Okay," I said, "maybe I'm thinking of a different Homestead Act."
"There's only one Homestead Act," Man #2 said.
"Are you sure? Because I definitely remember learning about the Homestead Act being repealed because of bootlegging."
"That," Man #1 said, "is the Volstead Act."
"Right, but wasn't the Volstead Act about land?"
"No."
"Are you SURE?"
"Yes."
"Because my brother—" I gestured with the box of meats "—lives on a homestead. In Montana. And he's always talking about homesteading laws and—"
"That doesn't make the Volstead Act about land."
"I'm not saying it IS. I'm saying maybe they're related."
"They're not."
"But they could be."
"They're not."
THE INTERVENTION
The FedEx employee—a saint of a woman named Patricia, according to her name tag—
cleared her throat.
"Sir? You're next."
I looked at her.
Grateful.
So grateful.
For the interruption.
For the escape route.
I stepped up to the counter.
Set down my box of meats.
Man #1 and Man #2 were still staring at me.
With a mixture of pity and concern.
Like they'd witnessed something tragic.
"I need to ship this," I said to Patricia.
"Where to?"
"Montana."
"What's in the box?"
"Cured meats."
She paused. "You're shipping... meat?"
"Yes."
"In this heat?"
"I have ice packs."
She looked at the box.
Then at me.
Then at the two men behind me, who were now whispering.
I heard fragments:
"...didn't know the difference..."
"...so confident though..."
"...poor guy..."
THE SHAME SPIRAL
Patricia processed my package.
Slowly.
Methodically.
While I stood there.
Drowning in shame.
Not just for being wrong.
But for being confidently wrong.
For inserting myself into a conversation.
Uninvited.
With information I was certain about.
That was completely incorrect.
For doubling down.
For arguing.
For refusing to admit—even when presented with facts—
that I had mixed up two completely different pieces of legislation.
"That'll be $47.89," Patricia said.
I paid.
In silence.
Took my receipt.
And turned to leave.
Man #1 called after me:
"Hey—just so you know—the Volstead Act was about alcohol."
"I know," I said quietly.
"And the Homestead Act was about land."
"I know."
"They're different things."
"I know."
I left.
Walked to my car.
Sat in the driver's seat.
And Googled—just to be completely sure—
"Homestead Act vs Volstead Act."
Wikipedia confirmed what I already knew:
I was an idiot.
THE AFTERMATH
I called Darrell that night.
"Hey, I shipped your meats."
"Thanks, man. Appreciate it."
"Yeah. Uh... question. You know about the Homestead Act, right?"
"Yeah, why?"
"And you know about the Volstead Act?"
"Prohibition enforcement. Yeah."
"They're... different things."
"Obviously."
"Right. Obviously. I just—I got into this thing today where I accidentally—"
"You didn't."
"I did."
"Orson."
"I conflated them."
"In public?"
"At a FedEx."
He laughed.
Laughed.
For a full minute.
"It's not funny," I said.
"It's hilarious. Did you argue about it?"
"...Maybe."
"Oh my god."
"I thought I was right!"
"About Prohibition being related to homesteading?"
"They both end in 'stead'!"
"That's not—that's not how legislation works."
"I KNOW THAT NOW."
THE EDUCATION
After I hung up—
still humiliated—
I did what any reasonable person would do.
I researched.
Extensively.
To make sure this never happened again.
The Homestead Act (1862):
Gave 160 acres of public land to settlers
Required them to live on it and improve it for 5 years
Intended to encourage westward expansion
Displaced Native Americans
Created environmental problems
Ended (mostly) in 1976, with Alaska exemption until 1986
The Volstead Act (1919):
Officially: "National Prohibition Act"
Enforced the 18th Amendment (Prohibition)
Banned manufacture, sale, and transportation of alcohol
Created massive bootlegging industry
Largely unsuccessful
Repealed in 1933 with the 21st Amendment
Similarities:
Both are old U.S. legislation
Both had unintended consequences
Both have "stead" in the name
Differences:
LITERALLY EVERYTHING ELSE
THE PATTERN
This wasn't the first time.
I realized, sitting there with my Wikipedia tabs open,
that I do this.
Regularly.
I conflate things.
Confidently.
Other Examples:
Thought "Holland" and "The Netherlands" were different countries (they're not)
Argued that "The Great Gatsby" was written by Hemingway (it wasn't)
Insisted that "Led Zeppelin" was named after the Hindenburg (partially true, but I explained it very wrong)
Claimed that "Cinco de Mayo" was Mexican Independence Day (it's not—that's September 16th)
Mixed up the Boer War and the Boxer Rebellion (different continents, different eras, different everything)
I don't do it on purpose.
My brain just... files things incorrectly.
Creates connections that don't exist.
And then—crucially—
convinces me I'm right.
THE PSYCHOLOGY
Why do we do this?
Why do we confidently assert things we don't actually know?
I've thought about this.
A lot.
Since the FedEx incident.
And here's what I've concluded:
Theory 1: The Curse of Surface Knowledge
I had heard of both acts. I knew they existed. My brain assumed that knowing they existed was the same as knowing what they were. It wasn't.
Theory 2: Pattern Recognition Gone Wrong
Volstead. Homestead. Similar sounds. Similar era (ish). Both "acts." My brain connected them. Filed them together. Made a false pattern.
Theory 3: The Confidence Trap
The less you know, the more confident you can be. Because you don't know what you don't know. Ignorance breeds confidence. Knowledge breeds doubt.
Theory 4: Social Performance
I wanted to contribute to the conversation. Wanted to seem smart. Educated. Informed. So I jumped in. Without actually checking if what I "knew" was correct.
Theory 5: The Double-Down Reflex
Admitting you're wrong in public feels like social death. So you argue. You defend. You make it worse. Because backing down feels harder than pushing forward. Even when you're clearly, obviously, devastatingly wrong.
THE SOLUTION
After the FedEx incident, I made some rules for myself:
Rule 1: If you're not 100% sure, don't argue.
95% sure? Not enough. 99% sure? Still not enough. If there's even a SLIVER of doubt—stay quiet. Google it later.
Rule 2: "I think" is your friend.
"I think the Homestead Act was repealed" is wrong, but recoverable. "The Homestead Act WAS repealed" is wrong and committed. Leave yourself an escape route.
Rule 3: If someone corrects you, say "Oh, you're right" immediately.
Not "Are you sure?" Not "But I thought..." Just: "Oh, you're right. My bad." And MOVE ON.
Rule 4: Don't insert yourself into conversations uninvited.
Especially about topics you learned from podcasts you half-listened to while doing dishes.
Rule 5: Wikipedia first, argue later.
If you have the urge to correct someone or contribute a fact, pull out your phone FIRST. Check. Verify. Then speak. Or don't speak. Often don't speak is better.
THE APOLOGY
I never saw those men again.
Man #1 and Man #2.
My debate opponents.
My educators.
My witnesses to shame.
But if I could, I'd say:
"You were right. Both of you. The Homestead Act and the Volstead Act are completely different. I conflated them. I argued when I should have listened. I doubled down when I should have admitted error. I'm sorry for wasting your time and for being That Guy. The guy who confidently argues about things he doesn't understand. I'm working on it. But I'm not there yet. As evidenced by... all of that."
They probably wouldn't remember me.
Or they would.
But as a funny story.
"Remember that guy at FedEx who thought Prohibition was about land?"
And honestly?
I deserve that.
THE BROTHER
Darrell got his meats.
Called me when they arrived.
"They made it. Still cold. Thanks, man."
"Good. Good. Did you know—and I'm just checking—did you know that the Homestead Act and the Volstead Act are different things?"
"Yes, Orson. I did know that."
"Just making sure."
"Are you still obsessing over this?"
"A little."
"It was two weeks ago."
"I KNOW."
"Let it go."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
But I couldn't.
Because the memory lives there now.
In my brain.
Filed under: "Times You Were Confidently Wrong in Public."
A growing folder.
A concerningly large folder.
THE MORAL
So here's what I learned:
Not from the acts themselves.
But from confidently conflating them.
Moral 1: Surface knowledge is dangerous.
Knowing something exists doesn't mean you know what it is.
Moral 2: Confidence is not the same as correctness.
You can be wrong with complete conviction. I am proof.
Moral 3: Admitting error is a skill.
And like all skills, it requires practice. I need more practice.
Moral 4: Sometimes the best contribution to a conversation is silence.
You don't have to weigh in on everything. Listening is also valuable.
Moral 5: Your brain will lie to you.
It will create false connections. File things incorrectly. And then present those errors as facts. Be skeptical. Even of yourself. Especially of yourself.
THE EPILOGUE
I still go to that FedEx.
It's the closest one.
Every time I walk in, I glance around.
Looking for them.
Man #1. Man #2.
Ready with my apology.
My admission.
My explanation of how I've grown.
But they're never there.
Patricia is, though.
She recognizes me now.
Always greets me the same way:
"Shipping more meats?"
"Not today."
"You sure? I could use the entertainment."
She knows.
She knows.
And I accept that.
Because some mistakes aren't erased.
They're just... incorporated.
Into who you are.
Into the stories people tell.
"Remember that guy who argued about Prohibition and homesteading while holding salami?"
That's me.
Forever.
THE FINAL THOUGHT
Volstead. Homestead. Volstead instead ousted.
The words still sound similar.
Still confuse my brain.
But now I know.
I know the difference.
The Volstead Act was about alcohol.
The Homestead Act was about land.
They are not the same.
They are not related.
They don't even make sense together.
And yet—
for one brief, humiliating moment at a FedEx on a Tuesday afternoon—
in my mind—
holding $87 worth of cured meats—
they were.
And two strangers—
and Patricia—
and my brother Darrell—
will never let me forget it.
Nor should they.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, never to confidently argue about historical legislation again. At least not without Wikipedia open. The FedEx remains. Patricia remains, ready to witness the next confident error, the next public conflation, the next person who thinks knowing a word is the same as knowing what it means. The meats arrive safely in Montana. The shame, however, stays local.)
The Man Who Returned Too Much
Or: A Cautionary Tale of Customer Service Abuse and Retail Redemption
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I need to confess something.
Something I'm not proud of.
Something that, in retrospect, reveals a darkness in my character I didn't know existed.
For approximately eighteen months—
between 2016 and 2018—
I returned everything.
Not some things.
Not most things.
Everything.
I became the person that retail workers whisper about.
The customer they recognize on sight.
The name that makes managers sigh.
I became—
The Man Who Returned Too Much.
And I need to tell you how it happened.
THE DISCOVERY
It started innocently.
As all descents into moral ambiguity do.
I bought a shirt at Target.
A blue button-down.
Nothing special.
Wore it once.
Realized it didn't fit quite right.
Returned it.
Easy.
No receipt needed—they looked it up in the system.
No questions asked.
Just: "Would you like store credit or back on your card?"
"Card, please."
Done.
And something in my brain clicked.
Not a good click.
A dangerous click.
The click that says:
Wait. I can just... do this? Anytime?
THE SLIPPERY SLOPE
The next purchase was a coffee maker.
Used it for a week.
Decided I didn't like it.
Returned it.
"Any problems with it?" the customer service person asked.
"Just didn't work for me," I said.
"No problem. Here's your refund."
No problem.
Those two words.
So casual.
So enabling.
Then it was a lamp.
Then a pair of shoes I wore twice.
Then a book I'd already read.
Then a set of towels I'd washed.
Once.
Each time, I told myself:
This is fine. This is what the return policy is for.
If they didn't want people returning things, they wouldn't have a 90-day return policy.
I'm just using the system as intended.
But I wasn't.
I wasn't.
I was abusing it.
And I knew it.
But I couldn't stop.
THE SYSTEM
Here's how it worked:
Target: 90-day return policy. No receipt needed if they can look it up. RedCard holders get an extra 30 days.
Walmart: 90 days for most items. Will take almost anything back. Have seen things.
Costco: Literally forever. No time limit on most items. The return policy that breaks reality.
Amazon: 30 days, but if you complain enough, they'll extend it. Customer service trained to just... give in.
Home Depot: 90 days. 365 days if you're a Pro member. Will accept returns that are clearly used.
I learned them all.
Memorized them.
Became fluent in return policy loopholes.
I knew which stores tracked returns.
Which ones would flag your account after too many.
Which ones didn't care.
I rotated.
Target one week.
Walmart the next.
Never the same store twice in a row.
Never the same cashier.
Strategic.
THE CATEGORIES
I returned everything.
Let me be specific:
Clothing: Bought. Wore once. Returned. Repeat.
My closet became a rental service. Except I wasn't paying. The stores were just... lending me clothes. Temporarily.
Electronics: Bought a Bluetooth speaker for a weekend trip. Returned it Monday. Bought headphones. Used them for two weeks. Returned them. "Sound quality wasn't what I expected." It was exactly what I expected. I just didn't want to pay for it anymore.
Kitchen Items: Bought a blender. Made smoothies for a month. Returned it. "Too loud." It was a blender. They're all loud. Bought a toaster. Returned it. "Didn't toast evenly." It did. I just wanted my money back.
