Baptizing the USA Today

It’s no secret in my circles that I frequent the “Golden Arches.” Our relationship is like a beautiful cage I take pride in polishing from the inside. It carries the markers of that sophomore cheerleader/lab partner I had who shared all of her notes—and some passionate necking—but who was also intent on “fixing me.” I told myself, “It’s not toxic, it’s just passionately codependent.” I mean, “we could all do with a little self-improvement, right?” And she definitely was a great kisser. Maybe that was the real chemistry.

I wish I could remember her name.

But when it comes to my McDonald’s romance, I’m not sure if I’m the cheerleader or the boat-anchor-of-a-lab-partner. All I know is that it’s one of my favorite bad choices. And it’s not just the lure of the tasty offerings.

Years ago, McDonald’s launched a “Dollar Menu” that offered dozens of low-cost favorites for those of us on a tight budget. It was a powerful temptation, and enough to forge a morning routine in which I was at the door precisely at 5:59 a.m.—like a 19^th-century Oklahoman land-grabber waiting for the starter pistol—ready to set up my “field office.”

There was surprisingly little lobby traffic at this location; it thrived on drive-thru customers hopping on and off the adjacent interstate. I was able to stake my claim in the same corner booth every morning and leisurely arrange my laptop, books, and other accessories. They also sold copies of USA Today, a visually striking, now-defunct daily national newspaper, for fifty cents, and I’d usually tack that onto the end of my order and carry my haul back to my “workspace.”

I’ll confess I was mostly interested in the “Sports” section. Nonetheless, it was a perfect way to get my “quiet time” under my belt before the hectic demands of the workday came calling. I’d nibble on my two Sausage McMuffins and slurp a half-gallon or so of coffee while I read and studied.

Occasionally, a colorful customer might wander in and briefly capture my attention. But most wouldn’t stick around long—getting their orders and taking off to whatever commanded them. This wasn’t one of those trendy coffee shops where people chit-chatted and trafficked in current events. Folks were transient and left few fingerprints to indicate their visit. I’m a cordial enough fella, but I appreciated the absence of performative obligation.

One morning, we (by this time, I’d considered myself adopted into the family) had a customer who placed an order for “here.” His appearance instantly reminded me of Judge Smails (Ted Knight) in the movie Caddyshack. He was trim, about 5’ 8”, and wore wire-rimmed glasses. I guessed he was retired and, by his outfit, had a morning tee time on his calendar. He wore green polyester slacks, a wide white belt, and a coordinated yellow collared golf shirt tucked in neatly, like he’d stopped by the pro shop on the way. His slightly oversized ears kept his logoed ball cap from riding too low.

Now, in those days, diners honored an unspoken, common courtesy to leave your newspaper behind after you’d read it. You didn’t need it, the thinking went, so why not leave it on your table or leave it atop the trash island for subsequent customers to enjoy? It wasn’t officially known as “paying it forward,” and I’m pretty sure publishers felt like it brushed up against theft, but it was standard.

After I finished reading mine, I left it at the trash island when I dumped the remains of breakfast. Coincidentally, “Mr. Smails” and I almost collided head-on as he was looking for a place to dine. Seeing his crisply folded copy under his arm was the finishing touch to his stereotyped ensemble. He would’ve fit in nicely at an upscale country club restaurant.

Though every other seat in the lobby was available, he selected the booth directly in front of me, blocking my view of the entrance and thwarting my self-preservation discipline of “keeping the action in front of me.” He must’ve misread some non-verbal gesture—like sitting upright, or wearing a shirt—as a plea for camaraderie. Whatever. Of course, he was under no obligation to justify his decision. Naturally, I wanted to lecture him on certain universal courtesies, but I didn’t feel like making a scene.

This was before iPhones—and before I owned earbuds—so I was soothed each morning by the barely-audible jazz elevator music that drifted through the air. It was a looped track of eight tunes that had carved a rut into my brain, but it’d long since stopped registering. However, on this occasion, it would’ve been a welcome reprieve from Smails’ idiosyncratic humming.

Maybe if he’d been on-pitch, it wouldn’t have been so grating, but I quickly realized that he wasn’t humming along with the music. He wasn’t even accompanying a haunting earworm. His rumblings lasted no more than a second or two and matched no particular rhythm, like a dreaming, front-porch bloodhound getting scratched behind the ears. He was simply offering baritone, low-grade, closed-mouth grumbles devoid of even the most generous classification of music.

Then—because I’m only flesh and blood—my fixation on his mannerisms revealed a connection between his mutterings and the contents of his newspaper. His internal reading voice was engaged in an ongoing “discussion” with his external voice, which leaked unsolicited commentary on the day’s news. I say “unsolicited” because I know I didn’t ask for it, and I was the only other person in the lobby.

The nation’s current events hadn’t caused any stirring in me at all, and we were reading the same edition. But it seemed like he had strong opinions on everything, including the “Weather” section. On and on went the grinding commentary.

It’s not likely that Smails and I were going to be BFFs under any circumstances, but we were off to a rough start. Proximity was not my ally, and the convergence of my pierced “comfort bubble” and the Chinese Water Torture of my eardrums made me glad no one had trusted me with nuclear launch codes—they were inching toward the tip of my tongue.

I spied Smails working his way through each section of the newspaper, while I conducted a silent countdown in my head. As expected, when the last section was folded and placed atop the others, the torture stopped. I was actually relieved by the assault from a nondescript jazz flute solo. Considering where I’d been, I logged it as a Win.

