Burger Night Quotes

I like the city late at night, the blasts of music and the splashes of light cast from bars that are still open, shoals of brightly-dressed clubber, the beeping taxis and the greasy, savoury smell of meat and onions from the burger vans.

You’re eating.” He inches down the window and frisbees the burger into the night.

I know we planned to walk down to Schubert's for burgers, but can we go upstairs first?' She raised her eyebrows. 'What for?' 'Because I need to be inside you. Like...now.

It was night, and even if any good Samaritan saw the smoke, it wasn't like they would come running. This was America. No one was lost in America. If they saw the smoke, they would say, "Looks like someone's having a fire!" and then go have a burger.

I believe the reason why people are so sad, is because we live in a world constantly telling us that we have a million options: a millions options of shoes, soda, burgers, television shows, friends, lovers... we are all filled with empty air! Why? Because options are things that float around in the air but we don't really have them. They're not ours, and we don't really want them, anyway! A million options of lovers and most people don't even have one person to hold at night! That is how empty we all are.

away from fast food - for three weeks already. And I was starting to miss the occasional burger and fries. I assumed there'd be a few of the other lads feeling the same way. I talked to Sven, who thought it wouldn't do any harm, and then had a word with the England chefs. On the Wednesday night we all trooped down to dinner. The doors of the dining room were shut and there were two giant golden arches stuck up on them. We all went inside and there was a McDonald's takeaway mountain waiting for us: more burgers, cheeseburgers and chips than you've ever seen piled up in one room in your life. It was a complete surprise to all the players. We just devoured everything: it was like watching kids going mad in a candy store. And it worked. We did it again before we played Denmark. Maybe fast food was what was missing from our preparations for facing Brazil.

Margo Brinker always thought summer would never end. It always felt like an annual celebration that thankfully stayed alive long day after long day, and warm night after warm night. And DC was the best place for it. Every year, spring would vanish with an explosion of cherry blossoms that let forth the confetti of silky little pink petals, giving way to the joys of summer. Farmer's markets popped up on every roadside. Vendors sold fresh, shining fruits, vegetables and herbs, wine from family vineyards, and handed over warm loaves of bread. Anyone with enough money and enough to do on a Sunday morning would peruse the tents, trying slices of crisp peaches and bites of juicy smoked sausage, and fill their fisherman net bags with weekly wares. Of all the summer months, Margo liked June the best. The sun-drunk beginning, when the days were long, long, long with the promise that summer would last forever. Sleeping late, waking only to catch the best tanning hours. It was the time when the last school year felt like a lifetime ago, and there were ages to go until the next one. Weekend cookouts smelled like the backyard- basil, tomatoes on the vine, and freshly cut grass. That familiar backyard scent was then smoked by the rich addition of burgers, hot dogs, and buttered buns sizzling over charcoal.

We decided to attend to our community instead of asking our community to attend the church.” His staff started showing up at local community events such as sports contests and town hall meetings. They entered a float in the local Christmas parade. They rented a football field and inaugurated a Free Movie Night on summer Fridays, complete with popcorn machines and a giant screen. They opened a burger joint, which soon became a hangout for local youth; it gives free meals to those who can’t afford to pay. When they found out how difficult it was for immigrants to get a driver’s license, they formed a drivers school and set their fees at half the going rate. My own church in Colorado started a ministry called Hands of the Carpenter, recruiting volunteers to do painting, carpentry, and house repairs for widows and single mothers. Soon they learned of another need and opened Hands Automotive to offer free oil changes, inspections, and car washes to the same constituency. They fund the work by charging normal rates to those who can afford it. I heard from a church in Minneapolis that monitors parking meters. Volunteers patrol the streets, add money to the meters with expired time, and put cards on the windshields that read, “Your meter looked hungry so we fed it. If we can help you in any other way, please give us a call.” In Cincinnati, college students sign up every Christmas to wrap presents at a local mall — ​no charge. “People just could not understand why I would want to wrap their presents,” one wrote me. “I tell them, ‘We just want to show God’s love in a practical way.’ ” In one of the boldest ventures in creative grace, a pastor started a community called Miracle Village in which half the residents are registered sex offenders. Florida’s state laws require sex offenders to live more than a thousand feet from a school, day care center, park, or playground, and some municipalities have lengthened the distance to half a mile and added swimming pools, bus stops, and libraries to the list. As a result, sex offenders, one of the most despised categories of criminals, are pushed out of cities and have few places to live. A pastor named Dick Witherow opened Miracle Village as part of his Matthew 25 Ministries. Staff members closely supervise the residents, many of them on parole, and conduct services in the church at the heart of Miracle Village. The ministry also provides anger-management and Bible study classes.

