Free Entry 1, Week 3

Burgers and Beer at Millie’s

Abandoned factory workers with wrinkled, grey skin and two-inch, hanging ash gaze through glazed eyes over Bud Light at five college students searching for a booth. I’m wearing a grey and blue $50 Abercrombie polo—that I’ve had since highschool—loose Mossimo blue jeans, shiny new Sketchers, and the $100 blue-grey blazer that came from H&M in Oldenburg. Colleen is in a red Converse dress with a grey sweater draping to her stomach and black designer glasses. Jon Berry has retro black frames, American Eagle jeans, a blue dress shirt—untucked of course—and grey Sketchers. Phil is tucked in, with a white dress shirt, Old Navy corduroy, and the H&M jacket—also from Oldenburg—that Tim always steals. Tim is in pure form. Pale blue jeans and a green Bass Pro Shop tshirt that gives him the confidence to flirt with the camo-clad waitress. The cold, red slaw from my Smokehouse burger drips through the bottom into the pale, soggy bun. The fried dill pickle chip drips grease in a pool at the bottom of the basket, making a rancid pickle soup on wax paper. Tim’s red burger drips grease and blood on a beige, plastic plate which he sops up with the bun and throws in his mouth, leaving specks of greasy blood on his beard and stache. Phil’s fried green tomatoes—which his mom never made him—fall into ranch forming a brownish whitish greenish beigish broth in a clear plastic cup. Jon Berry is at the other end of the table, and Colleen’s chicken fingers go untouched. Phil and I handroll Bugler cigarettes and set fire while the couple’s kids beside us demand dessert. The growing smell of the place is a mix of German bars, old backroom Pig, my friend Jacob’s car, and the trailer where my friends from highschool still hang out every weekend playing video games ‘til dawn. When the waitress comes with the tickets, and Tim asks about birthdays at Millie’s, she asks What would a Millie’s birthday cake look like?