Life Imitating Cartoons

A few weeks ago I went to visit an elderly sister, who was in hospital with a broken hip. The monastery chaplain went with me. He has a weakness for hamburgers, so we went to a fast food joint. It may seem difficult to believe, but before that day I had never eaten in such a place. It was something out of a nightmare.

The entire interior was molded plastic in cream and nursery blue, like something out of a badly made television cartoon. Life now imitates cartoons. The ropes demarking lines guided customers, like cattle, gently towards the slaughter. Although there was no background music, I could hear frozen screaming. I came close to having a panic attack, or a fit of wild weeping, neither of which I am prone to. I tried to hide my distress from my companion, but the memory would not go away. I reflected for days on why the place had upset me.

I tried to think of positive aspects of fast food eateries. Yes, they employ poor people. Yes they sell cheap protein. But at what cost? I tried to discuss it with a sister who has an MBA, who defended business. "It's marketing," she said.

The following week on the way back to the hospital, this time alone, I reflected that it is precisely the marketing that is the problem: it pretends to offer freedom but takes it away; it pretends to give you choice, but narrows your vision; it pretends to give you potential while slamming the door; it pretends to offer you the chance to become a bigger and better person, while reducing you to an obese and robotic infant.

Worst of all, the plastic box in which you sit pretends to offer you a haven while in reality it assaults you, removing all possibility of silence, thought or reflection. "I'll have a triple Vacuity, a medium Frozen Scream and a large order of Lies, please." It offers a blasphemous parody of what a meal should be, even alone with oneself. The only option is to shut down, order, pay, munch (huddled and hunched) and depart.