Every night, millions of Americans spend their free hours watching television rather than engaging in any form of social interaction. What are they watching? In recent years we have seen reality television become the most popular form of television programming. To discover the nature of our current “reality,” we might consider examples such as Survivor, the series that helped spawn the reality TV revolution. Every week tens of millions of viewers watched as a group of ordinary people stranded in some isolated place struggled to meet various challenges and endure harsh conditions. Ah, one might think, here we will see people working cooperatively, like our ancient ancestors, working cooperatively in order to “win”! But the “reality” was very different. The conditions of the game were arranged so that, yes, they had to work cooperatively, but the alliances by nature were only temporary and conditional, as the contestants plotted and schemed against one another to win the game and walk off with the Grand Prize: a million dollars! The objective was to banish contestants one by one from the deserted island through a group vote, eliminating every other contestant until only a lone individual remained—the “sole survivor.” The end game was the ultimate American fantasy in our Age of Individualism: to be left completely alone, sitting on a mountain of cash! 　　While Survivor was an overt example of our individualistic orientation, it certainly was not unique in its glorification of rugged individualists on American television. Even commercial breaks provide equally compelling examples, with advertisers such as Burger King, proclaiming, HAVE IT YOUR WAY! The message? America, the land where not only every man and every woman is an individual but also where every hamburger is an individual! 　　Human beings do not live in a vacuum; we live in a society. Thus it is important to look at the values promoted and celebrated in a given society and measure what effect this conditioning has on our sense of independence or of interdependence

I want to make sure we understand in this reminder what duʿā’ is not? Duʿā’ is not placing an order at a restaurant. Duʿā’ is not placing an order for a product. When you place an order, you pay something and you get what you expected. You place an order for French fries; you’re not supposed to get a burger. You’re supposed to get French fries. When you place an order for a laptop, you’re not supposed to get a phone in the mail. You get what you ordered, and when you order something you obviously pay for it. You paid for it, so you’re expecting what you paid for. When you and I make duʿā’, we pay nothing. We pay nothing. When you pay nothing, then you have no expectations, you have no right to complain about what you get. You don’t get to say, ‘Hey! Wait, I asked for a hundred on my exam. I made duʿā’ last night. I still got a forty. What is this Allah? I placed the right order!’ You and I don’t get to do that. Allah is not here to serve you and me as customers. We’re used to customer service in this world. We are used to it so much that we think the way we are going to deal with Allah, is the same. Some of the young people today; unfortunately, their relationship with their parents has become like their parents are supposed to provide them customer service. ‘Mum, I asked you to buy me Grand Theft Auto! How come you didn’t get it yet?’, ‘I told you I’m going to do my homework!’ Like your homework is payment or something, right? Because we feel so entitled all the time, we bring this entitled attitude when we turn to Allah and we make duʿā’ to Him. ‘Yā Allāh, heal me.’ ‘Yā Allāh, get me a promotion.’ ‘Yā Allāh, do this for me or do that for me.’ And it doesn’t happen; and you’re like: ‘Forget this, I don’t need prayer. I even took the time out to pray and He didn’t give!

Tina woke to a thin beam of afternoon sun. She lay still for a moment, revisiting, reliving, trying to get comfortable with the events of the night before. The sound of rustling paper got her up and the smell assaulted her again. Lockie was eating a burger, trying for slow, but failing.He had his back to her as he perched in a corner, secretively stuffing his mouth. ‘Hey, Lockie,’ said Tina. Lockie turned, wild-eyed and fearful. He stopped mid-chew and pushed his tongue through his teeth to spit the gooey mess out. ‘Gross, kid, just swallow for fuck’s sake.’ ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Sorry for touching, sorry for eating, sorry for being a bad boy.’ ‘You’re not being a bad boy,’ Tina said. She hated how pathetic the kid sounded. ‘The food is for you, do you understand? It’s all for you.’ Lockie stared. He was still and silent, as if waiting for what would happen next. Tina hated the idea that he was afraid of her, that he would have to be afraid of everyone he ever met from now on. ‘Say it, kid. Say, “It’s all for me.” Go on, say it.’ Lockie stared. ‘Say it, Lockie.’ ‘It’s all . . .’ He faltered. “It’s all for me.” 'Say it, I mean it.’ ‘It’s all for me.’ ‘Say it again, Lockie.’ ‘It’s all for me. All for me, all for me.’ ‘Okay, kid, you can shut up now. Get back to your breakfast. I might have a cigarette.’ ‘The food is all for me,’ said Lockie. His voice was determined. He was telling her, but mostly he was telling himself. ‘That’s right, kid, it’s all for you.’ ‘But you can share it with me,’ he said, and he gave Tina a small smile.Someone had taught Lockie all the right rules. Someone who didn’t even know if he was alive right now. ‘I bet you’ve got the best mum and dad somewhere.' Lockie nodded and chewed. ‘I bet I do.’ He didn’t talk anymore after that. The memory of his parents had obviously been put somewhere far away so thoughts of them wouldn’t hurt. He wasn’t ready to take them out again.