Home Goods: Returned towels after washing them. Returned sheets after sleeping on them for six weeks. Returned a rug. A RUG. That had been on my floor. With vacuum marks. They took it back.
Books: This one haunts me. I'd buy books. Read them. Return them. "I didn't like it." Which was sometimes true. But often wasn't. I just didn't want to pay for knowledge I'd already consumed.
Tools: Bought a drill. Used it for one project. Returned it. "Didn't work as expected." It worked fine. I just didn't need it anymore. Bought a saw. Returned it. Bought a sander. Returned it. I was running a construction project on borrowed tools and calling it "trying things out."
THE JUSTIFICATIONS
I had reasons.
Reason 1: "I'm Poor"
This was true. I was broke. Constantly. The returns helped me survive. If I needed something for a week, I could buy it, use it, return it. Free rental. It felt like... resourcefulness.
Reason 2: "These Companies Can Afford It"
Target makes billions. Walmart makes billions. They budget for returns. They expect it. They're not going to go bankrupt because I returned a coffee maker. This was technically true. But also... not the point.
Reason 3: "The Return Policy Exists"
If they didn't want people returning things, they'd change the policy. I'm just using the system. Playing by their rules. Except I wasn't. I was exploiting them.
Reason 4: "Everyone Does It"
Not everyone. But some people. I'd seen them. The serial returners. The people with bags full of items and receipts. I wasn't alone. Which somehow made it feel... okay. It wasn't.
Reason 5: "It's Not Hurting Anyone"
This was the big one. The lie I told myself every time. Nobody was getting hurt. The stores were fine. The employees didn't care—it wasn't their money. No victims. Except there were. I just wasn't looking.
THE RECOGNITION
Around month nine, something changed.
I walked into Target.
Bag of returns in hand.
Approached customer service.
The woman behind the counter looked up.
Recognized me.
I saw it in her eyes.
Not anger.
Not judgment.
Just... knowing.
Oh. Him again.
She didn't say anything.
Just processed my return.
Professionally.
Efficiently.
But I knew.
I was known.
I was that guy.
THE SHAME
I should have stopped then.
But I didn't.
Because stopping would mean admitting I'd been wrong.
That I'd crossed a line.
That I'd become someone I didn't want to be.
So I kept going.
But the shame was there now.
Growing.
Every return.
Every "this didn't work out."
Every lie about why I was bringing something back.
The shame.
I started avoiding eye contact.
Speaking quietly.
Getting in and out as fast as possible.
Because if I didn't linger—
if I didn't engage—
maybe they wouldn't remember me.
Maybe I could stay anonymous.
But I couldn't.
They knew.
THE BREAKING POINT
It happened at Walmart.
I was returning a vacuum.
I'd had it for two months.
Used it regularly.
It worked fine.
But I decided I didn't want it anymore.
"Reason for return?" the cashier asked.
"It doesn't pick up as well as I thought it would."
She looked at the vacuum.
Then at me.
Then back at the vacuum.
"Sir, this is clearly used."
"I... I used it once. To test it."
"The bag is full."
The bag was full.
Because I'd been using it for TWO MONTHS.
She knew.
I knew she knew.
She knew I knew she knew.
We stood there.
In mutual understanding of what I was.
A liar.
She processed the return anyway.
Because that's what the policy says.
And I walked out.
$89.99 refunded.
And feeling worse than I'd ever felt about money.
THE MATH
I went home.
Pulled up my spreadsheets.
Because yes, I was tracking it.
Of course I was tracking it.
Over eighteen months, I had returned:
47 clothing items
12 electronics
8 kitchen appliances
23 home goods items
9 tools
14 books
6 pieces of furniture (FURNITURE)
Miscellaneous: 31 items
Total: 150 returns.
Total refunded: $8,347.23
Eight thousand dollars.
I had essentially borrowed eight thousand dollars worth of merchandise from retailers.
Used it.
Returned it.
And told myself it was fine.
It was not fine.
THE REALIZATION
I sat with that number.
$8,347.23.
And I thought about the people who made those returns possible.
The customer service workers who processed them.
Who had to smile and say "no problem" while knowing—knowing—I was abusing the system.
The managers who had to approve the returns.
Who saw the patterns.
Who flagged accounts.
Who made notes.
The other customers who paid full price.
Whose honest purchases subsidized my dishonest returns.
Because that's how it works.
Return fraud—and let's call it what it was—fraud—
gets baked into prices.
Everyone pays more because people like me abuse the system.
I wasn't stealing from a corporation.
I was stealing from everyone.
From myself.
THE REFORM
I stopped.
Cold turkey.
No more returns.
Unless something was genuinely defective.
Actually broken.
Not "I changed my mind."
Not "I don't want this anymore."
Not "I used it and now I'm done with it."
Broken.
It was hard.
Harder than I expected.
Because I'd become dependent on it.
On the ability to buy things without commitment.
To live above my means by returning everything.
To have what I wanted—temporarily—without paying the full cost.
Stopping meant:
Actually considering purchases before making them
Living with things I bought, even if they weren't perfect
Accepting that I couldn't afford everything I wanted
Being honest with myself about what I actually needed
It meant growing up.
THE APOLOGY TOUR
I went back.
To the stores.
The ones I'd frequented most.
I didn't apologize directly—that would've been weird.
But I did something else.
At Target: I bought $50 in gift cards. Left them at customer service with a note: "For your next customer who needs help."
At Walmart: I bought supplies for their employee break room. Coffee. Snacks. A card that said "Thank you for your patience."
At Costco: I donated to their charitable fund.
At Home Depot: I bought a gift card and told them to use it for someone who couldn't afford their purchase.
It didn't erase what I'd done.
Didn't make up for the 150 returns.
The $8,347.23 in abuse.
But it was something.
An acknowledgment.
A penance.
A start.
THE CURRENT STATUS
I still shop at those stores.
Sometimes I see the same customer service workers.
The ones who recognized me.
Who processed my ridiculous returns.
They don't say anything.
But sometimes—sometimes—
I catch a look.
A slight nod.
An acknowledgment.
You're different now.
We see it.
And I am.
Different.
I buy things.
I keep them.
Even when they're not perfect.
Even when I regret the purchase.
Because that's part of being an adult.
Making choices.
Living with them.
Paying for them.
THE LESSONS
Lesson 1: Return Policies Are Not Rental Agreements
Just because you can return something doesn't mean you should. The policy exists for defective products and genuine mistakes. Not for your commitment issues.
Lesson 2: Corporations Are Made of People
When you abuse return policies, you're not sticking it to "the man." You're making life harder for the worker at the counter who has to process your clearly-used vacuum and pretend they believe your lie.
Lesson 3: Poverty Doesn't Justify Everything
I was broke. That was real. But being poor doesn't give you license to abuse systems. It just makes you feel like it does.
Lesson 4: The Shame Is the Warning
If you feel ashamed doing something—if you're avoiding eye contact, speaking quietly, trying not to be recognized—your conscience is telling you something. Listen.
Lesson 5: The Math Eventually Catches Up
You can justify individual returns. But when you add them up? When you see the total? That's when you realize what you've become.
Lesson 6: Reform Is Possible
You can change. You can stop. You can be better. It requires honesty. Discomfort. Actually paying for things. But you can do it.
THE CONFESSION
So here it is.
My public confession.
I was The Man Who Returned Too Much.
I abused return policies.
I lied to customer service workers.
I justified bad behavior with poverty and corporate profit margins.
I became someone I'm not proud of.
And I stopped.
Not because I got caught.
Not because I got banned.
But because I finally looked at myself—
really looked—
and didn't like what I saw.
THE MESSAGE
If you're reading this and thinking:
"Oh god, I do this too"—
Stop.
Not tomorrow.
Not after this one last return.
Now.
Because every return you make—
every "it didn't work out"—
every used item you bring back pretending it's new—
You're not beating the system.
You're becoming someone you don't want to be.
And the worst part?
You know it.
That's why you avoid eye contact.
Why you speak quietly.
Why you try to go to different locations.
You know.
And knowing means you can change.
You can stop.
You can be better.
I did.
You can too.
THE REDEMPTION
I still think about those eighteen months.
The 150 returns.
The $8,347.23.
Not with pride.
Not with shame, anymore.
Just... acknowledgment.
I did that.
That was me.
But it's not me now.
Now I'm the guy who:
Keeps things even when they're not perfect
Tips extra at stores with good customer service
Tells retail workers "thank you for your patience" and means it
Actually considers whether I need something before buying it
Lives within my means, even when it's uncomfortable
I'm not perfect.
I still make bad purchases.
Still have buyer's remorse.
Still sometimes look at something and think:
I could return this.
But I don't.
Because I'm not The Man Who Returned Too Much anymore.
I'm just Orson.
Trying to be better.
One purchase at a time.
Kept.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, carrying a shopping bag. Inside: a purchase he's not entirely sure about. A shirt that might not fit perfectly. But he'll keep it. Because that's what you do. You make choices. You live with them. You pay for them. And slowly—transaction by transaction—you become someone you can be proud of. The customer service desk recedes behind him. Quiet. Waiting. For the next customer. But not for him. Not anymore.)
Oil Be Back: A Waiting Room Tale
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I am sitting in a waiting room.
Not a doctor's office.
Not a DMV.
Worse.
A car repair shop.
Specifically, a quick-lube place that promises—
in cheerful letters on their sign—
"In and Out in 30 Minutes!"
I have been here for an hour and twelve minutes.
And I know—
I know—
that when that door opens—
when the mechanic emerges with his clipboard and his practiced look of concern—
my life will end.
Not literally.
But financially.
Which, in America, is basically the same thing.
THE SETUP
I came here for an oil change.
Just an oil change.
A simple, routine maintenance procedure.
The automotive equivalent of a haircut.
Something you do regularly.
Something that costs a predictable amount.
Something that should not—under any circumstances—
destroy you.
But here's what I've learned:
There is no such thing as "just" an oil change.
An oil change is a gateway drug.
A trap.
A financial ambush disguised as responsible vehicle ownership.
You come in thinking: $39.99, plus tax, I'll be out in thirty minutes.
You leave thinking: How do I explain to my landlord that I can't pay rent because my serpentine belt was "concerning"?
THE WAITING ROOM
The waiting room is designed to break you.
Psychologically.
Spiritually.
Financially.
There are chairs.
Uncomfortable chairs.
The kind that are just soft enough to sit in—
but just firm enough to remind you that comfort is not the goal here.
There's a TV.
Mounted in the corner.
Playing the worst possible programming.
Today: a home improvement show where people with unlimited budgets renovate kitchens.
"We had $80,000 to work with, so we went with the Italian marble."
I have $143 in my checking account.
And I'm about to spend $40 of it on oil.
If I'm lucky.
There's a coffee machine.
It dispenses something that is technically coffee.
But tastes like regret and burnt rubber.
I've had two cups.
Not because I want them.
But because it gives me something to do.
Something to hold.
A prop in this theater of waiting.
There's a magazine rack.
Filled with magazines from 2019.
About cars.
Cars I will never own.
Cars that cost more than my student loan debt.
I flip through one.
Mindlessly.
Looking at photos of vehicles that represent financial security I will never achieve.
And then—
in the corner—
the vending machine.
It hums.
Softly.
Menacingly.
Calling to me.
With its rows of snacks I don't need but suddenly want desperately.
THE OTHER WAITERS
I am not alone.
There are others here.
Fellow prisoners.
Each in their own stage of grief.
The Optimist sits near the door.
Phone in hand.
Scrolling.
Occasionally glancing up.
Still believing—somehow—that this will be quick.
That the estimate will be reasonable.
That today is the day nothing is wrong.
Sweet summer child.
The Veteran sits in the back corner.
Arms crossed.
Eyes closed.
Not sleeping.
Just... conserving energy.
They've been through this before.
They know.
They're just waiting for the inevitable.
The Pacing Man cannot sit still.
He walks.
From one end of the waiting room to the other.
Checking his watch.
Looking out the window at his car.
As if he can will it to be finished through sheer anxiety.
I understand him.
I am him.
But I'm too tired to pace.
So I just sit.
And catastrophize.
And stare at the vending machine.
THE VENDING MACHINE DILEMMA
The vending machine stands against the far wall.
Glowing.
Beckoning.
A beacon of processed sugar and questionable decisions.
I can see—from here—
a Kit-Kat on the third row.
B7.
B7.
$1.75.
I want it.
I don't need it.
But I want it.
But here's the problem:
The calculation.
The calculation.
If I buy the Kit-Kat—
if I commit to the Kit-Kat—
that's an admission.
An acknowledgment.
That I'm going to be here long enough to need a snack.
That this isn't going to be quick.
That lunch—real lunch—is not happening.
But if I don't buy the Kit-Kat—
if I resist—
if I hold out, believing I'll be out of here in time for actual food—
What if I'm wrong?
What if I'm here for another hour?
Starving.
Watching that Kit-Kat.
Knowing I could have had it.
Regretting.
This is the game.
The vending machine knows.
It knows.
