The Scent of Fast Food

By Parker Schweickert

The wheels rolled to a stop, and he pulled out a stack of cards that probably looked identical to everyone but him, insisting that a few of them could grant him free desserts. The world ceased to exist outside the spotlight of the fluorescent lights beaming through the cashier window. The scent of fast food weighed down the air in the compact car. It stuck itself on everything like a layer of film. I looked up and over at my stepdad, wishing to go home.

After a few minutes of wrestling for a discount, the poor worker who had to be at a Wendy’s just before midnight reluctantly passed four medium-sized Frostys through to him in a cardboard cup holder. We sleepily finished the drive-thru route. He and I had spent the entire evening at the hospital, comforting my mom through a gallbladder attack. She had described the pain as a lot like labor and winced every time we hit a pothole. Our car sped through side streets and snaked between vehicles on the highway to get her into emergency surgery, and I silently panicked from the back seat. The harsh hospital lights drowned out the natural glow from the moon shining through the window and outlined the empty benches in the waiting room. I bit my nails while waiting for good news and bounced my leg when they told us she’d have to stay overnight. Reluctant and concerned, we left the hospital to get food and sleep. He chose Wendy’s since it seemed to be the only thing on his mind lately. He often went through strange phases of this sort; his ice cream making one had been my favorite, and his triathlon phase had been my least.

We received our food and then drove for a little while longer, eventually pulling into a large lot outside of a grocery store whose silhouette loomed over the sea of empty parking spaces. The dim gleam from the lights about ten times the size of my ten-year-old self just barely highlighted the white painted lines on the asphalt. When he opened his door, the cold air from outside flooded into the car. He told me he would be back soon and that I could have all the Frostys if I so pleased. Then he walked away. And so, like any other small child with a sweet tooth, excitement swelled my heart, and I took the Frostys as he closed the door. Picking up a beige plastic spoon, I watched him fade into the darkness while he walked further and further from the car toward the store. I hummed to myself and looked around; the parking lot looked back, barren. I finished off an entire Frosty. Then a second. He disappeared for about 45 minutes, which gave me an abundant amount of time to wolf down the third of the frozen treats. I began to feel ill as my stomach churned and faltered, and the ice cream sat heavy in my gut. The world blurred around me, and only the car remained; my heart began to beat quicker. I took on the role of a parent, telling myself that I did not have to eat the fourth Frosty and that if I needed to throw up, I would be sure to open the car door first.

My stomach and I sat uneasily in the car until he returned, where I did my best to conceal the anger that bubbled like oil in a pan when I’d been forced to take his place as the responsible one and forfeit my final Frosty for my well-being. He paid no attention to how long he’d been gone upon his return, only pretended that nothing had happened and put on a song. I noticed he had not bought anything on his time away but didn’t think to say anything. I never thought about the exchange much until far after he left for rehab. When I realized I had probably been dragged to a drug deal, I didn’t feel angry, not like I felt in the car. I only felt grateful I didn’t realize it sooner.

I held the last ice cream in my lap on the drive home and gazed down into the soft white swirl. The car rolled away with one remaining Frosty, three leftover paper cups, a child more mature than he used to be, and an adult to drive it all away. The car did not contain my mom. I missed her. The car contained the scent of fast food. The parking lot became empty.