Kelly and I had to take our turns to work the concessions stand at the games. We would always try to work our designated duties together. If you've ever assembled a hundred hot dogs after a game, you know things can get pretty hectic behind that concessions counter. Kelly and I would slap those orders together as fast as we could, but keep in mind this was not either of our fortes. Did the guy in the green jacket order a hot dog or a burger? Did that lady say "diet" or did I imagine it? We often held our breath when the person left, wondering if he would discover in short order that what he asked for was not at all what he received from the inept concession stand staff. Big crowds of of hungry basketball fans made us nervous, and Kelly and I often made a mess filling their orders. One time I got impatient with the ketchup bottle, as I kept banging on the bottom of it and nothing was coming out. All of the sudden, half the bottled spewed out in this huge blob, and I looked like a bloody accident victim the rest of the night!

I have never hated anything as much as I hated being a teenager. I could not have been more ill-suited to the state of adolescence. I was desperate to be an adult; desperate to be taken seriously. I hated relying on anyone for anything. I'd have sooner cleaned floors than be given pocket money or walked three miles in the rain at night than be given a lift home by a parent. I was looking up the price of one-bedroom flats in Camden when I was fifteen, so I could get a head start on saving up with my babysitting money. I was using my mum's recipes and dining table to host 'dinner parties' at the same age, forcing my friends round for rosemary roast chicken tagliatelle and raspberry pavlova with a Frank Sinatra soundtrack, when all they wanted to was eat burgers and go bowling. I wanted my own friends, my own schedule, my own home, my own money and my own life. I found being a teenager one big, frustrating, mortifying, exposing, co-dependent embarrassment that couldn't end fast enough. Alcohol, I think, was my small act of independence. It was the one way I could feel like an adult.

I remember standing at the front of the church auditorium when Missy came out in her white wedding dress. Before that moment I was really nervous and was thinking about whether I was actually ready to get married. But then I melted when I saw her. She looked more gorgeous than ever, and I felt a sense of calm come over me. The ceremony was great, and as it went along I think we both became even more anxious about our first night together. After we left our wedding reception, I asked Missy what she wanted to do. I was pretty much ready to see what I had been missing. “Well, I’m hungry,” she said. We went to a burger joint, and as we ate I could tell she was nervous about what was going to transpire. We’d planned to stay in a hotel the night of our wedding and fly to Hawaii the next day of our honeymoon. I’ll be perfectly honest: our first night together was more of an exploratory expedition into the human anatomy than a blissful adventure. It felt like a biology experiment. Missy doesn’t care for the way I describe it, but that’s what happens when neither one of you has had sex before. You find your way through it and figure out what’s going on. Then you go from there, and it becomes much more enjoyable.

It didn’t take long for us to realize, though, that we hadn’t eaten since the eggs twenty-four hours earlier. Eating was the one desire of the flesh we hadn’t fulfilled. I remembered seeing a McDonald’s near the entrance of our hotel, and since I needed a little exercise I offered to dart out for some safe and predictable American food, which would tide us over till the dinner we had reservations for that night. Our blood sugar was too low to comb the city, looking for a place to have a quick lunch. I knew Marlboro Man was a ketchup-only guy when it comes to burgers, and that’s what I ordered when I approached the counter: “Hamburger, ketchup only, please.” “Sar…you only want kitchipinmite?” the innocent clerk replied. “Excuse me?” “Kitchipinmite?” “Uh…pardon?” “You jis want a hamburger with kitchipinmite?” “Uh…what?” I had no idea what the poor girl was saying. It took me about ten minutes to realize the poor Australian woman behind the counter was merely repeating and confirming my order: kitchip (ketchup) inmite (and meat). It was a traumatic ordering experience. I returned to the hotel room, and Marlboro Man and I dug into our food like animals. “This tastes a little funny,” my new husband said. I concurred. The mite was not right. It didn’t taste like America.