I stand.
Walk toward it.
Slowly.
Like approaching an altar.
I reach into my pocket.
Pull out my wallet.
Count my cash.
Three ones.
Two fives.
If I spend $1.75 on a Kit-Kat—
and then they tell me my car needs $800 in repairs—
that Kit-Kat better be worth it.
I stand there.
Staring at B7.
The Kit-Kat stares back.
We're in a standoff.
The Optimist walks past.
Glances at me.
At the vending machine.
Says nothing.
But I know what they're thinking:
Just buy it or don't. This isn't a philosophical crisis.
But it is.
THE INNER MONOLOGUE
Do I need the Kit-Kat?
No.
Do I want the Kit-Kat?
Yes.
Will I regret buying it if they call me in the next five minutes?
Probably.
Will I regret NOT buying it if I'm here for another hour?
Absolutely.
Is this about the Kit-Kat?
No.
What is this about?
Control.
Hope.
The belief that if I make the right choice—
if I read the signs correctly—
if I can just predict whether I'll be here long enough to justify a vending machine snack—
then maybe I have some control over this situation.
Which I don't.
I have no control.
But the Kit-Kat decision?
That's mine.
That I can control.
So I stand here.
Paralyzed by choice.
By the weight of this seemingly insignificant decision.
By the knowledge that whatever I choose—
I'll probably regret it.
THE DECISION
I don't buy it.
I walk back to my chair.
Sit down.
Resume waiting.
The Kit-Kat remains in B7.
Untouched.
Judging me.
Ten minutes pass.
My stomach growls.
I think: I should have bought it.
Five more minutes.
Still no word from the garage.
I think: I definitely should have bought it.
I look at the vending machine.
The Kit-Kat is still there.
Waiting.
We're both waiting.
I stand again.
This is ridiculous.
I'm a grown adult.
If I want a Kit-Kat, I can buy a Kit-Kat.
I walk over.
Feed the machine two ones.
Press B7.
The coil turns.
Slowly.
The Kit-Kat shifts.
Moves forward.
Gets stuck.
GETS STUCK.
You have got to be kidding me.
I stare at it.
Dangling there.
Halfway out.
Mocking me.
This is my life now.
This is what I've become.
A man whose Kit-Kat is stuck in a vending machine—
in a car repair waiting room—
while his vehicle may or may not be dying in the next room.
This is rock bottom.
I shake the machine.
Gently at first.
Then less gently.
The Veteran opens one eye.
Watches me.
Says nothing.
Goes back to conserving energy.
The Kit-Kat doesn't budge.
I consider my options:
Walk away. Lose $1.75. Accept defeat.
Buy another snack from the row above. Hope it knocks the Kit-Kat loose. Risk losing another $1.75.
Shake the machine harder. Risk breaking it. Risk being banned from this waiting room forever.
I choose option 2.
Because I am committed now.
This is personal.
I feed the machine another $1.75.
Press C7.
Doritos.
The coil turns.
The Doritos fall.
Hit the Kit-Kat.
Both fall into the slot.
I have won.
I have won.
At great cost.
$3.50 for a Kit-Kat and Doritos I didn't originally want.
But I have won.
I retrieve my prizes.
Walk back to my chair.
Victorious.
Broke, but victorious.
THE CATASTROPHIZING
Here's what's happening in my brain:
They're going to find something.
They always find something.
It's never just an oil change.
Never.
My mind spirals through the possibilities:
Scenario 1: The Upsell
"Your air filter looks pretty dirty. We can replace that for $45."
Do I need a new air filter? Probably not. But what if I do? What if my current air filter is so clogged that my engine is slowly suffocating? What if saying "no" to this $45 filter leads to a $4,000 engine replacement in six months?
Scenario 2: The Warning
"Your brake pads are getting pretty thin. You've got maybe 20% left."
What does 20% mean? Is that like... two more weeks? Two more months? Can I drive on 20% brake pads or is this a legal liability? Will my car fail to stop at an intersection and I'll career into a Walgreens, destroying both my vehicle and my prescription pickup?
Scenario 3: The Discovery
"So we found something concerning under here."
Concerning.
That word.
The worst word in the automotive lexicon.
Because "concerning" means expensive.
"Concerning" means unexpected.
"Concerning" means goodbye savings account, hello credit card debt.
Scenario 4: The Apocalypse
"Your transmission is leaking. We need to do a full rebuild. That's going to run you about $3,500."
This is it.
This is how it ends.
Not with a bang.
But with a transmission leak.
I'll have to sell the car for parts.
Walk everywhere.
Move back in with my parents.
Explain to them—at age 35—that I can't adult anymore because my car needed a transmission.
THE WAITING
Time moves differently in a car repair waiting room.
Minutes stretch.
Expand.
Each one feels like ten.
I check my phone: 2:47 PM
I check again: 2:49 PM
Two minutes.
It felt like twenty.
I unwrap the Kit-Kat.
Break off a piece.
The chocolate is slightly melted from sitting in the vending machine.
But it's mine.
Hard-won.
$3.50 worth of chocolate and corn chips.
I take a bite.
It tastes like victory.
And regret.
And the faint possibility that they'll call me in the next thirty seconds—
meaning I didn't need to eat in the first place—
meaning I could have had real lunch—
meaning this entire vending machine saga was pointless.
But the Kit-Kat is already open.
I'm committed now.
To everything.
The snacks.
The wait.
The impending financial doom.
I try to distract myself.
Scroll social media.
Everyone is having a better day than me.
Someone posted a photo of their new car.
"Just upgraded! Loving this ride!"
I want to comment: Congratulations. I'm currently waiting to find out if my 2009 Civic needs financial life support.
But I don't.
I just scroll.
And wait.
And imagine worst-case scenarios.
THE MANAGER APPEARS
At one hour and forty-three minutes—
thirty-seven minutes after the vending machine incident—
the door to the garage opens.
A man emerges.
Not the mechanic.
The manager.
This is worse.
This is so much worse.
Mechanics give you estimates.
Managers give you eulogies.
He's holding a clipboard.
His face is... neutral.
Practiced neutrality.
The kind that suggests he's about to tell you something you don't want to hear—
but he's been trained to deliver bad news with compassion.
He scans the room.
Makes eye contact with The Optimist.
Shakes his head subtly.
No.
The Optimist deflates.
Then he looks at me.
"McSeinfeld?"
My heart stops.
This is it.
The moment.
The financial reckoning.
I stand.
Walk over.
Trying to read his face.
Trying to prepare myself.
"So," he says, glancing at his clipboard.
"So."
The worst opening word.
Nothing good ever follows "so."
"We did the oil change. That's all done."
I wait.
There's more.
There's always more.
"And we did our complimentary inspection—"
Here it comes.
"—and everything looks good."
I blink.
"What?"
"Everything looks good. Your fluids are fine. Brakes are fine. No leaks. You're all set."
"I'm... all set?"
"Yep. Just the oil change. $42.83."
I stare at him.
This is a trick.
A test.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."
"Nothing else?"
"Nope."
"Not even... the air filter?"
"Air filter's fine."
"The brakes?"
"Good for at least another 10,000 miles."
"The... transmission?"
He smiles.
Not unkindly.
"Your transmission is fine, Mr. McSeinfeld."
THE DISBELIEF
I pay.
$42.83.
Exactly what I expected.
Exactly.
Plus $3.50 for snacks I didn't need.
Total damage: $46.33.
I could have had lunch.
Real lunch.
At a restaurant.
With a plate.
But instead I have:
Fresh oil
A Kit-Kat wrapper in my pocket
Half a bag of Doritos
The knowledge that I won a battle against a vending machine
And lingering suspicion that the universe is playing a long game
I walk to my car.
Keys in hand.
Still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Maybe the car won't start.
Maybe the mechanic forgot to put the oil cap back on and my engine will explode on the highway.
Maybe this is all a simulation and I'm actually in a coma and none of this is real.
But I get in.
Turn the key.
It starts.
Runs smoothly.
Better than before, even.
I pull out of the parking lot.
Merge into traffic.
Drive.
Nothing goes wrong.
THE AFTERMATH
I make it home.
Park.
Sit in my car for a moment.
Processing.
I went in for an oil change.
And got an oil change.
Just an oil change.
Nothing catastrophic.
No financial crisis.
No surprise expenses.
Just... a normal, routine maintenance experience.
And somehow—
somehow—
this feels wrong.
THE PARANOIA
Because here's the thing:
It's never this easy.
Never.
There's always something.
Always a catch.
Always a "well, as long as you're here..."
But not today.
Not this time.
Which means...
Which means it's coming.
The disaster.
The real one.
This was just the calm before the storm.
The universe lulling me into a false sense of security.
So that when the transmission does fail—
when the brake lines do rupture—
when the serpentine belt does snap—
I won't be prepared.
I'll have let my guard down.
And that's when it'll strike.
THE PHILOSOPHY
This is what poverty does to you.
Not actual poverty.
But close-to-the-edge poverty.
The kind where you have money—
but not enough.
Never enough.
Where every unexpected expense is a crisis.
Every car repair a catastrophe.
Every medical bill a disaster.
It trains you to expect the worst.
To catastrophize.
To sit in a waiting room for ninety minutes—
building elaborate financial apocalypse scenarios in your mind—
just in case.
Because being prepared for disaster feels safer than being blindsided by it.
Even if the preparation is just... anxiety.
Just waiting.
Just expecting the worst.
So when the worst doesn't come—
you don't feel relief.
You feel suspicious.
THE PATTERN
I've been here before.
In this waiting room.
Or waiting rooms like it.
Dozens of times.
And every time, it's the same spiral:
Drop off car for routine maintenance
Sit in waiting room
Catastrophize
Imagine financial ruin
Prepare for bad news
Receive... normal news
Feel suspicious
Drive home
Wait for the real disaster
Repeat in six months
It's exhausting.
But I can't stop.
Because the one time I don't catastrophize—
the one time I walk in confident that it'll just be an oil change—
that's when they'll tell me I need a new transmission.
The universe is watching.
Waiting.
Testing me.
THE LESSON
So what did I learn?
Lesson 1: Routine Maintenance is Never Routine
Even when it is, it doesn't feel like it. The anxiety remains.
Lesson 2: Waiting Rooms Are Psychological Warfare
They're designed to break you. To make you grateful for any outcome that doesn't involve a second mortgage.
Lesson 3: Financial Anxiety is Persistent
Even when nothing goes wrong, you still feel like something will. The threat is always there, hovering.
Lesson 4: Hope is Dangerous
Hoping for the best feels like tempting fate. Better to expect disaster and be pleasantly surprised.
Lesson 5: Oil Changes Are Never "Just" Oil Changes
In your mind, maybe not in reality. But in your mind? Always a potential catastrophe.
Lesson 6: The Vending Machine is a Test
Of patience. Of hope. Of whether you believe you'll be there long enough to justify a snack. You'll always make the wrong choice. The Kit-Kat will always get stuck. This is the way.
THE CONCLUSION
I survived.
The oil change.
The waiting room.
The catastrophizing.
All of it.
Nothing went wrong.
Everything was fine.
My car runs.
My bank account is intact.
I am... okay.
For now.
But in six months—
when that little sticker in my windshield tells me it's time—
I'll do it all again.
Drive to the shop.
Sit in the waiting room.
Drink terrible coffee.
Flip through outdated magazines.
And imagine—in vivid detail—
every possible financial disaster.
Because that's what I do.
That's what we all do.
Those of us who live on the edge.
Who know that one unexpected expense could unravel everything.
We sit.
We wait.
We catastrophize.
And sometimes—
just sometimes—
nothing goes wrong.
And that's both a relief and a warning.
Because next time?
Next time it might.
THE PROMISE
But I'll be back.
Oil be back.
In six months.
Or 3,000 miles.
Whichever comes first.
I'll return to that waiting room.
That purgatory of automotive anxiety.
And I'll sit.
And I'll wait.
And I'll spiral.
Because that's the price of vehicle ownership.
Not the oil change.
Not the maintenance.
The waiting.
The catastrophizing.
The ninety minutes of melodramatic dread.
That's the real cost.
And I'll pay it.
Every single time.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, car running smoothly, bank account barely damaged, anxiety fully intact. Behind him, the waiting room waits—empty chairs, terrible coffee, 2019 magazines—ready for the next victim. In six months, he'll return. And the cycle will begin again. Oil be back. Always.)
The Relentless Pursuit of Comfort and Convenience…or…How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Hate the Algorithm
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I ordered a sandwich the other day.
From my couch.
Without speaking to a human being.
Without leaving my apartment.
Without even looking at a menu.
The app—the cursed, omniscient app—already knew what I wanted.
"Your usual?" it asked.
And I—
like a fool—
like a tired, complicit fool—
clicked "yes."
Twenty-three minutes later, a knock at my door.
A person I will never see again handed me a bag.
Disappeared.
I ate.
It was fine.
Perfectly fine.
And that—
that—
is the problem.
THE SEDUCTION
We have been seduced.
All of us.
By comfort.
By convenience.
