lord what have we done

about three-ish years ago, in the transitioning chill of autumn in ’22, i went out for dinner with a few childhood friends. there were four of us, sitting at the janky local burger joint located in the historical downtown area of our suburban hell of a hometown. we were the only ones there sitting at the restaurant, save for the cook who was hanging out near the grills, because the only thing separating the kitchen and the dining area was a low bar counter, like the retro-styled Americana 70s burger joint it was.

we sat at one of the window tables closest to the front door that stuttered every time you opened it. in the center of the table was a mountain of fries that was barely being contained by a neon red bucket.

and over that mountain of fries, my friends and i trauma dumped.

one of my friend’s mother passed from cancer two years ago. another’s father suffered a debilitating stroke just a few months prior. the other lost their grandmother in front of their eyes. i was struggling from the emotional damage a chaotic whirlwind of a relationship left behind. in everyone’s own way, we were struggling with our own definitions of loss, sharing our stories as we picked at the sides of the cooling mountain of fries, dipping the pieces into ketchup, munching silently as the weight of grief hung over us as each one told their story. it felt like an elephant was suspended on a tightrope above us, its shadow teetering overhead.

sometimes we’d make a joke or two. like how the people just over the counter probably thought we were crazy. or how ridiculous it was that we were having an impromptu group therapy session at the local burger joint, with a pile of fries as our silent therapist. small attempts to exorcise the ghosts still haunting us, a quiet hope that sharing our horrors would make it seem less…bleak. scary. horrible. even now, we still joke about it. it just made it easier to parse, i think. made it easier to forget about the pain—or at the very least, disguise it. misery loves company, i guess.

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but looking back on it, i dont think we ever finished that pile of fries.

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a year later, my friend who lost their mother returned to the burger joint. she had been working out of town as a nurse and was visiting for the holidays. she wanted to stop by an old favorite: a greasy-ass cheeseburger with even greasier bacon. delicious. nostalgia always made food taste better.

surprisingly, the cook recognized her. after he took her order and put the patty on the grill, the quiet sizzle filling the place, he said something unexpected.

“i know it’s been a while, but i hope you and your friends are doing better.”

the next day, when all my friends were gathered together, she told us this story. we laughed, drunk off our asses at my dining room table, surrounded by half-opened soju bottles, sticky red solo cups, passing around strawberry calpico to fight off the sting of alcohol, because there was no shot that guy remembered us, right?

and of course, we still laughed about that mountain of fries.

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just yesterday, i had DND with another group of friends (because of course i play DND, im gay). it was a special session. we initially started the campaign with seven players and one DM, the numbers slowly dwindled. one player fell off the campaign. the other couldn’t make it because of an unpredictable work schedule. eventually we couldn’t play as consistently as a group because i went away to grad school and life has a funny way of catching up to people. we still found time to play, whenever that happened.

but yesterday night, there was a special surprise. after a year and a half of not playing with us, the one who couldn’t make it because of work made an impromptu appearance. we cheered and laughed and had a wonderful session. it was great to see a familiar face after so, so long.

the session blew by in a breeze. and before we knew it, it was over.

and then someone at the table suggested dinner.

“why don’t we get burgers?”

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and so there we were again, at the janky burger joint. the door still stuttered when we opened it. the interior was lit by garish white light that illuminated the worn floor tiles and fading counter tops. they changed the old manual cash register for something digital, but they still handed out old-school tickets to call out your order. the only thing still separating the dining area and the kitchen was the low counter. there was a few new faces behind the counter, but i vaguely remembered the cook at the grill. the air smelled of grilled beef, grilled onions, and used frying oil.

and, of course, one of my friends ordered a mountain of fries to share.

they come out in the neon red bucket i remember. the fries, they’re golden-brown, well-salted. i swear to god, they had to have been fried in animal fat because they’re addicting. the crisp shell followed by the pillowy interior, all of it complimented by the subtle sweetness only ketchup could provide—all of it was a match made in heaven. i couldn’t help myself. i went for another, and then another, and then another, even when my tongue burned from how hot everything was.

we shared stories with one another. stories about the session, about work, about life, about future plans. two of my friends reveal how they have plans to propose to their girlfriends in the upcoming year. another one is planning on moving in with her boyfriend next year, too. another friend and i, we joke about how we’re single, but it doesn’t bother us. well, it doesn’t bother me, at least. i felt quite loved in that moment.

we joked. we laughed. we celebrated. until eventually, i caught the eye of my friend sitting diagonally from me. it’s the same friend whose father had a stroke, about three years ago now. it’s also one of the friends who’s going to be proposing to their girlfriends in the upcoming year.

i smiled and cracked a joke. “look at us and our pile of fries,” i said, referencing the infamous trauma fries of ’22.

she laughed, because of course she did. “look at us,” she said, “celebrating.”

yes. look at us, celebrating.

and in that moment, i was aware. i was aware of the passage of time. i thought about the wounds all my friends carried, about that pile of fries, about the stories we shared. i thought about the guy behind the counter, about how he would carry on about his day, working his job, until suddenly, quite unexpectedly, he would be reminded of that weird group of barely adults sitting at the window table, holding back tears over a pile of fries. i thought about the many times we retold that story, over and over and over again, and i thought about maybe, just maybe, things do get better over time.

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last night, we finished our mountain of fries.

they tasted really fucking good.