Last night they stole the watchman’s rattle, and knocked the watchman down. Now they go rattling through the streets, proclaiming the ballad of Worse-was-it-Never. There was a former age, it seems, when wives were chaste and pedlars honest, when roses bloomed at Christmas and every pot bubbled with fat self-renewing capons. If these times are not those times, who is to blame? Londoners, probably. Members of Parliament. Reforming bishops. People who use English to talk to God. Word spreads. On the farms around, labourers see the chance of a holiday. Faces blackened, some wearing women’s attire, they set off to town, picking up any edged tool that could act as a weapon. From the marketplace you can see them coming, kicking up a cloud of dust. Old men anywhere in England will tell you about the drunken exploits of harvests past. Rebel ballads sung by our grandfathers need small adaptation now. We are taxed till we cry, we must live till we die, we be looted and swindled and cheated and dwindled … O, Worse was it Never! Farmers bolt their grain stores. The magistrates are alert. Burgers withdraw indoors, securing their warehouses. In the square some rascal sways on top of a husting, viewing the rural troops as they roll in. ‘Pledge yourselves to me—Captain Poverty is my name.’ The bell-ringers, elbowed and threatened, tumble into the parish church and ring the bells backward. At this signal, the world turns upside down.

We walked the circuit, passing the food stands frying funnel cakes and burgers, and the game booths, ceilings bristling with giant, multicolored stuffed animals. I paused in front of the crossbow game. Nicholas cocked an eyebrow. “Want me to win you a stuffed bunny?” “Ha.” I rubbed my hands together. “I’ll win my own stuffed bunny, thanks very much.” Nicholas passed the attendant a few dollars to pay for my turn. “I guess it’s nice to see you use your legendary aim for something other than breaking my nose,” he teased. “The night is young,” I snapped back, lifting the plastic crossbow. “This is a pathetic weapon,” I muttered. “I couldn’t stake an undead mouse with this thing.” “It’s supposed to be a game, remember?” he whispered, laughter in his dark voice. I fired my three shots, all crowding into the bull’s-eye. With a triumphantly smug toss of my head, I looked at the openmouthed attendant. “I want the purple bunny.” He tugged it down and passed it over to me. I slipped it into my bag while Nicholas shook his head. “Dump this loser, Lucy, and run away with me. You’ll never have to win your own cross-eyed bunny again.” I grinned up at Nicholas’s brother Quinn, who was smiling his charming smile, his arm draping casually over my shoulder. Hunter rolled her eyes at me from my other side. “No way,” I said. “My aim’s better than yours. Plus, your girlfriend can hurt me.” “Ooh,” Quinn said, winking. “Catfight. Hot.” He grinned. “Ouch,” he added when both Hunter and I smacked him.

She wants to make it nice. A strange feeling comes over me, like when somebody gives you the last burger even though you’ve been an asshole all night.

Hey, Mitch,” he called after him. “We don’t really have to cook our meals on sticks, do we?” Mitch shrugged. “Depends on how badly we piss off the women. Word to the wise, behave yourself on burger night because it’s a bitch to keep them on a stick.

Soon they were just glimmering specks a few hundred feet above drifting east toward downtown, over the darkened side streets of East Orange where they had all inhabited various residences over the years, over the streaming headlights along the I-280 and the Garden State Parkway and Central Avenue and South Orange Avenue and the other thoroughfares that radiated like spokes from downtown Newark to the nether regions, over Bloomfield and Vailsburg and Irvington, over St. Benedict’s Preparatory Academy for Boys and the Passaic River and the rusty yet mighty bridges spanning it, a vantage point Rob had seen leaving for and returning from all his trips, from which the city looked so serene and sometimes, at the right angle and at the right time of night, even beckoning. At a certain point, the lights disappeared from view beyond the trees and eaves of the neighboring homes, leaving the Burger Boyz to sit down once again in the plastic fold-out chairs and wonder how long it would be before the flames flickered out and the lanterns began their descent. And once that happened, they wondered where each would fall.

food prices had gone up considerably in a week, almost triple what they had been before Collins took over. Eating at Burger King or McDonald’s was almost as expensive as eating at a four star restaurant. Stopping at night, sometimes they stayed in a motel or camped outdoors. The closer they came to passing the Mississippi, the more camping they had to do, since motels were getting harder and harder to find without wasting all of their gas and money trying to look for one or pay for one.