By the promise that life can be frictionless.
One-click ordering.
Same-day delivery.
Algorithms that know what we want before we do.
It started innocently.
"Wouldn't it be nice," they said, "if you didn't have to go to the store?"
And we said, "Yes. That would be nice."
"Wouldn't it be easier," they said, "if you didn't have to talk to anyone?"
And we said, "Yes. That would be easier."
"Wouldn't it be better," they said, "if we just... handled everything?"
And we—
exhausted, overworked, overstimulated—
said:
"Yes. Please. Take it all. I'm so tired."
And they did.
They took it all.
THE COST
But here's what they don't tell you.
What they never tell you.
Convenience has a cost.
Not in money—though yes, also in money.
But in something deeper.
Something we don't notice until it's already gone.
Friction.
Friction is what makes us human.
The awkward small talk with the cashier.
The unexpected conversation in line.
The moment you run into someone you haven't seen in years and end up talking in the parking lot for twenty minutes about nothing important and everything that matters.
Those moments?
Those beautiful, inconvenient, unscheduled moments?
They're disappearing.
Because we've decided they're inefficient.
THE GROCERY STORE
I used to go to the grocery store.
Not because I had to.
But because... I don't know.
It was something to do.
A reason to leave the house.
A destination with no real stakes.
I'd wander the aisles.
Compare prices I didn't care about.
Stand in the cereal aisle for ten minutes, contemplating childhood.
It was time.
Unproductive time.
Wasted time, maybe.
But it was mine.
Now?
I order groceries online.
They arrive.
In bags.
Chosen by someone else.
Who occasionally makes... interesting substitutions.
I once ordered bananas and received plantains.
I once ordered Greek yogurt and received cottage cheese.
The algorithm said: "Close enough."
And I—because I didn't want to go through the inconvenience of returning it—
said: "I guess it is."
THE DEATH OF BROWSING
Do you remember browsing?
Not scrolling.
Browsing.
Walking through a store with no particular goal.
Discovering something you didn't know you wanted.
Finding a book in the clearance bin.
A shirt on the sale rack.
A kitchen gadget you absolutely don't need but suddenly can't live without.
That's gone now.
Or going.
Because the algorithm doesn't want you to browse.
It wants you to convert.
Click.
Purchase.
Move on.
No wandering.
No discovery.
No happy accidents.
Just: here's what you bought before, would you like it again?
And we say yes.
Because it's easier.
Because we're tired.
Because the thought of making one more decision feels like lifting a boulder.
THE NOTIFICATIONS
My phone buzzes constantly.
Telling me things I didn't ask to know.
"Your order is being prepared."
"Your order is out for delivery."
"Your order has arrived."
"Rate your experience."
"Would you like to order again?"
It never stops.
This relentless, automated hospitality.
This insistence on making everything easy.
But here's the thing about easy:
Easy is a trap.
Because once everything is easy—
once every need is anticipated—
once every desire is fulfilled with a single click—
What's left?
What do we reach for?
What do we long for?
What do we do when there's nothing left to do?
THE COFFEE SHOP
I used to go to a coffee shop.
Every morning.
Same place.
Same order.
But I had to go there.
Had to walk.
Had to wait in line.
Had to exchange pleasantries with the barista whose name I never learned but whose face I knew.
It was a ritual.
Small.
Mundane.
But mine.
Now, I make coffee at home.
With a machine that cost more than my first car.
It makes perfect coffee.
Every time.
Exactly the same.
No surprises.
No burnt batches.
No "sorry, we're out of oat milk."
Just: consistent, efficient, solitary coffee.
And I hate it.
Not the coffee.
The efficiency of it.
The fact that I no longer have a reason to leave.
To walk.
To exist in a space where other humans are also existing.
I've optimized myself into isolation.
THE PROMISE
They promised us more time.
"Use our service," they said, "and you'll have more time for what matters."
And we believed them.
We believed that if we could just eliminate the inconveniences—
the errands, the chores, the small tasks—
we'd finally have time for the important things.
But here's what actually happened:
We eliminated the inconveniences.
And then...
We filled the time with more consumption.
More scrolling.
More shopping.
More optimizing.
We didn't get our time back.
We just got better at spending it on nothing.
THE PARADOX
And here's the cruel irony:
The more convenient life becomes—
the more frictionless—
the more exhausted we feel.
Because convenience doesn't give us rest.
It gives us more capacity.
More capacity to do.
To consume.
To respond.
To be available.
Always.
We're not resting.
We're just... efficiently tired.
THE REBELLION
So here's what I've started doing.
It's small.
Maybe pointless.
But it's something.
I go to the store.
In person.
I wait in line.
I talk to the cashier—even when they clearly don't want to talk.
I browse.
I wander.
I buy things I don't need just because I found them.
I take the long way home.
I get coffee from the shop—even though my machine makes it "better."
I do things the slow way.
The inconvenient way.
The human way.
Not because it's efficient.
But because it's real.
THE CONFESSION
I'm not saying I've quit.
I still order things online.
I still use the apps.
I still let the algorithm tell me what I want.
Because I'm tired.
And weak.
And complicit.
But I'm trying.
Trying to notice.
Trying to resist.
Trying to hold onto the friction.
Because without it—
without the mess and the inconvenience and the beautiful, annoying humanness of it all—
what are we even doing?
THE QUESTION
So I ask you:
When was the last time you did something the hard way?
The slow way?
The way that required you to leave your house?
To wait?
To be present in a moment that wasn't optimized for your convenience?
When was the last time you were inconvenienced—
and didn't immediately try to solve it with an app?
Because I think—
and maybe I'm wrong—
but I think those moments are where life actually happens.
In the waiting.
In the friction.
In the spaces between efficiency and ease.
And we're losing them.
One click at a time.
THE ENDING (WHICH ISN'T REALLY AN ENDING)
I'm still figuring this out.
Still trying to find the balance.
Between convenience and humanity.
Between efficiency and experience.
Between what's easy and what's real.
But I know this:
The algorithm doesn't know what I want.
It knows what I've purchased.
And those are not the same thing.
So I'm going to keep going to the store.
Keep wandering.
Keep being inconvenienced.
Keep choosing friction.
Not because it's better.
But because it's mine.
And in a world that insists on making everything easy—
maybe the most rebellious thing we can do—
is choose the hard way.
The slow way.
The human way.
End Transmission.
The Modern Major General of Dollar General…Or…How I Accidentally Became a Strategic Consultant to the Discount Retail Empire
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I am the very model of a modern Major-General,
I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral—
Stop.
Wrong kind of general.
Though... not entirely wrong.
Because for six months—
six glorious, confusing, utterly accidental months—
I became something far stranger:
The Modern Major General of my local Dollar Generals.
Plural.
All of them.
THE BEGINNING
It started innocently.
As all great disasters do.
I needed paper towels.
Simple.
Mundane.
The kind of errand that barely qualifies as an event.
I went to the Dollar General on Fifth Street.
The one near the Taco Bell with the broken sign.
I walked in.
Found the paper towels.
And noticed—
as one does when one has too much time and too many thoughts—
that they were in the wrong place.
Not wrong like "criminally wrong."
Just... inefficient.
They were on the bottom shelf.
In the back corner.
Next to the motor oil.
Which made no sense.
Paper towels are high-frequency items.
Everyone needs paper towels.
They should be visible.
Accessible.
Optimally placed.
I said this.
Out loud.
To no one.
Or so I thought.
THE MANAGER
A voice behind me:
"You're absolutely right."
I turned.
A woman in her forties.
Manager name tag: Brenda.
She looked exhausted in a way that suggested she'd been exhausted since 2008 and had simply learned to operate within it.
"I've been saying that for months," she said.
"But corporate doesn't listen."
"They just send the planogram and we're supposed to follow it."
I nodded.
Because I understood planograms.
Not because I worked in retail.
But because I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And I notice things.
Brenda looked at me.
Really looked.
And then she said the words that would change everything:
"You seem like you know what you're doing."
I did not.
But I do know how to appear confident while having no idea what I'm doing.
It's one of my core skills.
"Would you mind," Brenda continued, "just... looking around? Tell me what else is wrong?"
And I—
because I have never been able to resist a creative challenge—
said:
"Of course."
THE AUDIT
I spent ninety minutes in that Dollar General.
Ninety minutes.
Taking notes.
On my phone.
Like a deranged consultant.
I documented:
Seasonal items (Halloween decorations in July) taking up prime real estate
The greeting card aisle facing the wrong direction
Impulse buy items (candy, gum) positioned too far from checkout
The toy section somehow both overstocked AND inaccessible
A clearance endcap that hadn't been updated since the Obama administration
I presented my findings to Brenda.
She read them.
Slowly.
Then looked up and said:
"This is... actually really good."
"Can you come back tomorrow?"
THE EXPANSION
Tomorrow became next week.
Next week became monthly.
And then—
this is where it gets weird—
Brenda told the other managers.
There are seven Dollar Generals in my area.
Seven.
Within a fifteen-mile radius.
Which says something troubling about late-stage capitalism, but that's another essay.
The other managers started calling me.
Not officially.
Not through corporate.
Just... calling.
"Hey, Brenda said you helped reorganize her store?"
"Could you maybe... stop by ours?"
And I—
because I am a fool—
because I cannot resist the allure of unsolicited retail optimization—
said yes.
THE STRATEGY
I developed a system.
A methodology.
The Orson Optimization Protocol™ (not actually trademarked).
It went like this:
Step 1: The Walk
Enter the store.
Walk every aisle.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Notice the flow.
The bottlenecks.
The dead zones where no customer ever ventures.
Step 2: The Shopper Simulation
Imagine you are a customer.
A tired customer.
A customer who just wants laundry detergent and a Snickers bar.
How quickly can you find them?
If the answer is "not quickly," then something is wrong.
Step 3: The Heat Map (Mental)
Identify the high-traffic zones.
The areas everyone passes through.
Put the high-margin items there.
Put the impulse buys there.
Make them UNAVOIDABLE.
Step 4: The Clearance Purge
If something has been on clearance for more than two months?
It's not going to sell.
Move it to a "last chance" endcap near the exit.
Or accept defeat and donate it.
Step 5: The Seasonal Rotation
Seasonal items should NEVER occupy permanent shelf space.
They go on temporary displays.
Near the entrance.
Where they create excitement.
Urgency.
Then they disappear when the season ends.
No lingering Christmas décor in March.
No Easter baskets in July.
Respect the calendar.
THE RESULTS
The stores started... improving.
Not dramatically.
They were still Dollar Generals.
Still fluorescent-lit temples of "good enough."
But better.
Customers could find things.
Checkout lines moved faster.
Sales—according to Brenda—went up 7%.
Seven percent!
In retail, that's basically a miracle.
The managers started treating me like a visiting consultant.
They'd have coffee ready when I arrived.
They'd walk me through their problem areas.
"The toy aisle is a disaster."
"No one can find the cleaning supplies."
"Why do we have so many bird feeders?"
And I—
with the confidence of someone who has no formal training whatsoever—
would offer solutions.
Move this.
Consolidate that.
For the love of God, put the lightbulbs near the batteries.
THE NICKNAME
It was Brenda who started calling me "The General."
As a joke.
But then the other managers picked it up.
"The General's coming on Thursday."
"Have you asked The General about your seasonal display?"
"The General says we need better signage."
And then—
because I am dramatic and cannot help myself—
I leaned into it.
I started wearing a blazer when I visited.
Carrying a clipboard.
I'd walk in and announce:
"The General has arrived. Show me your problem areas."
It was absurd.
It was ridiculous.
It was glorious.
THE CORPORATE INCIDENT
It couldn't last.
Of course it couldn't.
Because corporate eventually found out.
Not through official channels.
But because one of the district managers noticed that several stores in the same region had:
Similar layout improvements
Better sales numbers
Mysteriously consistent organization strategies
And started asking questions.
"Who authorized these changes?"
"Did you hire a consultant?"
"Where are these memos coming from?"
The managers—bless them—tried to cover.
"Oh, we just... collaborated."
"Shared some ideas."
"You know, team building."
But corporate wasn't buying it.
They sent someone.
A guy named Todd.
Regional something-or-other.
He walked into the Fifth Street store while I was there.
Clipboard in hand.
Mid-consultation.
He looked at me.
I looked at him.
Brenda looked at both of us.
Todd said: "Who are you?"
I said—and I will never regret this—
"I am the Modern Major General of Dollar General."
There was a pause.
A long one.
Todd blinked.
"That's... not a real position."
"And yet," I said, "here I am."
THE END
They asked me to stop.
Politely.
But firmly.
Something about "liability."
And "unauthorized store modifications."
And "we appreciate your enthusiasm but please don't come back."
The managers were apologetic.
Genuinely sad.
Brenda gave me a gift card.
$25.
To Dollar General.
I still have it.
I can't bring myself to use it.
It feels like accepting a severance package from a job I never officially had.
THE LEGACY
But here's the thing:
The changes stuck.
I drive past those Dollar Generals sometimes.
The ones I "consulted" for.
