Jack in the Box

There used to be a Jack in the Box out near the corner of Olive and Woods Mill a/​k/​a 141 in my native West County. I went there something ridonkulous like three times a week back in the late ‘90s. Sometimes even more often than that. (And look how well I turned out!) It was like my second home. I knew all of the employees by name. There’s a great story having to do with a pet name I had for one of the managers there, but if I told it here it might lead to a story about Unilocal on the evening news. Pause.
I went away to college in 1999, came back a few weeks later, and my beloved Jack in the Box was gone. You’d hardly even know it had been there, except for a slight lingering odor. I must have been the only person keeping it in business. But I never liked Jack in the Box so much that I would drive out of the way to get it. That doesn’t even sound right. It was just cheap and nearby. And so it wasn’t until years later that I started going to Jack in the Box again on a regular basis. Thanks to downward mobility I now live near not one, but two Jacks in the Box. I’m sure the government has some sort of obscure index having to do with the number of Jacks in the Box in a certain square mile radius and the number of weird sex crimes committed in the area. They just don’t want that leaking out, because then Mother Jones might try to write a story about it.
Of course any Jack in the Box is only a hop, skip and a jump from any number of other fast food restaurants. I’ve got a car. If I wanted to, I could go somewhere else — and I probably should. Jack in the Box is not the restaurant to go to, if you can’t stand a little aggravation along with your happy meal. Of the past four times I’ve been there, my order was fucked up twice. That’s a 50% success rate, for those of you keeping score at home. That shit might fly in professional baseball, but that’s entirely unacceptable in fast food. If I didn’t find this amusing, and if I weren’t a socialist, I’d call that number listed on your receipt and put an end to someones career.
For what it’s worth, it’s not like they forgot my fries, like they used to do at McDonalds (which is just plain unforgivable). One time I tried to order tacos, and I was politely informed that I couldn’t, because the tacos were frozen. The way she said it was as if she was trying to suggest that it’s normal to go into a restaurant and not be able to order a taco, because it’s frozen. (Apparently they come preassembled, and they just thaw them out.) I didn’t press the issue, because I keep telling myself I’m gonna stop eating those tacos anyway, since Ive had my suspicions about whether or not they actually contain any meat. Another time, I tried to order a Jumbo Jack, and the girl asked me if I wanted cheese on it. Burger King-​style. Which never happens at Jack in the Box. I told her no, I didn’t, because I’m a Jumbo Jack purist, and I didn’t think anything of it until I got home and saw my Jumbo Jack had cheese on it. But they didn’t charge me for it, which I took to mean that they had one already made w/​cheese and they didn’t want to make another one. Again, I wasn’t really sweating it, because I’m neither on a diet nor Jewish.
The only menus worth ordering from at Jack in the Box are the value menu and the snacks and sides menu. The quality of the food they sell is not worth ordering one of their premium sandwiches. But I find that a plain ol’ Jumbo Jack isn’t half that bad, especially given the price. I used to feel that way about the tacos, but now I find them kinda gross, but I still eat them anyway, because I’m insane, according to the oft-​cited definition of insanity. Speaking of which, the amount they charge you for some of the shit on the sides menu is a damn crime, but it tastes oh, so good, especially when you’re drunk. The jalapeño poppers cost more per pound than caviar and printer ink combined, but they come with this buttermilk ranch sauce that will make you want to slap your mother.