Listen up, nerd,” he said, glancing over his shoulder while I wrapped myself against his back. “Man, you feel good like that.” “Your huge brain is working at a wavelength I don’t understand. Repeat what you just said in a dumb way so I’ll understand what my being a nerd has to do with you liking this,” I said, wiggling my hips against him before raking his back with my breasts. After giving me a groan followed by a naughty grin, Cooper sighed. “I can’t even remember what the hell we were talking about,” he said, wrapping my arms tighter around him. “Oh, yeah, you being a nerd. So don’t worry about getting carded. The Kirk in Whiskey Kirk’s is my pop and he doesn’t care if you get wasted. He doesn’t believe in laws.” “I’m not drinking.” “Farah, you need to relax and enjoy life.” “I come from a long line of drunks and addicts, so I’m not relaxing and enjoying life if it means I become like my loser relatives.” Cooper glanced back at me and smiled. “Did you take a shower before I showed up because you’re hella feisty?” “Do they have good food at this bar?” I asked, ignoring his question. “Burgers, hot wings, only the best bar food in Kentucky. You just keep holding on while I see if I can concentrate with your tits pushed up against me like that.” “I had them pushed up the other night and you concentrated fine.” “That’s because you were wearing your uniform and I forgot you had tits. No forgetting today.” “If you ever want to be friends with them, you really need to stop calling them tits. They don’t like that.” “Yes, mam,” he said, laughing as he pushed off and drove away from the apartment.

Tara throwing my biggest insecurity in my face puts a damper on my night, and I suddenly have no desire for anyone to see my naked body, regardless of the fact I’ll never have to see them again.  An alert pings on my phone. A message from that guy on Tinder asking what my plans are for the night, but I don’t respond. I delete the app entirely, over the whole idea. Instead, I change into a pair of leggings, an oversized thrifted tee, and a flannel, finishing my outfit off with my Air Force Ones. I grab my purse, sling the strap across my body, and head out the door to the bar I found a few blocks away so I can watch my brother’s home opener of the season. All while I am scarfing down on a burger and a beer.  Two beers. Probably three beers. Fuck it, let’s not put a limit on it. However many beers it’ll take to make me forget about how shitty I feel.

What would your last meal be?" I asked suddenly. That was a night when I thought it would be all right if my life ended. "A really long omikase. Like at least thirty-four courses. I want Yesuda to cook them himself. He puts the soy sauce on with a paintbrush." "Salmon pastrami from Russ and Daughters. A ton of bagels. Like three bagels." "In-N-Out double double." "I'm thinking about a Barolo, something really ripe and dirty, like from the eighties." "ShackBurger and a milk shake." "My mom's was veal scallopini and a Diet Coke." "Nonna's Bolognese----it takes eight hours. She makes the pappardelle by hand." "A roast chicken---I would eat the entire thing by hand. And I guess a DRC. When else would I taste that kind of Burgundy?" "Blinis, caviar, and crème fraîche. Done and done. Some impossible Champagne, Krug, or a culty one like the Selosse, drunk out of the bottle." "Toast," I said, when my turn came. I tried to think of something more glamorous, but toast was the truth. I expected to be mocked. My suburban-ness, my stupidity, my blankness. "What on top?" "Um. Peanut butter. The raw kind you get from the health-food stores. I salt it myself.

Two nights in a row, we dine at McDonalds, ordering shrimp burgers, chicken sandwiches, sweet corn, and shaka-chicki----fried chicken in a paper bag with a choice of seasonings.

We spend the rest of the night baking, using the ingredients I have left over to make another batch of So Sorry Blondies--- this one modified with extra peanut butter, Paige's favorite. We turn on an old Taylor Swift album and eat the dough raw and catch up on each other's lives. We talk about how she and my dad came up with Big League Burger in the first place, and weird dessert hybrids we want to try in the city, and fall asleep watching Waitress with fingers still sticky from chocolate and toffee.

Every night she was shocked by the many uses of peaches. The women knew how to make anything out of them---peach-and-pecan soup, peach salsa, peach-and-onion fritters, peach-and-amaretto jelly. They combined them with the produce of their vegetable garden, which lay behind the men’s dorm. When the men cooked, it was less creative---burgers, sometimes steak. But there was always corn on the cob, cucumber-and-parsley salad with cider vinegar, beans, mild white cheese crumbled on tortillas and cooked over the open fire.

I'm thinking of things I like about living more than I realized; insane things considering how trivial they are. I like Burger King fries. I like watching my dad listening to Hall & Oates. The smell of new tennis balls. I love this old collection of unicorn stickers I have in a cookie tin in my closet. Maybe this is life flashing before your eyes; maybe it's supposed to be mundane.