And I can see—through the windows—
that the paper towels are still in the right place.
The seasonal displays are rotated properly.
The clearance endcaps are current.
My work remains.
I didn't change the world.
I didn't cure disease or end suffering.
I just... made it slightly easier to find paper towels in seven Dollar Generals in a fifteen-mile radius.
But in its own small way—
in its own absurd, unnecessary way—
that mattered.
At least to me.
And probably to Brenda.
THE REFLECTION
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if corporate had embraced it.
If they'd said: "You know what? Let's hire this weirdo."
"Let's make him an actual consultant."
But they didn't.
Because corporations don't work that way.
They don't want clever solutions from theater people who wandered in off the street.
They want metrics.
Credentials.
Compliance.
And I—
I am none of those things.
I am just a man who noticed that paper towels were in the wrong place.
And couldn't let it go.
THE ANTHEM
So yes.
I am the very model of a modern Major-General.
I know the layouts vegetable, seasonal, and mineral.
I've reorganized clearance from the recent to the trivial,
In matters of endcaps I'm the expert most tribunal.
I'm very well acquainted with the flow of customer travel,
I understand the science of why certain products sell or unravel.
About the planogram I'm teeming with a lot of news—
With many cheerful facts about the placement of children's shoes!
(I'm sorry. I had to.)
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, blazer draped over one arm, unused $25 gift card in pocket. Behind him, in seven Dollar Generals across the region, paper towels sit exactly where they should be. His legacy, modest but undeniable, endures.)
The Quest for the Holy Grail…Or…My Eternal Search for the Perfect Gas Station Pop
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I am on a quest.
A sacred quest.
A quest that has consumed years of my life and countless miles of highway.
I seek the Holy Grail.
Not the cup of Christ.
Not some dusty chalice from the Last Supper.
No.
I seek something far more elusive.
Far more precious.
The perfect gas station fountain diet soda.
THE IMPORTANCE OF DIET
Let me be clear about something.
This must be diet.
Must.
Regular soda pop—with its full complement of sugar—sends me into a blind rage.
Not metaphorically.
Not "oh, I get a little cranky."
No.
I mean a primal, unstoppable fury.
A berserker state.
Once, I accidentally drank regular Mountain Dew.
I woke up three hours later in a Target parking lot.
Holding a decorative gourd.
No memory of how I got there.
No explanation for the gourd.
Just... rage residue, confusion, and a series of bruises of unclear origin.
So yes.
Diet.
This is non-negotiable.
THE PARAMETERS
The perfect fountain soda is not simply about the beverage itself.
It's about the entire experience.
The alchemy.
The variables.
The evervescence
Let me explain.
The Carbonation
Must be aggressive.
Not timid.
Not "gently sparkling."
I want it to fight me.
I want that first sip to feel like a tiny, delicious explosion.
Too flat? Unacceptable.
That's just sad syrup water.
The Ice
Crushed. Always crushed.
Cubed ice is for cowards and people who don't understand surface area.
Crushed ice integrates with the beverage.
Becomes part of the experience.
Cubed ice just... floats there.
Judging you.
Taking up space that should be occupied by more soda.
The Syrup-to-Carbonation Ratio
This is critical.
Critical.
Too much syrup? Cloying. Overwhelming. A liquid assault.
Too little? You're basically drinking TV static with a vague memory of flavor.
The ratio must be perfect.
And here's the thing:
No two gas stations have the same ratio.
Because no one—and I mean no one—is properly maintaining these machines.
The Cup
Must be large.
Not medium.
Not "I'm trying to be responsible about my beverage choices."
Large.
Because if I'm going on this quest—
if I'm going to drive to seventeen different gas stations in one afternoon—
I'm not doing it for moderation.
The Straw
Paper straws are an affront to God and nature.
They disintegrate.
They taste like regret.
If you hand me a paper straw, I will simply drink from the rim like a medieval peasant.
Plastic is controversial, I know.
But for fountain soda?
Necessary.
THE STATIONS
Over the years, I have developed a comprehensive taxonomy of gas station fountain soda quality.
A ranking system.
A hierarchy.
Tier 1: The Legends
These are rare.
Mythical, almost.
The stations where everything aligns.
Perfect carbonation.
Proper syrup ratio.
Ice that's actually cold.
Machines that were serviced sometime in the last month.
I've found maybe three in my entire life.
One was a Speedway outside of Columbus.
One was a QuikTrip in Kansas City.
And one—this haunts me—was a nameless truck stop somewhere in Indiana that I can no longer find.
I've tried.
God, I've tried.
I've driven that route six times.
It's gone.
Like Brigadoon.
Appearing only when the conditions are right.
Or possibly demolished for a Panera.
Tier 2: The Reliables
Solid.
Consistent.
Nothing fancy, but they deliver.
7-Eleven usually falls here.
Wawa, if you're on the East Coast.
These stations understand the fundamentals.
They might not achieve transcendence—
but they won't betray you.
Tier 3: The Variables
These are the wild cards.
Could be great.
Could be terrible.
Entirely dependent on:
Time of day
Who last serviced the machine
Cosmic alignment
Whether Mercury is in retrograde
Shell stations live here.
BP stations.
Circle K on a good day.
You're gambling.
Tier 4: The Disappointments
They have a fountain machine.
Technically.
But it's been broken since 2014.
The carbonation is a distant memory.
The ice dispenser makes a sound like dying machinery.
Half the buttons don't work.
And there's always—always—one flavor that's just... out.
Not marked "out."
Just... producing clear liquid.
Mystery fluid.
You press "Diet Coke" and get what I can only describe as "the concept of soda."
Most independent gas stations fall here.
Through no fault of their own.
Just... entropy.
Tier 5: The Abandoned
The machine is there.
But it's not plugged in.
Or it's been converted into storage for squeegees and windshield fluid.
Or there's a handwritten sign that says "Out of Order Since March."
It's March of the following year.
These stations have given up.
And honestly?
I respect that.
At least they're honest.
THE JOURNEY
My quest has taken me far.
Farther than any reasonable person should go for a beverage.
I've driven forty minutes out of my way because someone told me about a Marathon station with "really good carbonation."
They were right.
It was good.
For three weeks.
Then something changed.
The ratio shifted.
The magic died.
I've stood in gas stations at 2 AM—
the only customer—
sampling multiple flavors like a sommelier.
Diet Coke.
Diet Pepsi.
Diet Mountain Dew.
Coke Zero.
That weird Diet Dr. Pepper knockoff called "Dr. Thunder" or "Dr. Bob" or "Medical Professional."
Each one a possibility.
Each one a potential Grail.
I've engaged in lengthy conversations with gas station clerks about their fountain maintenance schedules.
Most look at me like I'm insane.
One—bless him—actually checked the service log.
Told me they'd just been cleaned that morning.
I bought three sodas.
All large.
Felt like a king.
THE VARIABLES I CANNOT CONTROL
Here's what drives me mad:
The perfect fountain soda is temporary.
Even when you find it—
even when all the stars align—
it won't last.
Because:
The syrup will run low
The CO2 will need replacing
The machine will drift out of calibration
Someone will change the filter
Corporate will switch suppliers
The universe will shift
I've returned to stations that once poured perfection—
only to find they've fallen to Tier 3.
Or worse.
It's heartbreaking.
Like visiting an old friend who's changed.
Who's lost something essential.
And you can't quite put your finger on what.
But you know.
THE SUGAR INCIDENT
I must tell you about the time I was betrayed.
By my own hubris.
By my own carelessness.
I was at a Shell station.
Tier 3, but I was feeling lucky.
I filled my cup.
Took a long, satisfying pull from the straw.
And immediately—
immediately—
I knew.
This was not diet.
This was regular.
Full sugar.
The forbidden nectar.
But it was too late.
The sugar hit my system like a starter pistol.
And I—
I transformed.
Not literally.
But close enough.
Everything became sharp.
Loud.
Unacceptable.
A man asked if I was in line at the checkout.
I said—and I quote—
"The CONCEPT of lines is a SOCIAL CONSTRUCT designed to CONTROL us!"
He moved away quickly.
The clerk asked if I was okay.
I bought seventeen scratch-off tickets.
I don't even play the lottery.
I drove to three different Walmarts.
Bought nothing.
Just... walked the aisles.
Seething.
When I finally came down—
hours later—
I was in my car.
In a Sonic parking lot.
Holding a bag of mozzarella sticks I didn't remember ordering.
And I made a vow:
Never again.
From that day forward, I would always test.
One small sip.
Just to verify.
Before committing to the full beverage.
Because sugar—regular, uncut, full-strength sugar—
cannot be trusted.
THE PHILOSOPHY
You might ask: "Orson, why does this matter so much?"
"It's just a drink."
"Just carbonated water and artificial sweetener."
And you'd be right.
Technically.
But you'd also be missing the point.
The quest isn't about the soda.
It's about the pursuit.
It's about having something to search for.
Something that keeps you driving.
Keeps you exploring.
Keeps you walking into gas stations you've never seen before—
in towns you don't know—
hoping that maybe—
maybe—
this one will be different.
This one will be the one.
It's about the journey.
The documentation.
The small moments of perfection.
And yes—
it's about the soda.
Because when you finally find it—
when you take that first sip and everything is right—
the carbonation perfect—
the ratio divine—
the ice crushed just so—
It's transcendent.
For three glorious minutes, the world makes sense.
And then you finish.
And you're left with:
A cup of ice.
A wet straw.
And the knowledge that you have to find it again.
THE GRAIL
I haven't found it yet.
The perfect fountain soda.
The Grail.
Oh, I've found good ones.
Great ones, even.
But perfect?
That remains elusive.
Maybe it doesn't exist.
Maybe it's the searching that matters.
Maybe the Grail isn't meant to be found—
only pursued.
But I'll keep looking.
Because what else am I going to do?
Drive past gas stations without stopping?
Never.
I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And this is my quest.
My burden.
My calling.
So if you see me—
standing at a fountain machine at 11 PM—
sampling every diet option—
taking notes—
Don't interrupt.
Don't judge.
Just know:
I'm doing important work.
Holy work.
And someday—
maybe not today—
maybe not tomorrow—
but someday—
I will find it.
The perfect gas station fountain diet soda.
And when I do?
I'll have exactly three minutes to enjoy it.
Before I have to start all over again.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, carrying a large fountain soda, crushed ice visible through the translucent cup. He takes a sip. Pauses. Considers. Nods approvingly. Then drives to the next gas station. The quest continues.)
How I Survived The Great Christmas Tree Cake Shortage of '23.
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
In the autumn of 2023, I learned something about myself.
Something I wish I hadn't.
Something that, frankly, I'm not proud of.
I learned that I am capable of driving to eleven different stores in a single afternoon—
across three counties—
in increasingly desperate pursuit of—
Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
Not for a child.
Not for a party.
Not even for a reasonable nostalgic craving.
Just... for me.
Because they were gone.
And when something becomes scarce—
when something you've always been able to casually acquire suddenly isn't there—
you stop being a rational person.
You become a hunter.
A gatherer.
A hoarder.
THE DISCOVERY
It was mid-November.
Still too early for Christmas, technically.
But the stores had already pivoted.
Turkeys were being shoved aside.
Pumpkin spice was being purged.
And the seasonal snack cakes—
those beautiful, unnecessary, chemically-preserved monuments to holiday joy—
were appearing.
I went to my local Kroger.
Casual.
Not even thinking about it.
Just wandered down the snack cake aisle like I always do.
And there they were.
Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
Green frosting.
Red and white sprinkles.
That unmistakable tree shape.
Childhood in a box.
I grabbed two.
Thought about grabbing three.
Decided I wasn't an animal.
Two was reasonable.
Two was civilized.
I went home.
Ate one that night.
It was perfect.
Artificially perfect.
The kind of perfect that can only be achieved through industrial food science and a complete disregard for nutritional value.
I thought: I'll get more next week.
THE SHORTAGE BEGINS
Next week came.
I went back to Kroger.
The shelf where the Christmas Tree Cakes had been?
Empty.
Not "running low."
Not "picked over."
Empty.
Just a gap.
A void.
Where joy used to be.
I asked someone stocking shelves nearby.
"Excuse me, do you know when you're getting more Christmas Tree Cakes?"
He looked at me.
Then at the empty shelf.
Then back at me.
And shrugged.
Shrugged.
As if this wasn't a crisis.
"Supply chain issues," he said.
And walked away.
Supply chain issues.
Those three words.
The explanation for everything wrong in the modern world.
THE SEARCH EXPANDS
I went to another Kroger.
Empty.
Target.
Empty.
Walmart—which I avoid on principle but desperate times, etc.
Empty.
Meijer.
CVS.
Walgreens.
Dollar General (where I still have honorary status, thank you very much).
All empty.
It was like the Christmas Tree Cakes had been raptured.
Taken up to snack cake heaven.
Leaving the rest of us behind to suffer through regular Swiss Rolls like peasants.
THE ESCALATION
I started checking stores I didn't even know existed.
Small regional grocers.
Gas stations in towns I'd never heard of.
