Will Not Attend: Lively Stories of Detachment and Isolation by Adam Resnick Page A

goes on like that until they plant you. I stopped into the pint-sized dump I called an office to go over some paperwork and contemplate suicide. Too lazy for the former and too much of a pansy for the latter, I settled on lunch. I decided to dine on the cheap. I wanted something as lousy as I was feeling.
    I ordered the special, or as it’s known in fast-food parlance, “the combo.” In this case, it was combo number 3: cheeseburger, fries, and a drink. “Would you like dessert with that?” I was asked. Pretending it was the goddamnedest proposition I’d ever heard in my life, I let out a resigned sigh and ordered a small chocolate milk shake, emphasizing the word
small
like I was in training for a big bout at the Garden.
    A purple neon sign freckled with dead bugs announced DINING ROOM UPSTAIRS . I made the trip and slid into an empty booth. A feeling of shame came over me, similar to those first few moments in a whorehouse parlor when the piano player starts singing “Ol’ White Boy’s Gonna Get Hisself Some Pussy Tonight Rag.”
    If you’ve never been to a fast-food restaurant, envisioning the State Dining Room at Buckingham Palace would be off the mark. To be objective, though, what this place lacked in elegance, it made up for in filth. Before setting my tray down, I used an oven mitt constructed of napkins to clear my tableof stray bits of lettuce, orphaned french fries, and a tableau of smeared condiments most likely inspired by Jackson Pollock. All told, the diner before me left enough food behind that with a little ingenuity and a strong stomach, you could create an entirely new meal. Something “off menu.”
    My burger and fries went down without incident, garnering a rating somewhere between “acceptable” and “what the fuck was I thinking.” I’d brought along the
New York Post
to distract me from the particulars of what was going into my mouth, and by the time I got to the milk shake—which was so wonderfully gelatinous I had to eat it with a spoon—I was engrossed in an article about Donald Trump and some beef he had with Leona Helmsley. Just as I started daydreaming about personally brokering the peace between these two American treasures, I felt my spoon scrape the bottom of the cup. I glanced down. That’s when I noticed something protruding from the last chocolaty blob of pig collagen. Alarm bells went off in my head as I braced myself for the possibility of vomiting on the guy at the next table. I took a deep breath and tentatively scooped up the whole wad and dumped it into a napkin.
    Out of generic convenience, it’s easy to lapse into the term “razor blade.” But what I discovered wasn’t a classic men’s shaving blade—the kind you picture nestling beneath the skinof a Halloween apple. This one was narrower and more industrial looking, approximately an inch long and maybe a quarter of an inch wide. It had a little punch hole on one end where a rivet might go and appeared to have broken off from a larger part of something else. It was the “fun size” of razor blades—perfect for swallowing whole while you’re distracted, reading a story about a prick billionaire.
    I had a hard time wrapping my head around it. What was it doing in a milk shake? Even for a fast-food restaurant, it didn’t make sense. A gob of chewing gum? Sure. A Band-Aid? Why not. A back molar? Classic. But a thin little razor blade that could actually kill someone? That’s Broadway, baby.
    I asked for the manager but was told he was off for the weekend, so I requested to see the highest-ranking employee on duty. A Bunny Wailer–looking dude named Joplin soon appeared on the other side of the counter. Assuming he was about to get the run-of-the-mill bitch about cold french fries or piss on the restroom floor, he was already fingering his pocket for a free medium soda coupon the way a gunslinger reaches for his Colt Rainmaker. Keeping it cool, I wordlessly laid the bunched-up napkin on the counter. Then I