I have never hated anything as much as I hated being a teenager. I could not have been more ill-suited to the state of adolescence. I was desperate to be an adult; desperate to be taken seriously. I hated relying on anyone for anything. I’d have sooner cleaned floors than be given pocket money or walked three miles in the rain at night than be given a lift home by a parent. I was looking up the price of one-bedroom flats in Camden when I was fifteen, so I could get a head start on saving up with my babysitting money. I was using my mum’s recipes and dining table to host ‘dinner parties’ at the same age, forcing my friends round for rosemary roast chicken tagliatelle and raspberry pavlovas with a Frank Sinatra soundtrack, when all they wanted to do was eat burgers and go bowling. I wanted my own friends, my own schedule, my own home, my own money and my own life. I found being a teenager one big, frustrating, mortifying, exposing, co-dependent embarrassment that couldn’t end fast enough.

Stevie. Curly hair and amazing ass. Won’t sleep with me, but I hope she changes her mind.”  Scrolling to the Denver tab, she clicks on it. “Stevie. Has an attitude. Likes basketball and is down to eat burgers.” She exits out, finding Washington DC next. “Stevie,” she continues. “Best sex of my life.”  She keeps going to Calgary. “Stevie. Snuck her into my hotel room to watch movies with me all night.” San Jose. “Stevie. Insane blowjob in the shower. Wore my T-shirt to bed.” Next, she finds Vancouver. “Stevie. Came to my game. My favorite person to hang out with.

It feels like ten o’clock at night, but it’s only five P.M. As fucked as it is after dealing with human body parts, I’m in the mood for a mean ass burger.

So, is that it then? I’m fascinating because I have random, odd skill sets from being born and raised by bikers. That’s what you think about me?” “Well, that and the obvious.” “Which is what?” She takes a bite of her burger. “You’re beautiful.” “Now you’re just being polite because I’m nothing special.” “Are you kidding me, Sticks?” I hitch an eyebrow. “You’re fucking stunning. From when you wake up in the morning until you go to bed at night. It’s honestly not fair to the rest of the female population. And when I think about you, my thoughts are anything but polite.

Barbecues, beach days, & those long, lazy summer nights—hello, summer! It's time to bask in the sun, flip burgers like a pro, & enjoy endless evenings under the stars. Say goodbye to your winter woes & hello to sandy toes, tan lines, & ice-creams. Whether you're hitting the waves, grilling up a storm, or just lounging with a good book, summer’s got it all. So grab your shades, crank up the tunes, & let the good vibes roll. Here’s to the season of fun, sun, & a whole lot of awesome!

The Deliverator does not know for sure what happens to the driver in such cases, but he has heard some rumors. Most pizza deliveries happen in the evening hours, which Uncle Enzo considers to be his private time. And how would you feel if you bad to interrupt dinner with your family in order to call some obstreperous dork in a Burbclave and grovel for a late fucking pizza? Uncle Enzo has not put in fifty years serving his family and his country so that, at the age when most are playing golf and bobbling their granddaughters, he can get out of the bathtub dripping wet and lie down and kiss the feet of some sixteenyear- old skate punk whose pepperoni was thirty-one minutes in coming. Oh, God. It makes the Deliverator breathe a little shallower just to think of the idea. But he wouldn't drive for CosaNostra Pizza any other way. You know why? Because there's something about having your life on the line. It's like being a kamikaze pilot. Your mind is clear. Other people -- store clerks, burger flippers, software engineers, the whole vocabulary of meaningless jobs that make up Life in America -- other people just rely on plain old competition. Better flip your burgers or debug your subroutines faster and better than your high school classmate two blocks down the strip is flipping or debugging, because we're in competition with those guys, and people notice these things. What a fucking rat race that is. CosaNostra Pizza doesn't have any competition. Competition goes against the Mafia ethic. You don't work harder because you're competing against some identical operation down the street. You work harder because everything is on the line. Your name, your honor, your family, your life. Those burger flippers might have a better life expectancy -- but what kind of life is it anyway, you have to ask yourself. That's why nobody, not even the Nipponese, can move pizzas faster than CosaNostra. The Deliverator is proud to wear the uniform, proud to drive the car, proud to march up the front walks of innumerable Burbclave homes, a grim vision in ninja black, a pizza on his shoulder, red LED digits blazing proud numbers into the night: 12:32 or 15:15 or the occasional 20:43.

