Last night, my husband and I were walking home from the train station after a long day in the city. We were trying to get to our car, which was parked a few blocks down and in somewhat isolated area. It was dark and rainy, with few people on the streets.
I turned to him. ‘‘I am starving.’’
He agreed, and at that exact moment in time, we stumbled across an otherwise deserted parking lot with rows of what I can only describe as tiny trailers plastered with menu items. The two in the front were dark and lifeless, but emanating from behind them was a pulsing middle-eastern inspired techno beat.
‘‘Wait, is that actually a place that sells food?’’ It was as if, magically, all our wishes had been granted, in the middle of an isolated residential street in New Jersey.
We approached the trailer/food booth, which required us to walk quite a ways back into the parking lot, out of visibility from the street. There were two or three people ordering. I don’t remember everything on the menu, but there was an excessive use of the phrase FAT SANDWICHES. THE FAMOUS FAT SANDWICH. ROAST BEEF FAT SANDWICH. I was aware they were menu items, but somehow nothing on the menu made sense. I felt an overpowering sense of deception.
We were next in line. The guy behind the counter looked down at us expectantly, bathed in the sound of mystical techno.
I glanced over at my husband. We wordlessly came to the conclusion we weren’t eating there, turned around, and got the hell back on the main road. I can only describe it as akin to the sensation one gets when a magical shop appears and a shriveled old man appears hawking a monkey’s paw.
Once we were out of ear shot, husband said, ‘‘Is it just me, or…’’
‘‘No, not just you.’’
We talked about what a surreal experience it was the whole way to Burger King. Maybe we were just exhausted, but a part of me secretly wonders if we didn’t escape unspeakable horror last night.