I had lunch at the McDonald’s on the fringe corner of the village with the open streets of the City. Here the parking is easy, and the beggars eye me as I step out of the car. They eye everyone this way, and soon enough their children come out of unseen corners in swarms, asking for spare change so they can “buy something to eat.”

Depressing place this is. Worse, possibly, inside. Here I sat down and assumed an oblivious stance, popping over-salted fries into my mouth. It is past noon, and I am running late. A slow-moving shadow creeps up behind me and I feel a soft tap on my shoulder. First things first, “don’t touch me you weirdo!” but I manage to look up with my composure intact. Man in his golden years, not looking sickly yet, but I have no idea of his nourishment. Sucking on an unlit cigarette — saving it for later, probably the last of today’s ration. I gave him the chair across the table (it was all he wanted) but I was terrified.

This branch doesn’t carry nuggets, Big Macs, or Quarter Pounders. Too expensive; nobody buys them.

 

A dad brought his daughter to play in the play place. Meanwhile, he holds wallet and transaction receipts in his hands (when he’s not clutching his head). I watched him the whole time I was dining. Soon it was time to leave. Outside, a steady rain falls on everyone, rich or poor.