Alright, here’s your dinner! Max, Chef Raymond said to enjoy,” April said weakly as she placed a charred salmon burger in front of him. “He said that he’s celebrating his Cajun side tonight…and every night that you decide to eat here.”   She

When she rolled her eyes, he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing at her. “Why don’t you let me push the fridge back and I’ll take you out to lunch.” “Why?” “Because you clean when you’re upset and taking a toothbrush to the back of the fridge means you’re on the ragged edge. I’ll take you down to Concord for a Jasper burger. They can fix anything.” She laughed, but it was on the bitter side. “Yeah, ’cause I need more Kowalskis in my day.” “Hey, whatever it is, I didn’t do it.” “I’m just not in a good mood today.” He grinned and rocked back on his heels. “This is because of my magic penis, isn’t it? Four nights of it too much for you?” “Ha. Don’t flatter yourself, Kowalski. I’m only having sex with you so I can sleep in my own bed again.” The renewed color in her cheeks let him know she was full of crap. “So if I offered to do you right here on the kitchen floor, you’d say no?” “I’d have to say no just to prove my point now.” “Damn.

They went to Shimmies again, but this time Johnny pulled into the long line at the drive thru, and Maggie breathed a sigh of relief. She was too tired for drama, and Shimmies was full of teen angst. Maggie took one look at the menu board and knew what she wanted. She always got the same thing. Johnny was still reading the menu, a frown of disbelief between his brows. She guessed that the prices were a tad bit higher than he was used to. Oh well, she’d warned him, hadn’t she? “Do you need me to buy?” She asked softly. Johnny shot her a look that would have caused her to shrivel up and die had she not grown a rather thick skin over the years. Still, she cringed a little bit. He clearly took her offer as an insult. “I’ve got plenty of money... but it had better be a darn good burger. The last burger I ate cost fifteen cents.” “Fifteen?” Maggie squeaked. Johnny tossed his heads toward the window at the gas station they could see across the road. The fuel prices were displayed on a large marquee. “A gallon of gas used to cost me a quarter. I can’t believe people are still driving cars at these prices.” He looked back at her, his expression unreadable. “You already know what you want?” He changed the subject abruptly. “I always get the same thing.” “Not too adventurous, huh? “Life is disappointing enough without having to take chances on your food. I always go with the sure thing

Burgers. But not just any burger. Here, try this.” I’m expecting tin foil wrapped mounds to come out of the fancy bag, but instead they’re extravagant boxes of some kind. Probably high-end organic, recycled cardboard originally harvested from sustainable seaweed beds or something.

For all its tropical beauty there was something charmless and hard about it, a vulgarity as decidedly American as the picture industry which thrived on the constant waves of transplants eager for work, offering them nothing more substantial than sunshine. It was a city of strangers, but, unlike New York, the dream L.A. sold, like any Shangri-La, was one not of surpassing achievement but unlimited ease, a state attainable by only the very rich and the dead. Half beach, half desert, the place was never meant to be habitable. The heat was unrelenting. On the streets there was a weariness that seemed even more pronounced at night, visible through the yellow windows of burger joints and drugstores about to close, leaving their few customers nowhere to go. Inconceivably, he was one of that rootless tribe now, doomed to wander the boulevards, and again he marveled at his own fall, and at his capacity for appreciating it.

Staff meal." The words are sweet relief, and I untie the apron Roberto gave me, hanging it up on the hook by the entrance. Sure, I ate here last night. But there were so many things on the menu I didn't order. The open-faced duck confit sandwich with red wine aioli, the almond-crusted salmon with zucchini puree, tempura vegetables, chipotle oil. I wonder how this works, if we get to choose whatever we want. Or maybe it's some new creation, some experimental dish that Chef tries out on the staff before adding it to the menu. To think that I might try one of her dishes before anyone else is all the reward I need for today's scrubbing, for the hot water that has splashed all over me throughout the day. What I find instead is a sheet tray of charred burger patties, most of them covered in toxic-yellow American cheese. There's another sheet tray with toasted buns and matchstick fries. Morris and Boris are leaning against the coffee station, taking huge bites in sync. I try to hide my disappointment, follow Elias's lead and grab a plate. I'm shocked that some people are eating it just like that, munching down as quickly as possible without bothering with the condiments. I'm starving too, but it's crazy to me that Chef Elise's food is at their fingertips and everyone's just letting it sit there. There's a whole line of deli containers right in front of us, and I can't even tell what's in them, but the mere thought is making my mouth water. Whispering so that no one can laugh and/or yell at me, I ask Elias if it's cool to use some of the mise to spruce up the burger. He shrugs. "Do your thing." It mellows the disappointment a little: pickled red jalapeños, cilantro aioli, Thai slaw.

