WASHINGTON – In the beginning, there was nothing.



The Freshman crawls out of the primordial ooze, Thurston, in search of something. He wanders down F Street. He thinks about going into Foggy Bottom Grocery, but he remembers his brother was taken from him there. He continues through town, down past Hotel Hive. He thinks about going up to the roof, but he remembers his sister was taken from him there. On his journey he passes places of sin and vice, each with demons larger than the last, guarding the front doors for those who do not belong.



The Freshman is lost and hungry. He is close to giving in; soon he will gather a group of fellow weary travellers to make the long walk to McReynolds. When suddenly, out from behind the Foggy Bottom Metro station, The Freshman hears a noise.



“Freshman!” The Spirit calls out to him.



The Freshman looks around, but he can see nothing.



“I am the great and powerful DCK,” it calls out again. “I know what you have been looking for.”



“How?” says The Freshman.



“I know many freshman like you. I have helped them find peace on their paths. If you wish it, I can bring your search to a quick end.”



The Freshman ponders for a while. Sirens roll down 23rd Street.



“I can assuage your fears. Quench your thirst. Serve your hunger. Fill your pockets.”



“How can I trust you?” says The Freshman.



“Young freshman,” the spirit says, “I can take you to a place where it is Friday, every day.”



The Freshman nods his head. “Take me there,” he says.



Suddenly, The Freshman is transported to a place he thinks he’s seen before. Back home, this kind of place was a place for families to have lunch on Sundays. But The Spirit’s presence, and the heat and the smell, told The Freshman that he was not at home.



The Freshman looks around. He stands in the front, looking out over the landscape all the way to the back. There he finds DJ Oxygen, standing up against the wall with all of his instruments. The giant speakers crush The Freshman with early 2000s R&B, so loud that he can barely hear The Spirit. But The Spirit knows all, and he whispers to The Freshman:



“Gaze upon the Jell-O shots.”



Across the great expanse, angels roam. They carry trays of red, yellow, green, blue little cups of tequila Jell-O. In the center of the tray are two needleless syringes. They are filled with vodka and rum Jell-O.



“Can I go get one?” The Freshman asks.



“Patience, now. Your time in this place comes at a cost. First you must wait here in Purgatory, and when you are deemed worthy by The Host, he will come over to you and take you to your final resting place.”



The Freshman is startled by a redheaded demon screaming at somebody from behind the bar.



“That is Candace,” The Spirit says. “She, like me, is a humble servant of Lucifer. She will handle all orders when she can get to them and she will sometimes not require a charge from you. But be weary, for she is a temptress. One look into her eyes, and you will be required to sit on the barstool in front of her for all eternity.”



Finally after hours upon hours of waiting, The Host wanders up to The Freshman. He directs the traveller to a booth, placing down a menu in front of him. The Freshman lunges for his menu, for his hunger has grown into a fever during his time in Purgatory.



“Careful!” The Spirit shouts at The Freshman. “The Menu punishes impatience. It is so sticky that if you grab onto it too callously, it will stick to your hands forever.”



“But do not worry,” The Spirit continues, “I will tell you what you must order. Plates of mozzarella sticks and Long Island Iced Teas. That is the way.”



“Is this place in Long Island?” The Freshman asks.



The Spirit throws his head back in laughter. Nearby, five other freshman sit in a booth. They are laughing too. They have dirty dishes piled up to the ceiling. The whole building is laughing now.



“My son, this is TGI Friday’s. It has long served people of all ages. Do you see that baby sitting at the bar drinking a beer?”



“Yes,” answered The Freshman.



“That is Freddy. He’s the manager.”



The Waiter comes over to The Freshman’s table now. She is thousands of years old. The Freshman orders. He is not carded.



“DCK,” The Freshman says, “I like this place very much. I think I’d like to stay here. What does all this cost?”



“$7 on GWorld. And your dignity.”



The Freshman ponders this. He has run out of GWorld, but hey, The Freshman thinks, $7 is $7. And the dignity thing, he thinks, is not really a big deal either. He lives in Thurston, after all.



“When will I know when it’s time to leave?” The Freshman asks The Spirit.



“You will know when the clock strikes 13, and The Waiter comes over to bring your check. Only then will you be able to leave.”



“Or, you know. Whenever LeBlanc decides he needs to build another fucking apartment building.”



Suddenly, hearing his name spoken out loud, President Leblanc appears. He is wearing a hard hat. He snaps his fingers, and a deep chasm opens up.



Everything in the Friday’s falls into the chasm. The TV’s that only play women’s college basketball, the piles of dirty dishes, the booths and the tables, the watering hole for a town without community.



The Freshman is dragged back into the world. He spends years looking for another place that would make him feel so at home and so unwelcome, all at the same time.



He stares at the place where he made that bargain, long ago. The restaurant has collapsed in on itself; its doors and windows are boarded up.



The only thing, which yet survives, stamped on these lifeless things, the hand that mocked them and the heart that fed. And on the pedestal these words appear:





“FUN FACT: Until 1975, women could only work as cashiers at Friday’s restaurants!”





Nothing beside remains: round the decay of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare. The lone and level sands stretch far away.



…



This piece is dedicated to my friend Cole, who has a big heart and eats mozzarella sticks the way I imagine a pelican would.

