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Each year, there were only a few days that Alfred intentionally stayed up overnight. There were always Star Wars marathons and nights of unfettered gaming spent huddled next to a family pack of Doritos and the best damn store-brand cola Walmart could offer. But these weren’t rituals for him, not in the same way his most treasured midnight hours were. There was no clock-watching and no seasonally-themed decoration to look forward to on those nights of isolated debauchery. Such activities were reserved for only the most sacred days. Amongst them- Christmas, his birthday (known to the masses as the 4th of July) and Halloween. But sneaking in amongst them was a much less wholesome activity that he nonetheless took a great interest in.
It was 4/20, the 20th of April, and Alfred was going to get fucking baked. After the first twitch of midnight it took him only a minute to retrieve his prized apparatus from the kitchen cupboard he stored it in, content for once in the knowledge nobody ever wanted him to cook for them enough that he’d end up revealing it accidentally. Before laying it down in front of his TV he took a hot second to admire the bong’s impressive décor- a large and purposeful screen-print of a bald eagle with the flag emblazoned its clear glass proudly, nearly bringing a tear to his eye. Retrieving his baggie from the back of the authentic signed letter from Abraham Lincoln took him only a second, as accustomed to it as he was, becoming more rapid in selecting the finest nug from the respectable collation he had built up and shuffling the bag back behind its framed hiding place. He would usually opt for a much less effort-based preparation, but the night was his and he felt filled with a determination to follow through on his intricate rituals.
Next the TV was turned on, coming to light on an episode of NCIS which Alfred quickly flicked past in preference for Netflix. Halfway through the list he had created in preparation for the event was Netflix’s robust collection of Bob Ross episodes. Knowing he needed a low-brainpower show, and despite his lack of paint, Alfred pressed play without regard to episode or series. He didn’t doubt for a second that he’d watched it before, but he remained optimistic regarding the experience of viewing it while stoned. Grinding his material and packing the bowl as the introduction to the show played, Alfred could feel his fingers twitch in anticipation of the sensation. Similarly flag-emblazoned lighter now out of his pocket and in his hand, he was ready to light the flame which would inaugurate the day squarely amongst his favourite in the year. Pressing his lips around the exterior of the funnel and sparking the lighter into a warm, satisfying glow felt to him like coming home. Even if it was illegal, he was America, and he could do whatever the fuck he wanted.
Carefully avoiding singeing his fingernails like he did so many years ago, the flame transferred its heat to the metal bowl, bringing his preparations to a conclusion. Past the twelve-AM strike, this was Alfred’s night, and he took a strong hit to the therapeutic empathy in the voice of Bob Ross.
--
An hour into his hopefully-lengthy high, Alfred became bored. And hungry. Something about hearing the voice of another person through a device made him clamour for the real experience- yet his friends and acquiantances were perpetually abroad, being as they were. Communications with the states were loose, and even Colorado preferred to rest well before what was undeniably amongst his favourite days of the year as well. No doubt even those who approved were already fast asleep. He had somehow grown tired of the interactive painting run-throughs without anyone by his side to listen to his weed-addled ramblings all night long. Aliens are cool, but they don’t cut it like human bros, he pondered to himself through half-hazy thoughts. But while breezing through his phone stagnantly, two apps side-by-side caught his eye.
McDonalds and Uber, huh?
Though endlessly nostalgic for the old days of horse-drawn cabs and hand-over-heart diners, Alfred could never deny his affection for modern American-born conveniences like these. And at that moment, his brain put something together. Remembering vaguely that he’d been in trouble the last time he encouraged an Uber driver to smoke with him, Alfred’s brain took the long way around for an idea. On a Saturday night, there were no doubt people emerging from nightclubs throughout New York city. So there was no doubt an Uber market waiting for him, should he desire a car to take him into the burger joint that he was most familiar with. Not only would he be accompanied by other late-night fast-food connoisseurs, but he would be able to pick up what he decided was a well-earned meal. Staying up for the greatest night of the year was a tiring ordeal. Starches and protein are basically requisite, right?