A place called "SaveMart" that looked like it had been abandoned in 1987 but was somehow still operating.
Nothing.
I joined Facebook groups.
Yes.
Facebook groups.
Groups with names like "Little Debbie Lovers" and "Snack Cake Hunters."
People were posting photos.
Grainy, desperate photos.
"Found ONE box at a gas station in Terre Haute!"
"Limit 2 per customer at the Meijer on 86th Street!"
It was like a black market.
A snack cake underground.
People were trading.
"I'll give you a box of Zebra Cakes for half a box of Christmas Trees."
Someone offered $30 for a single box.
Thirty dollars!
For something that retails for $2.99!
I did not pay thirty dollars.
But I considered it.
And that—
that's when I knew I'd lost myself.
THE RATIONING
I still had one box left.
The second box I'd bought back when the world made sense.
I put it in the pantry.
And I rationed.
One cake per week.
Maybe two if I'd had a particularly difficult day.
I treated each one like a sacrament.
Opening the plastic wrapper slowly.
Appreciating the artificial green frosting.
The spongy vanilla cake beneath.
The cream filling that tasted like nostalgia and preservatives.
I made them last.
Because I didn't know if I'd ever see them again.
THE THEORIES
People had theories about the shortage.
Theory 1: Ingredient Issues
Maybe there was a shortage of the specific dye used for the green frosting.
Or the sprinkles.
Or the essence of tree.
Theory 2: Increased Demand
Maybe everyone had the same idea at the same time.
Maybe 2023 was the year everyone collectively decided they needed Christmas Tree Cakes.
A shared cultural craving.
Theory 3: Corporate Strategy
Maybe—and this is the dark one—
Maybe Little Debbie was intentionally creating scarcity.
Manufacturing demand through deprivation.
Making us desperate.
Making us pay attention.
I didn't want to believe it.
But capitalism is capable of anything.
Theory 4: The Simulation
Maybe we're in a simulation and whoever's running it just... forgot to restock the Christmas Tree Cakes.
A small glitch.
An oversight.
And we—the NPCs—are left scrambling.
(I don't actually believe this one. But late at night, driving to my eighth store, it seemed plausible.)
THE BREAKDOWN
There was a moment—
a low point—
when I stood in the snack cake aisle of a Marsh Supermarket that was clearly about to go out of business.
Flickering lights.
Half-empty shelves.
An employee who looked like he'd been there since the Carter administration.
And I said—
out loud—
to no one—
"Why? Why is this happening to me?"
The employee looked over.
Said nothing.
Went back to stocking canned corn.
And I realized:
This wasn't happening to me.
This was just... happening.
The world doesn't owe me Christmas Tree Cakes.
Little Debbie doesn't owe me anything.
Scarcity is not personal.
It's just... the way things are sometimes.
But knowing that didn't make it hurt less.
THE BREAKTHROUGH
And then.
December 12th.
I was at a Kroger.
Not even looking for them anymore.
Just buying milk and bread like a normal person who had moved on with his life.
And I turned the corner into the snack cake aisle—
purely by chance—
and there—
THERE—
Fully stocked.
Two full rows.
Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
Green frosting gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
Like a miracle.
Like manna.
Like the universe had finally decided I'd suffered enough.
I stood there.
Frozen.
A woman with a cart tried to get past me.
I didn't move.
She went around.
I approached slowly.
Afraid that if I moved too fast they'd disappear.
That this was a mirage.
A cruel trick.
But I reached out—
and they were real.
THE DECISION
Here's where it gets interesting.
I stood there.
Cart in hand.
Staring at two full rows of Christmas Tree Cakes.
After weeks of searching.
After eleven stores.
After joining Facebook groups and considering black market purchases.
After rationing my last box like it was the final days of a siege.
And I thought:
How many do I take?
The old me—the me from six weeks ago—would have said "two boxes."
Maybe three.
Reasonable.
Modest.
But the me standing there—
the me who had been scarred by scarcity—
wanted to take all of them.
Every single box.
To protect myself from future deprivation.
To ensure this never happened again.
To hoard.
THE CHOICE
I took four boxes.
Four.
Not two.
Not all of them.
Four.
A compromise between my fear and my conscience.
Enough to feel secure.
Not enough to deprive someone else.
At checkout, the cashier looked at my cart.
Four boxes of Christmas Tree Cakes.
Milk.
Bread.
She said nothing.
But I saw the judgment.
Or maybe I just felt it.
Because I was judging myself.
THE REFLECTION
I got home.
Put the boxes in the pantry.
Stared at them.
And felt... strange.
Not happy.
Not satisfied.
Just... strange.
Because I'd gotten what I wanted.
But the wanting had changed me.
Had revealed something about my character.
Something about how quickly I can go from "rational person" to "person hoarding snack cakes."
Scarcity does that.
It strips away the veneer.
Shows you who you really are when resources are limited.
And apparently, I am someone who will drive across three counties for artificially flavored sponge cake.
THE AFTERMATH
The Christmas Tree Cakes stayed available after that.
Fully stocked.
Like the shortage had never happened.
Like it was all a test.
A trial.
I ate my four boxes slowly.
Throughout December.
Into January.
They tasted the same.
But different.
Because now they carried weight.
The weight of the search.
The desperation.
The journey.
Food tastes different when you've had to fight for it.
Even if the fight was just driving around looking at empty shelves.
THE LESSON
What did I learn from the Great Christmas Tree Cake Shortage of '23?
Several things:
1. Scarcity reveals character.
And sometimes what it reveals isn't flattering.
2. Nostalgia is powerful.
Powerful enough to make you irrational.
3. We live in a fragile system.
One supply chain hiccup and suddenly your favorite snack cake becomes a rare commodity.
4. Hoarding is a spectrum.
And I'm somewhere on it.
5. Sometimes the quest matters more than the prize.
But also, the prize still matters.
Because it's a Christmas Tree Cake.
And those are objectively delightful.
THE EPILOGUE
It's 2024 now.
The Christmas Tree Cakes are back.
Readily available.
I buy them when I want them.
Two boxes at a time.
Like a civilized person.
But I remember.
I remember the empty shelves.
The eleven stores.
The Facebook groups.
The desperation.
And I know—
I know—
that if it happens again—
if the shelves empty—
if the supply chain falters—
I will do it all over again.
Because I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And I am nothing if not committed to my snack cake pursuits.
Even when they reveal the worst parts of who I am.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, holding a Christmas Tree Cake wrapped carefully in plastic. He takes a bite. Savors it. Not because it's particularly delicious—though it is—but because he remembers when he couldn't have it. And that memory? That makes it taste just a little bit sweeter.)
Aisle C Was Angry That Day, My Friends!
A Tale of Canned Goods, Chaos, and One Man's Reckoning
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
Aisle C was angry that day, my friends.
Like an old man trying to send back soup at a deli.
But this wasn't soup.
This was soup.
And beans.
And tomato products in their infinite configurations.
This was the canned goods aisle.
And it was furious.
I could feel it the moment I turned the corner.
The air was different.
Heavier.
Charged with the kind of energy you usually only encounter before a thunderstorm or a contentious HOA meeting.
The fluorescent lights flickered.
Not dramatically.
Not like in a horror movie.
Just... enough.
Enough to make you think:
Something is wrong here.
Something is deeply, structurally wrong.
It started with the cans.
They were... off.
Misaligned.
Not in the charming "someone grabbed one and didn't push the others forward" way.
But in a way that suggested intent.
Malice.
Like the cans themselves had grown tired of their positions and decided—collectively—to stage a revolt.
Campbell's Cream of Mushroom?
Sideways.
Progresso Chicken Noodle?
Upside down, label facing inward like it had something to hide.
And the store-brand tomato sauce?
On the floor.
Just... there.
Rolling slightly.
As if it had flung itself from the shelf in protest.
I bent down to pick it up.
Because that's what you do, isn't it?
You see something out of place, and you fix it.
You restore order.
You do your small part to keep the universe from descending into chaos.
But when I reached for it—
I swear on everything I hold sacred—
it rolled away from me.
Not fast.
Not cartoonishly.
Just... deliberately.
Like it was saying:
"No. Not today, Orson. Today, I am free."
I stood up.
Looked around.
Surely someone else had noticed.
Surely I wasn't the only one bearing witness to this... this uprising.
But the aisle was empty.
Completely empty.
Which was strange.
Because Aisle C is never empty.
It's the workhorse aisle.
The everyday aisle.
The "I need something for dinner and I don't want to think too hard about it" aisle.
People live in Aisle C.
But that day?
Nothing.
Just me.
And the cans.
And the palpable sense that I had walked into something I didn't understand.
That's when I heard it.
A sound.
Faint at first.
Like... settling.
You know that sound old houses make?
When the wood contracts and you tell yourself it's "just the house settling"?
It was like that.
But it was the shelf.
The entire shelf.
Groaning.
Shifting.
Like it was bearing a weight it could no longer sustain.
I took a step back.
Slowly.
Carefully.
And then—
CRASH.
Not the whole shelf.
Just... one section.
A cascade of kidney beans.
Red.
Black.
Pinto.
Garbanzo.
All of them tumbling to the floor in a metallic avalanche.
And I—
I stood there.
Frozen.
Watching this happen.
Watching Aisle C lose its mind.
An employee appeared.
Out of nowhere.
Like they'd been summoned.
A young man.
Couldn't have been more than twenty-two.
Wearing the store vest with the kind of resignation you usually see on pallbearers.
He looked at the beans.
Then at me.
Then back at the beans.
And he said—
I will never forget this—
he said:
"Yeah. It's been doing that."
"Doing what?" I asked.
"Falling," he said, as if this were the most normal thing in the world.
"The cans just... fall."
"Why?"
He shrugged.
A shrug so profound, so existentially weary, that it could have been a TED Talk.
"Nobody knows. Corporate sent someone last week. They couldn't figure it out either."
He bent down.
Started picking up beans.
Slowly.
One at a time.
And I—
because I am not a monster—
I helped.
We worked in silence.
Restacking.
Realigning.
Attempting to impose order on a system that had clearly rejected it.
And as we worked, I noticed something.
The cans weren't just falling randomly.
There was a pattern.
A logic.
All the cans that had fallen?
They were the same brand.
Store brand.
Every single one.
The name brands—Campbell's, Progresso, Bush's—they were fine.
Untouched.
Standing tall and proud on their shelves like smug little soldiers.
But the store brand?
Rebellion.
I pointed this out to the young man.
He looked.
Blinked.
And then—
he laughed.
Not a happy laugh.
Not a "isn't that funny" laugh.
But the kind of laugh that comes when you realize something true and terrible about the world.
"They know," he said.
"They know."
"Know what?"
He stood up.
Holding a can of store-brand black beans.
And he looked at it like Hamlet looking at Yorick's skull.
"That nobody wants them," he said quietly.
"That they're the backup plan. The last resort. The 'I guess this will do.'"
He set the can down gently.
Almost reverently.
"And they're mad about it."
I wanted to argue.
To say that store-brand products are perfectly good.
That they're often made in the same facilities as name brands.
That the only difference is the label and the price.
But I couldn't.
Because standing there, in Aisle C, surrounded by the aftermath of a canned goods insurrection—
I understood.
I understood the anger.
The resentment.
The quiet fury of being perpetually second-choice.
Of being picked only when the first option wasn't available.
Or when the budget was tight.
Or when someone just didn't care enough to choose.
The store-brand cans weren't just falling.
They were protesting.
We finished restacking.
The young man thanked me.
Wandered off to whatever other small disaster awaited him.
And I stood there.
Alone again.
In Aisle C.
Which was no longer angry.
Or maybe it was just... tired.
The way we all get tired.
When we've made our point and no one was really listening anyway.
I grabbed what I came for.
A can of tomato sauce.
Name brand, I'm ashamed to say.
Old habits.
But as I walked away—
I looked back.
One last time.
And I swear.
I swear.
I saw a can of store-brand green beans.
Right on the edge of the shelf.
Teetering.
And I thought:
Go ahead. Jump. You've earned it.
Aisle C was angry that day, my friends.
And honestly?
It had every right to be.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, clutching his name-brand tomato sauce with a newfound sense of guilt. Behind him, somewhere in Aisle C, a can falls. Slowly. Purposefully. Free at last.)
The Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad
A Journey That Defies Geography, Logic, and Sobriety
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
ORSON SHAKESPEARE McSEINFELD
I took a train once.
Not just any train.
The train.
The Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad.
Yes.
All three.
Simultaneously.
I know what you're thinking.
"Orson, that's impossible. Transatlantic means across the ocean. Transcontinental means across a continent. And Transylvania is... a region in Romania."
"These are mutually exclusive concepts."
"This train cannot exist."
And yet.
And yet.
I have the ticket stub to prove it.
Or... I had it.
It disappeared.
Much like my certainty about what actually happened.
THE DEPARTURE
It started—as all great mistakes do—with a Groupon.
$47 for a "luxury rail experience."
The description was... vague.
It mentioned:
"Continental breakfast"
"Historic route"
"Views you won't believe"
"Complimentary garlic bread"
That last one should have been a warning.
