by Rachel Eisner
I said, "No, I would never do that again," Too much grease. Not enough fun. Or $$. But, here I am, back at Burger Kingdom after a two year hiatus spent studying at a prestigious school.
It is said Lincoln grew up in a log cabin-- look at his achievements. My father, a native of Cleveland, and now a successful attorney-- his first paying job was that of custodian. To me, Burger Kingdom is not just a job-- it's my one way ticket to supporting me and a puppy.
A burger to me is not a "hunk" of meat. When grilled, flipped and served, it is a box of liver treats, as in half an hour on the clock during a lunch rush. The longer I "flip," and the "harder" I press, determines the duration of time it will take to get my puppy. Probably a mid-Fall furball.
"Autumn" will be treated with toys from my telemarketing commission check. She will also enjoy longer walks with a trimmer me, as preparing for a puppy yields economizing, and a dinner out can easily be turned into a home-cooked meal.
Grueling, grimy and downright disgusting will mark my experience at Burger Kingdom. But come October, the following three words come to mind: wriggly, wonderful and tail wagging! The thought of my furry four legged Cocker Spaniel curling up in my covers and impersonating the White House hounds for Halloween sends my heart in flutters.
Work, if not for production, should have a purpose. And there is always a riddle for every person's job. I press patties so my puppy can get the paycheck.
by Rachel Eisner
On a hot Sunday in August of 1986, my brother "Seth," then fifteen, took out my parents' faded yellow 1979 family Plymouth Duster. To me he uttered one curt phrase, "If you tell Mom and Dad, I'll kill you." And, being the gullible 12 year old sister, I believed him.
Yesterday, on the 17th of August Seth celebrated his 26th birthday. So, he was my parent's first kid. DoesnŐt give him a license to be a crab apple. Our initial years
together, though nonverbal, were clearly ones of expression: he wanted me to go back to the hospital, I pooped outside his door. By the time I was 3, a pattern was established, and there was no going back.
In the summer of 1979, on a trip to Cleveland to see my father's family, the contest for back seat space would mark a pattern in our relationship for years to come. "Mom, Seth's taking up the whole back seat! ItŐs not fair!" And of course, my usual nonchalant father,
would just silence us with the "car statement": "Do I have to pull over?"
Growing up, my older sibling epitomized the nasty older brother caricature. No, he didn't have fangs and a pitchfork or anything, but there were enough insults to fill a wall of bookcases
Today, my brother and I talk occasionally, and I keep a voodoo doll by my bedside in case of emergencies. Thank G-d he lives faraway in Seattle. Hopefully he's sleepless.