It was only after feeling for his pocket, and his wallet, that Alfred remembered he had taken off his jeans for the bare comfort of his custom Cowboy Slut boxers (a personal present purchased equally intoxicated around the same time last year). Sighing, he navigated the Uber menu as best as he could to order a car near his brownstone, making sure after a few mistakes to enter his own address as opposed to the address of the McDonalds he hoped to reach. Only after the transaction went through, sum deducting itself from his bank account, did he zip up the tight jeans once more and try to find the remote.
It was funny that Harrison Ford got naked on screen for Star Wars, Alfred noted, especially since he didn’t remember that part of any of the films at all. He was particularly sure none of them had involved the zero-gravity masturbation skit currently being acted out on his TV, either. Regardless, he’d had enough of on-screen adventures for now- it was time for one of his own. Floating in a brain that barely remembered turning Bob Ross off for the night, Alfred failed to notice the case lying out by the TV- a case that nearly replicated that of Star Wars: A New Hope, but which was actually titled “Space Ass”. In the moment, neither did he remember picking up the porn parody years earlier. For in the moment, he was aware that not-Harrison Ford had a fairly handsome pair of abs on him, yes. But he was aware of the existence of McDonalds, somewhere in the city, much more than that.
--
Alfred counted his blessings that the car came before he was able to forget about it entirely. Otherwise, he had no doubts that he would have assumed it to some sort of ghost approaching in the night, superstitions from the old days he hadn’t yet grown out of in an era of high-tech and transport on-demand. With a jacket now draped over his shoulders, he stepped out onto the street and into the headlights of the vehicle, waving as an alert before the door was opened and he slipped inside the backseat. The driver turned around while Alfred did his best to muster an impression of someone who hadn’t taken a heavy bong hit right before leaving the house.
“I wanna go to McDonalds.”
“…What McDonalds?”
“You know... Down the street, to the left, up three blocks and then it’s to the side of that.. Like, y’know. That one.”
An awkward silence enveloped the car. Alfred realized it was for the best the driver hadn’t done his best to take these instructions, as they were for a Burger King he patroned regularly. He coughed before speaking up again.
“Whatever one I put in the form, dude. It’s fine, you know. Just gotta get my nuggies, man.” In the low light, Alfred wasn’t able to see the driver rolling his eyes before he kicked the engine into gear and started the vehicle into motion once more. Instead, he sunk into the fabric upholstery and watched the volume of light gradually increase once they progressed into the centre of what Alfred was unafraid to call the greatest city in the world- New York City, perpetually bearing its garish joys towards the world. For those glorious minutes, Alfred was sure he hadn’t been any more mellow in his life. The warmth of a new high hit him hard in the brain, enough that he had to resist the instinct to pass his bong over to the driver, something that Alfred could only achieve by salivating over the promise of salty treats right at the end of his journey. That was the sort of thing that was almost certainly more acceptable to share with your driver, especially in comparison to weed. Stills of the anti-drug driving PSA he’d starred in for schools flashed before his eyes and elicited a small laugh from Alfred.
If you hit the wheel after toking the devil’s lettuce, you’re not cool- you’re a fool!
--
Getting out of the car, the driver thoroughly perplexed by his need to hire a vehicle just for McDonalds, Alfred was sure he didn’t remember the place being so damn bright. Suddenly the golden arches felt like God’s judgement raining upon him, the sign itself a welcome to the gates of hell from purgatory. But aside from that, it was as he remembered. Warm food aroma attracted him easier than anything else could, after all. He stepped confidently into the well-lit takeout setpiece, scanning it briefly with his eyes to pick out somewhere to sit before he ordered. With a surprising amount of people still around at this time of night, Alfred made the decision to park himself by a table next to where a young male ate alone, decision solidified when he smelled the scent of high-content alcohol on his clothes and spotted the redness in his eyes. He was high, yes, but not too high to make a decision like sitting next to someone who might rat him out for the similar scent of drugs that clung to his skin.
