Something strange is happening at a fast food restaurant on Highway 401, somewhere between Toronto and Oshawa.
“Can I help you?” the young girl behind the cash register asks.
A man in tacky green army gear, with black and green makeup smeared all over his face, steps up to the counter. “I’d like 1,978 burgers, 12,540 chicken nuggets and two fishburgers,” he says.
The girl gulps and starts pounding the keys of the electronic cash register. Her heart is beating rapidly, but she tries not to let it show; this is the order that every person who has worked cash alternately dreams about and dreads. “How would you like your burgers?” she asks several minutes later.
“Umm, 1,800 with the works,” the man replies, “seventy-seven plain, 48 without onions, 29 with extra pickles and four with extra tomatoes and no special sauce.”
The girl turns her head towards the back of the restaurant, noting that there are only three hamburgers on the heat rack. “One thousand nine hundred and seventy-five burgers down!” she shouts. Somebody in the back shouts, “What?”, but the girl ignores him and continues the order: “One thousand seven hundred and ninety-seven regular, 77 plain, 48 with onions, 29 with extra pickles and four with extra tomatoes and no special sauce!”
The boy who works the grill runs out from the back, takes one look at the customer at the counter and runs back.
“What kind of sauce would you like with the chicken nuggets?” the girl asks. “Four hundred fifty sweet and sour,” the man answers, apparently from memory, “four hundred thirty-six barbecue, 364 honey and six mustard.”
“Fries with your burgers?” the girl asks once again.
“Three thousand large orders,” the man replies.
Ten minutes later, the girl asks, “Drinks?”
“Five hundred sixteen Orange Crush,” the man automatically answers, “three hundred thirty-three Pepsi, 156 Diet Pepsi, 47 Sprite, 28 Diet Sprite. Oh, and 1,500 large coffees and 789 large teas.”
“Will that be all?” the girl asks in awe.
“I believe so,” the man says, coolly.
“This may take a few minutes,” the girl apologetically says. “We don’t usually get orders this large.”
“Please hurry,” the customer says with a smile. “My men – I mean, my friends are very hungry.”
As the restaurant grows abuzz with activity, the manager comes out of his office to engage the customer in conversation. “You come around here often?”
“First time,” the customer states.
The manager thinks about this for a while. “You have a lot of friends waiting outside?” he finally asks.
“Only 3,000 troo – guys.”
“Where are you from?”
“New York…we thought we’d come to Ontario for…the weekend.”
The restaurant manager is not an overly bright man, but he does know that Wednesday is not part of the weekend. “Who are you?” he asks, full of suspicion.
The customer hesitates for a moment. “Actually, I’m Sergeant George Pershing, II,” he admits, impatiently. “Look, how long is this going to take? My men and I haven’t eaten in three days, and, between you and me, we badly need this food.”
“What are you doing here?” the manager asks, ignoring the other man’s question. The manager is quivering with rage and improperly placed national pride.
“My troops and I have been sent to meet the USS Polar Sea,” the Sergeant explains, “when it makes port in Alaska. There were no ships ready to take us up there, so we were ordered to go over land…”
“I see,” the manager said. “And, tell me, does the Prime Minister know about this?”
“Now, there’s no need to bring the Canadian government into this,” the Sergeant quietly states.
“What?” the manager shouts, angrily offended.
“I mean,” the Sergeant hastily explains, “I’m sure that the Canadian government is already aware of our presence here. And, even if they don’t, well, shoot, we’re neighbours, aren’t we? I’m sure that Canadian officials would be happy to cooperate with the United States Armed Forces…after all, we are in this together.”
“In what, exactly?” the manager wants to know.
“You know,” the Sergeant tells him, “democracy.”
“If you could start clearing off the counter,” the girl interrupts, indicating the bags full of food that covered every inch of space, “it would make things go a lot faster.”
The Sergeant orders a couple of his men to enter the restaurant and start distributing the food. “I trust that this matter will stay between you and me,” the Sergeant tells the manager, adding: “Not that the United States Army has anything to hide…”
The manager is about to say something about polite international cooperation when he catches a glimpse of the total price of the order glowing on the screen of the cash register. “Oh!” he says. Then: “No, I don’t think there’ll be any trouble. In fact, feel free to drop by the next time you’re in the neighbourhood.”
“Thank you,” the Sergeant archly says, obviously not willing to respond to the other’s relatively open display of greed. “But, I don’t think that’s likely. Oh – tell me, sir?”
“Yes?”
“Do you take American dollars?”
The manager rubbed his hands in delight.