I was more than relieved when I noticed Smails taking the last sip of his coffee and gathering his refuse—fellowship had run its course. He stood up spryly, adjusted his slacks, and verified the correct placement of his ball cap in the window’s reflection. Then, he grabbed his newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and carried his tray to the trash island. His demonstration of good citizenship began to restore my faith in my fellow man. Okay… there was a lot of rehab to do, but we were making progress.

He placed his newspaper and empty coffee cup on top of the island, tossed his wrappers and napkins, and then took his cup to the counter. I, too, often grabbed a refill “for the road,” and respected his bravery, considering his outfit might serve as a kind of canvas or a drop cloth in a Jackson Pollock studio. But he was a big boy; I had faith.

The employee returned to Smails with a fresh cup of coffee. Smails was displeased. I wondered. No cream? Too full? He didn’t say. Instead, he ripped the lid off—now holding two of them. He had removed the original lid when he handed it to the employee, but she had replaced it as she’d done hundreds of times. It was customary. It was professional. It was courteous.

Smails carried the coffee and two lids back over to the island and promptly discarded the lids. And then, what I saw next left me stunned.

I watched Smails carefully and, with great deliberation, set his brimming cup down and grab a section of the newspaper. He pushed the flap back and leaned over slightly—almost a genuflection—to survey the contents. Finding the conditions to his liking, he gently laid the newspaper on top of the existing trash. Then he poured some coffee onto it. He did so with such grace and polish that it was obvious he’d done this many times before. There was no guilty, head-on-a-swivel check for witnesses before he did it—no concern for his reputation. He was measured and matter-of-fact. His unselfconscious focus was almost ceremonial, ritualistic. This was his Mass.

He grabbed another section and repeated the sacrament, carefully monitoring his portions so he didn’t run out prematurely. Again, another section. Again, another calculated ablution. Piece by piece, that edition of USA Today received its baptism. It wasn’t Baptist. It wasn’t Catholic. But it was religious. And this trash island was his altar.

With the last section soaked, he straightened, turned about, and proceeded to the parking lot—eyes straight ahead and showing no awareness of others. I slowly absorbed what I had just witnessed. Armed with my dime-store psychology credentials, I began building Smails’ profile.

This rite had nothing to do with coffee or the micro-economics of plastic lids. What transpired wasn’t an act of carelessness; it was intentional. He could have left the paper behind in his booth or tossed it on the island, honoring the tradition, and moved on with his morning. That would’ve been efficient, tidy. Humane, even. Instead, he went out of his way to make sure no one else could enjoy it. Soiled it. Spoiled it. Neutralized any vestige of enjoyment or reward.

Instantly, I reckoned that somewhere in his mental ledger, there existed a stereotypical “someone”—a deadbeat, a freeloader—who might create an unnecessary drag on civilization by fishing that paper out of the trash and having themselves a free read on somebody else’s four bits. And that simply would not stand. Not on his watch. Not while he still drew breath.

The societal “free buffet” needed to be shut down, even if by only one man armed with a cup of coffee and a pound of piety. He didn’t think of it as sacrifice; it was duty. This wasn’t stewardship; it was protest.

My theorizing had momentum. I imagined his wife had long since grown weary of him, nudging him out the door each morning under the pretext of routine, weaponizing some Redbook magazine article about getting old and “rusting out.” Perhaps that explained the lingering, or joining a country club. Golf, after all, was a tidy meritocracy wearing purple plaid pants with a straight face. Your score was what you earned. The grass was manicured, the rules were sturdy and applied indiscriminately. The huddled masses were kept safely at a distance. Judgment was impersonal there and, therefore, acceptable.

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Watching him baptize that newspaper, the McDonald’s was transformed into something altogether different. It was no longer the beautiful cage in this story. It was a free range where humanity, in all its variations, was allowed to roam.

For me, it had been a place to sit quietly, eat cheaply, and ask very little of anyone. For Smails, it was a front line on the battlefield of civilization. One more place where someone might get something they hadn’t paid for, and where vigilance was required.

Smails was an object lesson I hadn’t asked for. Not in cruelty, exactly, but in what happens when resentments are allowed to settle into habit. Nothing he did that morning brought him any visible happiness. It brought him satisfaction, perhaps—but the darker kind, the kind that draws its energy from subtraction. If he couldn’t enjoy the paper any longer, then no one else should either.

What unsettled me wasn’t obvious at first, but it didn’t go away. It’s not anger itself, but its domestication—when it becomes so familiar that it hovers just below our usual emotional threshold. When it carries an Answer Key and treats the world as an exam. When it aims not to improve a life, but to prevent others from enjoying theirs.

After he left, the lobby returned to a familiar stillness. The jazz flute resumed its loop, and the trash island stood in quiet composure, awaiting the next penitent soul. I finished my coffee, gathered my belongings, and stepped out from under the glowing arches.

To this day, I’m still peeling back layers of understanding about what I witnessed. The truth of that morning still holds, and memory offers a cruel courtesy—eventually it hands you a mirror. Alas, I find reflections of myself—how I leave the house with a tiny expectation that the world will disappoint me in ways that beckon correction yet offer no invitation.

No, I don’t pour coffee on newspapers, and you probably don’t, either. Gold stars for us. But we know how to sour a room, spoil a moment, or deny someone a small kindness because we aren’t quite convinced they earned it to our satisfaction. These are smaller, quieter rituals, and I’ve practiced them myself.

It takes a different kind of vigilance to break those tendencies. The harder, better ritual is catching the sour word before it leaves our lips and choosing instead to keep the moment intact. Recognizing that feels like a good start. The rest, I suppose, gets learned in rush-hour traffic?

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This post was previously published on SUBSTACK.COM.

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