Victor LaValle - Ecstatic

At 8:30 PM we crossed the Mason-Dixon line. We were the South’s problem now.

By the ninth rest stop Grandma, Nabisase and I had been defeated; Mom held control. She saw the exit and directed me off. Up a sloping ramp. We all got out because my mother told us to. Excitable people lead.

But instead of an empty rest area, there was a crowd surrounding the McDonald’s.

College-age kids were throwing rancid meat at the public, protesting chemically treated beef. It was night, but we could see clearly. The rest stop lamps were on and a film crew had set up floodlights too. A small globe of starshine on the hill.

The college students had parked a long yellow school bus across the outgoing truck and car lanes. Drivers arrived, but couldn’t leave. The parking spaces were full. Minivans were up on the grass. I drove as close as possible, but this was still a logjam.

A white banner was tied up against the yellow hide of the bus, it read: Pretty Damn Mad.

Myself, Grandma, Nabisase and Mom walked toward the commotion because they couldn’t walk away. I wanted to get in the Dodge Neon, drive backward down the ramp and try to get onto the interstate again. But my family was raised on tabloids and enjoyed the habit. They wanted to get closer and see.

Inside the McDonald’s restaurant another thirty-odd customers pressed against the glass, looking out. The manager stood at the door opening it to let a few of the normal folks inside, but he couldn’t have us all. That left many middle-aged men and women trapped out here; they wore comfortable slacks and white running shoes.

The college students didn’t run right up to the McDonald’s doors. They wouldn’t go more than ten feet from the bus. It showed their age. They were courageous only in numbers. I’d been like that in school, willing to commit to a sit-in with a hundred other boys and girls, but stridently polite on my own.

— No meat, it’s murder! Don’t eat, that burger!

My family was as close as possible now. A lot of families were watching from their parked cars. While the mass of protestors were a bold ball in front of the McDonald’s individual kids walked around giving out flyers.

I was so close to the front door of the restaurant that I could see the shake machine being used inside and started to salivate. A chubby girl wearing platform sneakers interrupted my strawberrysmoothie reverie to hand my sister and I the facts about beef production. The horrid truth was printed on magenta paper.

Grandma held on to my left arm; she was so light I could have carried her on my head. She might have been safer then.

Besides a gas-station and the McDonald’s under siege there wasn’t much to this rest stop. There was a second parking lot, but the way the protestor’s bus was situated no cars could get to it. The street lamps over there weren’t even on. My only proof that it existed were the faint white parking-space stripes on the ground.

After Nabisase and I threw our flyers on the ground the chubby girl returned, making a round, picking up the many discarded sheets. She didn’t look at us, but her lips were moving.

Mom, Grandma, Nabisase and I were stuck by then. Between McDonald’s and the people behind me. I’m not talking about the protestors, just other families. As more of us walked close to the scene, it emboldened the ones still in their cars.

Even amongst the loud demonstrators one woman distinguished herself. She was long, as in tall, and black, unlike most of the vegan kids. Sometimes she went along with the murder/burger chant. At other times she made less sense. — Anchorage! she cried. Where is Anchorage?

— Alaska, I whispered involuntarily.

The McDonald’s manager came outside yelling, — Police are coming!

The tall woman answered, — You told us already.

— You stay out of this AnnEstelle!

— These kids are just visiting Claude, but I see people eating your poison every day. Where’s Anchorage?!

I didn’t know who she was asking about, but the manager seemed to understand. — Don’t you bring that thing around here again, AnnEstelle.

The film crew was there for the college kids. Four men with cameras, another recording sound and a colossal gentlemen, seven feet I bet. He wore a quality suit and was taking notes.

— I recognize that man, my mother said.

Right now my family was closer than we’d been in years. Four people squeezed into room for two. Nabisase and Grandma had practically climbed on top of me.

Nabisase said, — He’s been on TV. She pointed at the gigantic man, but I couldn’t place him. It was the suit that captivated me. A muted brown number. And he had the vest. Oh my, that was tasteful.

My movie could be about a homicidal mob of vegans.

Yeah, well. I’d have other ideas.

Then AnnEstelle threw animal bones in front of the McDonald’s entrance. Femurs actually. Which are big.

Like she was emptying a laundry sack AnnEstelle turned her bag over. The harsh lights of the film crew made my face warm. Claude, the McDonald’s manager, locked the door again. The bones were still covered in blood; a liquid, like mucus, glowed on them.

I was aware that even the other protestors cooed because they were surprised by the bones. Many of them dropped their handbills. One spindly boy ran back into the yellow bus.

A woman next to me, in her fifties, wearing white jeans and high heels, said, — Well, I’ll be goddamned.

The man with her had too much facial hair. I mean seven helpings of beard and mustache. If he actually had cheeks I couldn’t see them. — I’ve never liked Maryland, he said.

The only sound I remember was a hollow — bloop— as the banner flapped against the yellow bus.

Everyone, everyone, everyone ran.

I couldn’t have kept my family close even if I’d been so inclined. A centrifuge is less effective at separating elements. One hundred and some — odd people went in as many directions. Trampling is a hazard for elephant trainers and anyone in my way. I know Grandma got knocked down, it might even have been by me.

While others tried to get inside McDonald’s and many more went toward the parked cars, I found my way to the back parking lot. I was the only one.

Where the lot lamps were out. An outline of hills listed back to the horizon. A space so remote I thought it had been sacrificed back to the land. And the noise of shouting, car engines, police sirens didn’t follow me. It was replaced by the heavy breath of night. A snorting sound, actually.

In front of me a cow was running toward a parked truck.

— Hey, I said, but the cow kept moving.

— Hey cow.

It stopped, but didn’t look at me. The truck was one hundred yards away, closer to the hills than to us. The cow was even more enormous than me.

— Keep quiet, it whispered.

Talk about making money. If I actually had encountered a cow using human speech I knew we could sell the story. Forget the Enquirer or the Star, those were only celebrity gossip magazines now. The National Examiner or the hearty Globe instead. I wish I didn’t know these distinctions, but I do. Mom and Grandma had subscriptions.

It was a relief though to find a short woman on its other side leading the cow on a leash. I lost the article, but kept my senses. She was five feet tall and wearing duck boots. — That your cow? I asked.

— My family’s, she said.

I had on my suit so I should have seemed authoritative, but she was unintimidated. The small woman shook a hand through her brown hair; she reminded me of a cockatiel, looking at me sideways.

— I’m going to put Anchorage up. If you don’t mind I just need you to be quiet.

— Let me help you and I will. Is this Anchorage? What can I do? Push?