But I was intrigued.
Seduced, even.
So I clicked "Purchase."
And three weeks later, I received an email with boarding instructions:
"Platform 9¾. Tuesday. Midnight. Bring layered clothing and an open mind."
Platform 9¾.
Platform 9¾.
I assumed this was whimsy.
A Harry Potter reference for the tourists.
But when I arrived at Union Station—or was it Penn Station? The memory is fluid—
there it was.
Between Platform 9 and Platform 10.
A door.
Unmarked.
Unremarkable.
Except for a small brass plaque that read:
"For Those Who Know."
I... did not know.
But I opened it anyway.
THE PLATFORM
Inside was a platform.
Dimly lit.
Victorian.
Gas lamps flickering with a kind of anachronistic confidence.
There were others waiting.
Not many.
Maybe seven people.
All of them looked like they'd made interesting life choices.
One woman was knitting.
Furiously.
With yarn that seemed... too red.
A man in a trench coat was reading a newspaper.
In a language I didn't recognize.
But might have been... backwards English?
And there was a child.
Just one.
Standing perfectly still.
Holding a balloon.
Staring at nothing.
I sat on a bench.
Tried to look like I belonged.
Like I took mysterious midnight trains all the time.
And then—
I heard it.
The whistle.
Not a modern train whistle.
But the kind you hear in old movies.
The kind that sounds like longing.
Like departure.
Like "you can't go back now."
THE TRAIN
It pulled into the station.
Slowly.
Impossibly slowly.
Steam billowing.
Black iron gleaming under the gas lamps.
The cars were ornate.
Carved wood.
Brass fixtures.
Velvet curtains in the windows.
It looked like something from another century.
Or possibly from a very committed theme restaurant.
A conductor appeared.
Top hat.
Pocket watch.
Mustache so elaborate it seemed structural.
He called out:
"All aboard the Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad!"
His voice echoed.
Which shouldn't have been possible.
We were indoors.
But it echoed anyway.
I boarded.
Because at that point, what else was I going to do?
Go home?
Admit I'd wasted $47 on a Groupon I didn't understand?
Never.
THE CABIN
I found my cabin.
Or it found me.
The numbers on the doors kept changing.
I swear.
One moment it was 12B.
The next, 21B.
Then B12, like a vitamin.
But eventually, one door just... opened.
And a voice—from where? from whom?—said:
"This one's yours."
Inside:
A small sleeper cabin.
Plush red velvet seats.
A fold-down bed.
A tiny window with curtains tied back with golden rope.
And on the table—
A bottle of wine.
A glass.
And a note:
"Complimentary. Enjoy the journey. Do not open the window after 2 AM."
I sat.
Poured myself some wine.
Which was... excellent.
Suspiciously excellent.
And the train began to move.
THE ROUTE
Here's where it gets complicated.
We left the station.
I could see the city lights through the window.
Normal city lights.
Skyscrapers.
Traffic.
Reality.
But then—
we went through a tunnel.
A long one.
Longer than any tunnel should be.
And when we emerged—
Everything was different.
The landscape outside was... European?
Rolling hills.
Stone bridges.
Villages with lights glowing warmly in windows that seemed too far away and too close at the same time.
I checked my watch.
It had stopped.
Naturally.
I looked out the window again.
Now we were crossing water.
Crossing water.
On a train.
Not a bridge.
The train was just... on the water.
Gliding across it like it had made a compelling argument and the ocean had agreed to support its weight.
I finished the wine.
Poured another glass.
I was either dreaming or having the best $47 experience of my life.
THE DINING CAR
At some point—time had become a suggestion—I wandered to the dining car.
It was full.
But also empty.
Let me explain.
There were people.
But they were... translucent?
No.
Not translucent.
Just... not entirely committed to being there.
Like they were dining in multiple realities at once and this was just one of them.
I sat.
A waiter appeared immediately.
He wore white gloves.
Carried a silver tray.
And said, in an accent I couldn't place:
"The special tonight is goulash."
I hadn't asked.
But I said, "Sure."
He nodded approvingly.
And vanished.
The goulash arrived.
From where?
Unclear.
But it was there.
Steaming.
Rich.
Accompanied by that promised garlic bread.
Which was, I must say, extraordinary.
I ate.
And as I ate, I listened.
The other diners were talking.
In languages that shifted mid-sentence.
About places that might not exist.
One woman said:
"I'm transferring in Narnia. Then onward to Cleveland."
Another man:
"I've been riding this line for three years. Or three hours. Hard to say."
And the child with the balloon—who was now somehow sitting two tables away—
said nothing.
Just stared.
Balloon bobbing gently.
In air that wasn't moving.
THE ANNOUNCEMENT
Somewhere around what might have been 2 AM—
or 4 PM—
or possibly last Thursday—
an announcement crackled over the intercom:
"Now approaching: Transylvania Station. Please ensure all windows remain closed. Do not make eye contact with anyone on the platform. Garlic bread will be served."
I looked out my window.
We were pulling into a station.
But not a normal station.
This one was carved into a mountainside.
Torches lined the platform.
Torches.
Not electric lights.
Actual fire.
And the people on the platform—
They were waiting.
Standing perfectly still.
All of them facing the train.
Watching.
I closed my curtain.
Because some instructions you just follow.
THE RETURN
I woke up.
In my cabin.
Sunlight streaming through the window.
The train was stopped.
I looked outside.
We were back.
Back at the station.
The normal station.
The one with fluorescent lights and vending machines and people in athleisure wear.
I gathered my things.
Stumbled onto the platform.
The train—the beautiful, impossible, Victorian train—
pulled away.
And as it did, I noticed:
It wasn't steam-powered anymore.
It was just... a regular train.
An Amtrak.
With the usual scratched windows and questionable upholstery.
Had it ever been anything else?
THE EVIDENCE
I checked my bag.
The wine bottle was there.
Empty.
The garlic bread?
One piece left.
Wrapped in a cloth napkin embroidered with the letters:
T.T.T.R.
I still have it.
I've never eaten it.
It hasn't gone stale.
Which is... concerning.
And sometimes—
late at night—
when I'm scrolling through Groupon—
I see it.
For just a moment.
The listing.
"Transatlantic Transcontinental Transylvania Railroad - $47 - One Night Only"
And I think:
Should I book it again?
Should I return?
Should I finally ask someone—anyone—what the hell that was?
But then the listing disappears.
And I'm left with only the memory.
The garlic bread.
And the unshakable feeling that somewhere—
between here and there—
between real and unreal—
that train is still running.
And it's waiting.
End Transmission.
(Orson exits, clutching an embroidered napkin and a Groupon confirmation email that may or may not still exist. Somewhere, a train whistle sounds. He does not look back.)
The Beef Manhattan Project: A Secret History of The Sandwich That Changed Everything
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
In 1942, the United States government gathered the brightest minds in physics to develop a weapon that would end a war.
They called it the Manhattan Project.
Around that same time a team at my local deli, Monty’s, embarked on an equally daring venture in the culinary theatre
They set out to develop a sandwich of sandwiches that would end all other sandwiches.
They called this high-stakes venture…
The Beef Manhattan Project.
And I was there.
Not by choice.
Not by invitation.
But because I happened to be waiting for a turkey club when history was being made.
It started innocently enough.
I was at Monty’s Deli.
A place I’d been going for years.
Reliable.
Unpretentious.
Delicious.
The kind of deli where the menu hasn’t changed in decades
I ordered my usual.
Turkey club. Extra mayo. No tomato because I’m not a child.
And I waited.
But something was different that day.
There was energy in the air.
A tension.
The kind you feel before a thunderstorm.
Or a product launch.
Or a reckoning.
Monty, the owner, was huddled with the kitchen staff.
Whispering.
Gesturing dramatically.
Occasionally, pointing at a chalkboard covered in what looked like… equations?
No.
Not equations.
Sandwich architecture.
Monty cleared his throat.
Loudly.
Like he was about to deliver a State of the Union address to a room of seventeen people who just wanted pastrami.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began.
And I thought: Oh no.
“We are about to do something that has never been done before.”
Someone in line said, “Get us our food in a timely fashion ?”
Monty ignored this.
“We are going to build,” he continued, “the ultimate beef sandwich.”
“You already have a roast beef sandwich,” said an elderly woman holding a ticket that said 47.
“No,” Monty said, with the intensity of Oppenheimer explaining fission.
“Not a roast beef sandwich.”
“THE Roast beef sandwich.”
“The one that ends the conversation.”
“The one that makes every other sandwich obsolete.”
He paused for effect.
“We’re calling it: The Beef Manhattan!”
The team assembled before us.
Like the Justice Society.
But sadder.
And holding tongs.
There was:
Carlos - the grill master. A man who once told me he could “hear when the meat is ready.” I believed him.
Sanjay - the vegetable specialist. Which sounds made up, but he took it very seriously. He once spent ten minutes explaining the structural integrity of lettuce.
Kim - the sauce architect. Quiet. Intense. Rumored to have worked at a Michelin-starred restaurant before “the incident.” No one knew what the incident was. No one asked.
And Daryl - Monty’s cousin. Daryl’s job was unclear. He mostly just nodded and said “yeah, bold” whenever someone suggested something.
This was the team.
This was humanity’s best hope for sandwich perfection.
God help us all.
They started with the foundation.
Bread.
“Ciabatta or sourdough?” Carlos asked.
“Neither,” said Monty. “Both.”
“You can’t use both,” Sanjay said.
“Why not?”
“Because that’s insane.”
Monty stared at him.
“So was splitting the atom.”
Travis nodded. “Yeah. Bold.”
They toasted two different kinds of bread.
Put them on the same plate.
Stared at them.
Someone in line said, “My number was called twenty minutes ago.”
No one responded.
The sandwich had priority.
THE ESCALATION
Next came the beef.
Not just any beef.
Three types.
Roast beef - traditional, thinly sliced.
Pastrami - for “complexity,” according to Monty.
And brisket - because Kim insisted it needed “a bass note.”
They layered them.
Carefully.
Reverently.
Like they were handling plutonium.
Which, in a way, they were.
This sandwich was becoming dangerous.
This is where things got heated.
Kim suggested a horseradish aioli.
Carlos wanted au jus.
Sanjay—bless him—advocated for “something lighter, maybe a vinaigrette.”
Monty listened to all of them.
Then said: “All three.”
“That’s too much liquid,” Sanjay protested. “The bread will disintegrate.”
“Then we engineer better bread,” Monty said.
And I swear—
I swear—
I saw the light of madness in his eyes.
The same light that must have been in Oppenheimer’s eyes when he realized what he’d created.
Travis said, “Yeah, bold.”
They built it.
Layer by layer.
Meat.
Cheese—three kinds, because “why stop now.”
Pickles—dill AND bread-and-butter, which caused a brief argument.
Onions—caramelized, because this was a serious sandwich.
Lettuce—iceberg for crunch, arugula for “sophistication.”
Tomato—despite my personal objections.
And the sauces.
All of them.
Drizzled.
Slathered.
Poured.
The sandwich grew.
Higher.
Wider.
More unstable.
It became clear that no human mouth could accommodate this.
But they didn’t care.
They weren’t building it for function.
They were building it to prove it could be done.
THE MOMENT OF TRUTH
Monty stepped back.
The team stepped back.
We all stared at it.
The Beef Manhattan.
Sitting on a plate.
Towering.
Glistening.
Defying physics and good sense.
Someone had to eat it.
Monty looked around the deli.
His eyes landed on me.
“You,” he said.
“Me?” I said.
“You’ve been here the whole time. You’ve witnessed this. You have to be the one.”
I wanted to refuse.
I wanted to say I was just here for a simple turkey club.
But I couldn’t.
Because I understood—in that moment—
that this was bigger than me.
This was history.
I approached the sandwich.
Picked it up.
Or tried to.
It immediately began to collapse.
Meat sliding.
Sauce dripping.
Structural integrity compromised.
I took a bite.
Or… the sandwich took me.
I’m not sure which.
It was—
Overwhelming.
Too many flavors.
Too many textures.
Competing.
Clashing.
A culinary arms race with no winner.
Just… chaos.
Delicious chaos.
Terrible chaos.
I chewed.
Swallowed.
Set it down.
Everyone waited.
“Well?” Monty asked.
I looked at him.
At the team.
At the sandwich—now half-destroyed, ingredients spilling across the plate like the aftermath of a very specific disaster.
And I said:
“This… this is too much.”
Monty nodded slowly.
“I know,” he said quietly.
“But we had to know if we could.”
The Beef Manhattan Project was never put on the menu.
It couldn’t be.
It was too powerful.
Too dangerous.
Too expensive, probably.
But it existed.
For one brief moment.
In a deli in a strip mall.
Between the dry cleaner and the tax prep place.
A sandwich that defied reason.
And I was there.
I tasted the future.
And the future was… complicated…
Sometimes I go back to Monty’s.
Order my turkey club.
And I see Monty.
Older now.
Tired.
But every once in a while—
when the light hits him just right—
I see that spark.