Then came Dani’s turn to read a question. “‘Who’s in charge in the bedroom?’” Much to the group’s amusement, none of them got a match, and Sean didn’t think they would either as he held up his notepad. “‘I am, since I carry the big stick.’” Emma read hers with a remarkably straight face. “‘Sean, because he has a magic penis.’” “Wow. Um…so Sean and Emma have a point,” Dani said as the men nearly pissed themselves laughing. No way in hell was he leaving that unpunished, and he winked at Emma when Kevin read the next question. “‘Where’s the kinkiest place you’ve had sex?’” The fact that Joe and Keri had done the dirty deed on the back of his ATV led to a few questions about the logistics of that, but then it was Emma’s turn. “‘In bed, because Sean has no imagination.’” Roger threw an embarrassed wince his way, but his cousins weren’t shy about laughing their asses off. Sean just shrugged and held up his notepad. “In the car in the mall parking lot. Emma’s lying because she doesn’t want anybody to know being watched turns her on.” Her jaw dropped, but she recovered quickly and gave him a sweet smile that didn’t jibe with the “you are so going to get it” look in her eyes. Beth asked the next question. “‘Women, where does your man secretly dream of having sex?’” Keri knew Joe wanted to have sex in the reportedly very haunted Stanley Hotel, from King’s The Shining. Dani claimed Roger wanted to do the deed on a Caribbean beach, but he said that was her fantasy and that his was to have sex in an igloo. No amount of heckling would get him to say why. And when it came to Kevin, even Sean knew he dreamed of getting laid on the pitcher’s mound at Fenway Park. Then, God help him, it was Emma’s turn to show her answer. “‘In a Burger King bathroom.’” The room felt silent until Dani said, “Ew. Really?” “No, not really,” Sean growled. “Really,” Emma said over him. “He knows that’s the only way he can slip me a whopper.” As the room erupted in laughter, Sean knew humor was the only way they’d get through the evening with their secret intact, but he didn’t find that one very funny, himself. It was the final answer that really did him in, though. The question: “If your sex had a motto, what would it be?” Joe and Keri’s was, not surprisingly, Don’t wake the baby Kevin and Beth wrote, Better than chocolate cake, whatever that was supposed to mean. Dani wrote, Gets better with time, like fine wine, and Roger wrote, Like cheese, the older you get, the better it is, which led to a powwow about whether or not to give them a point. They probably would have gotten it if they weren’t tied with Keri and Joe, who took competitive to a cutthroat level. When they all looked at Sean, he groaned and turned his paper around. They’d lost any chance of winning way back, but he was already dreading what the smart-ass he wasn’t really engaged to had written down. “‘She’s the boss.’” The look Emma gave him as she slowly turned the notepad around gave him advance warning she was about to lay down the royal flush in this little game they’d been playing. “Size really doesn’t matter,” she said in what sounded to him like a really loud voice. Before he could say anything—and he had no idea what was going to come out of his mouth, but he had to say something--Cat appeared at the top of the stairs. “I hate to break up the party,” she said, “but it’s getting late, so we’re calling it a night.” Maybe Cat was, but Sean was just getting started.

She looked down at her burger. “Josh, I’m just a little run-down, okay? I’m sleeping with Sloan in the hospital every night. I’m living off of black coffee and whatever I can shove in my mouth. My OCD is manic—” “You have OCD?” It didn’t really surprise me. I’d seen a touch of it in her since I’d known her. One of my sisters had it. I knew it when I saw it. “Usually it’s not this bad, but it gets worse when I’m under stress.” She finished the burger and balled up the paper like it was an effort to even do that. Then she lay back against the headrest and closed her eyes. She was falling apart. She was deteriorating physically and mentally trying to keep Sloan together. And where the fuck was I in all this? Failing her. She wouldn’t ask for my help. I knew her well enough to know this, and I hadn’t even been to the hospital in three days to check in on her. I’d left her on her own with Sloan and Brandon’s family and all the rest of it. I should have been there. Maybe I could have gotten ahead of this life-support thing. Taken a spot on the overnight shift to be with Sloan so Kristen could get some sleep. Made sure she ate. Talking to me or not, Kristen never turned down food. I blamed myself for this. But I blamed her too. Because if she had let me, I would have taken care of her. We could have taken care of each other, and neither of us would be in such bad shape. I reached over and threaded my fingers through hers. She didn’t pull away. She looked too tired to fight me. She squeezed my hand, and the warmth of her touch coursed through me. “I’ll go to the hospital,” I said. “I’ll talk to his parents, and I’ll stay with Sloan today. I need you to go home and sleep. And tomorrow I want you to go to the doctor. Call to make the appointment tonight because you might have to fast before they do bloodwork.” She just looked at me, her beautiful face hollow and weary. She was always so strong. It was scary seeing her declining like this. Love did this to her. Her love of Sloan. And probably her love of me too. I knew it wasn’t easy on her. I knew she thought she was doing the right thing. But fuck, if she would just stop. If she would stop, we could both be okay.