Before long, the hunger struck again, and he headed to the counter. Grasping to take his wallet, he tried desperately to make coordinated eye contact with the woman working in her uniform. And it was only when she looked over that Alfred remembered he hadn’t picked something to order yet.
“Hi, welcome to McDonald’s. What can I get for you tonight?” The question drew a blank for him. He retained his encyclopedic knowledge of the food on offer- Alfred just couldn’t bring himself to pick.
Then another idea came to him. He’d order a bunch of shit, because it was 4/20, so he could do whatever he wanted. Now with a grin on his face, he blinked twice under the harsh lights and began to speak.
“I want… 20 macnuggies, please. A large fries, and all the sauce.”
“…One of each dipping sauce?”
I meant all the sauce, Alfred thought to himself, but that sounds easier to carry.
“Yeah, but I need four of the BBQ. Sometimes I just like to drink that shit. You know?”
Silence.
“I also need… Fuck, I just gotta get that big mac. The grand macaroni. My favourite chunky beef boy. Fries with that as well, and a coke. If you’re gonna give me Pepsi, you might as well just kill me here.”
“We have coke… A-anything else?”
Mind filling with possibilities, a little bit of saliva dripped from Alfred’s mouth and onto his Indiana Jones T-Shirt.
“A phucking beesechurger, please.”
Fear rose within the employee’s face, but she stood still in front of America himself and noted his order down as including a single cheeseburger. Secretly hoping this would be everything, she prompted him again.
“Will that be everything?”
Thoughts of a peculiar sauce and concoction filled Alfred’s mind for a second.
“Y’all got that McRib?”
The McDonald’s worker gulped.
“I’m sorry, sir. That’s a seasonal promotion, and not currently available.” Somehow, Alfred’s high didn’t feel so pleasant any more.
“Well, that’s mighty fine… As long as I can get myself a McFlurry.”
“Again, my apologies… Ice cream machine broke, you see.”
Alfred’s eyes filled with a righteous anger. Who was this person to deny him the frozen treat he desired? Him, the USA personified in all its virtue and greatness? With a desperate need to communicate this information to the staffer, Alfred backed up until he was able to mount one of the longer tables. Placing his hands where he needed them and taking a deep breath, he spoke with triumphant volume while his tight JeanCo Jeans TM collapsed from his legs onto the bright red table, exposing the treasured Cowboy Slut underwear.
“I’m the President of the goddamn United States of America,” he exclaimed “and I won’t be denied my American right to freedom or a McFlurry!” As if to emphasize his point, he began to stride forward, but neglected to acknowledge the pile of fabric which had accumulated around his feet. One step sent him tumbling towards the cold, hard floor. Wailing as he fell, Alfred went hurtling into unconsciousness before he could catch himself.
--
It was not the first time Alfred had woken up with a headache after a high, but perhaps the first time where he’d received it through a drug-induced escapade. But, he reassured himself, I’m in hospital. And they’ve just told me that my brother has arrived for me. Trying his best to ignore the anxious feeling that the wet patch in his jeans was 7-Up induced piss, he shuffled towards the reception area and picked up the pace when he sighted distinctive blonde curls on a man standing in front of the counter. Alfred peacefully, thanking everything he had family that would support him regardless of unfortunate circumstance. Maybe his Canadian runt of a little brother could be uptight and jealous, but his readiness to come to Alfred’s aid in a time of need could even break Alfred out of his post-high and post-unconsciousness surges of pain and nausea. Feeling tired of shouting, he tried to sneak behind Matthew and surprise him- after his conversation with the receptionist ended, of course.
“So you’re listed as the emergency contact of Alfred F. Jones?”
“That’s right.” His accent is so funny.
“And you’re here to pick him up?”
“No.” What? “I’m here to be removed as his emergency contact.”