That mad glint.
The one that says:
“We could do it again.”
And I think:
Please don’t.
But also:
Please do.
Because someone has to push the boundaries.
Someone has to ask: How much beef is too much beef?
Someone has to build the sandwich that should never be built.
And if not Monty and his team of cafeteria Oppenheimers—
then who?
Fortunately for us, a team of culinarians were able to pick up where we left off and finish The Beef Manhattan Project. Open-Faced, Mashed Potatoes. It was as simple as that.
Until next time…
The Conference Call… Or… The Meeting That May Have Never Happened But Refuses to End
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
I need to tell you about a conference call.
Or… what I *believe* was a conference call.
What I *remember* as a conference call.
What might have been—
and I say this with complete sincerity—
a fever dream conjured by propofol and the lingering anxiety of capitalism.
But here’s the thing.
The troubling thing.
The thing that keeps me up at night, staring at my ceiling, questioning the nature of reality itself:
Things from that call keep happening.
Let me start at the beginning.
I had a procedure.
Minor. Routine. The kind where they say, “You’ll be a little groggy afterward.”
*A little groggy.*
What a quaint understatement.
What a gentle lie.
I woke up in recovery.
Or… I *think* I woke up.
The room was soft around the edges.
The light had a quality I can only describe as “sympathetic.”
The nurse was there, saying something about crackers and juice boxes, and I remember thinking:
This is the most reasonable thing anyone has ever said to me.
And then—
my phone rang.
Not buzzed.
Not chimed.
Rang.
Like it was 1997 and the phone had feelings about being ignored.
I answered.
Because of course I did.
I was in an altered state.
A pharmaceutical fugue.
The veil between dimensions was thin.
Who wouldn’t answer a phone call from the void?
THE VOICES
There were three of them.
Maybe four.
Possibly seven.
They all had names that sounded like law firms.
Brandon. Kendrick. Possibly a Stephanie.
They were talking about… metrics.
Synergy.
Deliverables.
Bandwidth.
That cursed word.
“Do we have the bandwidth for this, Orson?”
someone asked.
And I—
still tethered to the waking world by the thinnest thread of consciousness—
said:
“Bandwidth is a myth. We are all infinite.”
There was a pause.
A long one.
Someone coughed.
Then Brandon—or Kendrick, or the composite entity I now think of as “Brandrick”—said:
“Right. Well. Let’s circle back on that.”
THE AGENDA
They had an agenda.
I’m almost certain.
Seven items.
Or twelve.
Numbers were fluid.
But I remember—vividly—hearing:
“Item four: the pelican initiative.”
The pelican initiative.
I said, “What is that?”
And someone—Stephanie? The void itself?—said:
“You proposed it last quarter, Orson.”
I did not propose it.
I have never proposed anything involving pelicans.
I don’t even particularly *like* pelicans.
They’re unnerving.
But in that moment—
floating somewhere between sleep and a conference room I may have astral-projected into—
I said:
“Ah yes. The pelicans. How are they progressing?”
“Slowly,” said Brandrick.
“But with great intention,” added Possibly-Stephanie.
I nodded.
Even though no one could see me.
Even though I was in a hospital gown covered in tiny moons.
THE ACTION ITEMS
At some point, they assigned me tasks.
I know this because I *wrote them down.*
I found the paper later.
Crumpled in my jacket pocket.
In handwriting that looked like mine but… tilted.
Haunted.
The list said:
1. Follow up with the pelicans
1. Confirm the Tuesday slot
1. Realign the northeastern verticals
1. DO NOT FORGET THE BUTTER
That last one.
DO NOT FORGET THE BUTTER.
In all capitals.
Underlined three times.
I have no memory of why.
But I felt—deep in my soul—that this was critical.
That the butter was somehow load-bearing.
That without it, the entire structure would collapse.
THE AWAKENING
Eventually, the call ended.
Or I hung up.
Or I simply… ceased to be on it.
I drifted back to full consciousness.
The nurse asked if I was okay.
I said, “Did I just have a conference call?”
She blinked.
“You’ve been asleep for twenty minutes.”
“But my phone—”
I looked at it.
No recent calls.
No missed notifications.
Just my lock screen.
A photo of a sunset I don’t remember taking.
I laughed.
Relieved.
It was a dream.
A strange, corporate, pelican-filled dream.
And I went home.
Ate soup.
Watched Star Trek.
Forgot about it.
Three days later.
I got an email.
Subject line: Tuesday Slot - Confirmed
From: Brandon Kendrick (or possibly Kendrick Brandon—the name was blurred, like my brain refused to let me see it clearly).
The email said:
“Orson, thanks for confirming on the call. Tuesday at 2pm is locked in. See you then.”*
I stared at it.
Read it again.
And again.
I had confirmed nothing.
I had been unconscious.
I replied:
“I think there’s been a mistake.”
The response came immediately:
“No mistake. You were very clear. Looking forward to it.”
A week later.
A package arrived.
No return address.
Inside?
Butter.
European-style butter.
Wrapped in wax paper.
With a note:
“Per your request. - The Team”
I stood in my kitchen.
Holding butter I did not order.
From people I was no longer sure existed.
And I thought:
This is how it starts.
This is how reality unravels.
Tuesday came.
2 PM.
I was sitting on my couch, minding my own business, when—
My doorbell rang.
I opened it.
A man in a polo shirt.
Holding a clipboard.
He said, “Orson? Here for the site assessment.”
“The… what?”
“The northeastern verticals,” he said, as if this explained everything.
“You called about realignment.”
I had not called.
I had *dreamed* about calling.
Or… had I?
I stammered something.
He smiled.
A patient, professional smile.
The kind you give to someone who is clearly losing their grip.
“I’ll just take some measurements and be out of your way.”
And he did.
He measured my hallway.
Took photos of my walls.
Thanked me.
And left.
I stood there.
Paralyzed.
Haunted by the distinct possibility that I had—while unconscious—hired a contractor.
THE PELICANS
I haven’t heard about the pelicans yet.
But I know—
I know—
they’re coming.
Maybe not today.
Maybe not this week.
But somewhere, in some office, in some dimension adjacent to this one—
there is a meeting happening.
And someone is saying:
“Has anyone followed up with Orson about the pelican initiative?”
And someone else is saying:
“He’s been quiet. But he confirmed it on the call.”
And they’re all nodding.
Taking notes.
Moving forward.
With confidence.
With intention.
With pelicans.
THE CONCLUSION (OR LACK THEREOF)
So here I sit.
With butter I didn’t order.
A Tuesday appointment I don’t remember making.
And realigned northeastern verticals in a home that didn’t need realigning.
Was the call real?
I don’t know.
Does it matter?
Apparently not.
Because the consequences are real.
The butter is real.
The contractor was real.
And somewhere—
in a boardroom or a dream or the space between—
Brandrick and Possibly-Stephanie are checking off action items.
Nodding approvingly.
Saying:
“Orson really delivered this quarter.”
And I?
I’m just trying to figure out what to do with all this butter.
And preparing.
Preparing for the pelicans.
The Grocery Store DJ… Or… The Invisible Hand That Controls Your Produce Selection
As Chronicled by Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld
There is a person.
Somewhere.
In a room you will never see.
Behind a door marked “Employees Only” or perhaps “Electrical” or—most ominously—“Manager.”
And this person…
*controls everything.*
Not through force.
Not through policy.
But through something far more insidious:
The playlist.
Yes, my friends.
The Grocery Store DJ.
The unseen maestro of the mundane.
The puppet master pulling strings made of… soft rock from 1987.
-----
I became aware of their existence gradually.
At first, I thought it was random.
Background noise.
Sonic wallpaper designed to keep you from focusing on the fact that bananas somehow cost more than gasoline.
But then…
I started noticing patterns.
On Tuesdays, there was always yacht rock.
Not some yacht rock.
Not occasionally.
Always.
Every single Tuesday.
Smooth. Breezy. Relentlessly coastal.
As if the store itself had decided:
“Today, we sail.”
I’d be standing there, comparing Greek yogurt options—
trying to determine if “triple-strained” was worth an extra dollar—
and suddenly I’d hear that unmistakable opening synthesizer.
You know the one.
The one that says: *“Put down your responsibilities and imagine you’re on a boat you don’t own.”
And I would.
I’d drift.
Forget why I came.
End up buying three kinds of hummus I didn’t need and a pineapple I would never cut.
-----
But Tuesdays were just the beginning.
Wednesdays?
Power ballads.
Every. Single. One.
The kind that make you believe in second chances.
In love.
In the structural integrity of denim jackets.
I once stood in the cereal aisle for eleven minutes—
not because I was choosing—
but because I was *feeling.*
A song came on.
One of those songs.
The ones that crescendo like emotional avalanches.
And I just… stood there.
Holding a box of Honey Nut Cheerios.
Tears in my eyes.
Thinking about choices I’d made.
Friendships I’d lost.
That one time in eighth grade when I didn’t speak up and Jennifer Kowalski moved to Michigan without knowing I existed.
All because the Grocery Store DJ decided—
on that particular Wednesday—
that I needed to feel something.
-----
Thursdays were aggressive.
Upbeat pop from the early 2000s.
The kind designed to make you move faster.
Buy more.
Consume with enthusiasm.
I’m convinced this was strategic.
Because Thursdays are when people prep for the weekend.
They’re stocking up.
Filling carts.
And the DJ knows—
oh, the DJ knows.
that if you hear the right tempo at the right moment,
you will absolutely buy that $14 cheese.
You will grab the fancy crackers.
You will convince yourself that *tonight is the night you finally use that fondue pot.*
It’s psychological warfare.
Sonic manipulation.
And I… I am defenseless.
-----
I started tracking it.
Keeping notes.
Because I am not a passive participant in my own grocery experience.
I am Orson Shakespeare McSeinfeld.
And if there is a system, I will *decode* it.
Here’s what I discovered:
Mondays: Melancholy indie folk. Songs about roads. About leaving. About coffee shops that no longer exist. It’s designed to make you feel reflective. Vulnerable. You’ll buy soup. You’ll buy bread. Comfort food for an aching soul.
Tuesdays: As established—yacht rock. Maximum escapism. You’re buying things you don’t need because you’re mentally in Cabo.
Wednesdays: Power ballads. Emotional purchases. Premium ice cream. Wine you can’t pronounce. Flowers for no reason.
Thursdays: High-energy pop. Fast shopping. Impulse buys. Suddenly you own three types of salsa and a magazine about outdoor grilling.
Fridays: Classic rock. Celebratory. You’re preparing for the weekend. The DJ wants you to feel *accomplished.* You buy steak. You buy beer. You buy charcoal even though you don’t have a grill.
Saturdays: Family-friendly hits. Nostalgic. Songs your parents liked. You’re shopping with kids or shopping like you *have* kids. You buy everything in bulk. Goldfish crackers. Juice boxes. A future you’re not sure you want but the music insists is inevitable.
Sundays: Gospel. Soft jazz. Reflective. You’re recovering. Repenting for Saturday. You buy kale. Sparkling water. Ingredients you’ll never use but make you feel virtuous.
-----
But here’s the thing.
The part that keeps me up at night.
I don’t know who the DJ is.
I’ve asked.
I’ve inquired—casually, of course—at the checkout.
“So… who picks the music?”
The cashier blinked at me.
“Corporate, I think?”
Corporate.
Corporate.
Do you understand the implications?
This isn’t one person.
This is a *system.*
A vast, unseen network of playlist architects.
Analysts studying shopping behavior.
Algorithms determining which song makes you buy more frozen pizza.
Focus groups debating whether instrumental jazz increases organic vegetable sales.
*(It does, apparently.)*
-----
I have never seen the Grocery Store DJ.
But I have felt their presence.
In every carefully timed fadeout.
In every strategic silence before the chorus.
They are there.
Watching.
Waiting.
Queuing up the next track.
And we—
we humble shoppers—
are merely dancers in their grand design.
-----
The other day, I was in the store.
Late afternoon.
The golden hour of grocery shopping when the store is nearly empty and the lighting feels almost kind.
And a song came on.
A quiet one.
Something I hadn’t heard in years.
It was soft.
Gentle.
Almost… apologetic.
And I realized:
The DJ was tired too.
We were both just trying to get through the day.
Them, behind their mysterious console.
Me, with my cart and my list and my perpetually optimistic belief that *this time* I wouldn’t forget the milk.
And in that moment—
I forgave them.
For the yacht rock.
For the emotional manipulation.
For making me cry in the cereal aisle.
Because the Grocery Store DJ isn’t a villain.
They’re an artist.
Working in a medium most people don’t even notice.
Crafting soundtracks for the most mundane moments of our lives.
And if they make us feel something—
even accidentally—
even while we’re just buying eggs—
well…
isn’t that the point?
-----
So here’s to you, Grocery Store DJ.
Wherever you are.
In your secret room.
With your mysterious playlist.
Thank you for the yacht rock.
Thank you for the tears.
Thank you for making me believe—
if only for four minutes and twenty-three seconds—
that my life has a soundtrack.
And it’s glorious.