When I was a young boy I broke my leg while doing what I loved best, playing Little League baseball. My father always said I was overly rambunctious. He told my mother, “Maybe we should tie Matthew to the tree and let the dog run free!”
My leg was severely broken and I was placed in traction. Due to hospital overcrowding, I shared a room with a frail elderly man who was suffering from a weakened heart.
He was lucky, I lamented, because his bed was next to the window. He could look outside anytime he wanted to.
Every now and then, when the two of us would lie awake, Mr.Harrison would look out the window and describe to me what was happening outside. There was a McDonald’s across the street. We were on the third floor of the hospital, and from where I lay; all I could see was the sky.
Mr. Harrison was calling Life’s play-by-play for me, like the best baseball announcer who ever lived. This went on for several days. He had a bird’s-eye view and I was his captive audience. He was a grandmaster, painting wondrous images with his words about the happy people below flowing in and out of McDonald’s double doors.
As the aroma memory of their famous fries and juicy burgers assaulted our senses, we devised a game to while away the hours. He would describe the exiting customers; “A father and an eight year-old boy carrying two bags.” Then I would guess what goodies were inside those bags.
“Two cheeseburgers, one McRib, one large fries, one small fries, an apple pie, and two large Cokes.” This game went on for hours and hours.
Mr. Harrison said the park bench outside McDonald’s reminded him of where he and Molly, his “bride of 60 years” would go to enjoy a “mighty fine chat and a cup of tea.” I saw the twinkle in his eye when he consulted his heart.
He told me, quite wistfully, about his very first Big Mac at age 73. “Went down real good,” he recalled. “Molly unwrapped it and offered me the first bite. That yummy sauce dribbled down my chin. She loved to stuff those fries in between the bun and the meat.”
“I want to do that too!” I told Mr. Harrison.
“Matthew, promise me you’ll get that leg better real soon and we’ll sit on that bench and have a Big Mac together, ok?”
“And a chocolate shake too?”
“You betcha, but it’s so darn hard to suck it up through the straw. Makes an old man weary just thinking about it.”
Later that night, softly, suddenly, Mr. Harrison died; the victim of a final stroke.
I’ll never forget that great old man who kept me company, who entertained me day after day, for over a week of my young life.
Forty-five years have come and gone. Every time I have a Big Mac I still stuff my fries inside the bun and think of Mr. Harrison.
