Coming South on I-5, you find yourself at the Samish Highway, exit 246. A veritable wonderland of businesses and establishments dot the hill, but only one promises to serve so many needs with true expedience: McDonalds/Super V Gas. From the outside, the building is large, and it truly must be to hold so much—there’s a convenience store there, a set of bathrooms, a kitchen, a two-lane drive thru, a series of gas pumps. What you choose to do is limited only by your imagination and ominous signs threatening loiterers with trespass. Today, you need only for breakfast. The gas station/convenience market, though convenient, has breakfast offerings that pale in comparison to what the Golden Arches, those portals to flavorful dimensions, could ever provide. A quick skip through the doors lands you face to face again with two McDonald’s kiosks. Their interface is familiar, like a friendly neighbor. With the press of a finger, you and the kiosk have the same old conversation ‘how’s the wife and kids?’ ‘Is Tony going to walk at graduation this year?’ and ‘do you want to add coffee or hash browns to your order?’ Though that might be too much food for you, the kiosk was thoughtful to ask, if a little solicitous. You place your order to go, but you know you’ll be back. Were it not for the signage, this location gives little reason to leave. And so you think ‘maybe I’ll stay, just this once, forever. It wouldn’t be so bad, they have soft seating, it’s well lit here, there’s even a microwave in the adjoined convenience store. A guy could get pretty comfortable here! And the kiosk seems to like me, why not?!’ Your thought is punctuated with a passing survey of the other diners. It’s crowded for a Tuesday morning, but nobody seems to mind. United by a shared desire for quick, affordable breakfast this community seems happy. The phrase ‘good morning’ has actual meaning within the four walls of this restaurant. In that moment, a truth of the human condition reveals itself to you: home is found in the safety of our brothers and sisters love. This is heaven. But no—this is just McDonalds. And while the kiosk’s kind receipt was well-meaning, it carries a three digit bid farewell. A staff member calls the receipt’s number, warning you it is time to go. While he does not glance at the sign, the terseness of his gesture practically shows you to the door. Perhaps he was correct. There are more roads to travel and restaurants to see. You did order this to-go after all. And really, that says everything there is to say about you. This McDonalds seemed like your home, but you will be home at any McDonald’s. You take a lasting comfort in that.
