Fleegle and I pull into the drive-in. I roll down the window and glance over the menu of artery clogging delights, burgers from large to triple large, and fries so oily you could power a city with a single order. “We’ll need a nap after this one. I’m glad we’ve got bucket seats.”
“This place smells wonderful,” Fleegle says. “Where are we?”
“You’re in for a treat, Fleegle. This is Hamburger Heaven, the most awesome burgers and fries west of the Mississippi.”
From the menu, a distorted electronic voice asks from a tiny speaker that has been corroded by the rain, “Can I take your order, please?”
Fleegle’s ears tilt toward the voice. “Who’s that?”
“That’s the burger god,” I say and order for us.
A little while later, a waitress arrives with our food and places a tray on our window. The aroma of greasy goodness wafts through the car.
Fleegle watches her leave. “Who was that? What did she bring us?”
“That was the burger angel and she brought us these.” I offer Fleegle a French fry. He takes my whole hand.
“We’re going to have to work on your manners.” I offer him another. “Just the fry, not my hand.”
* * *
The next time we stop for gas, and this being Oregon where you don’t pump your own but must wait for the attendant to come to your car window, I look over at Fleegle and see a long strand of drool hanging from his mouth as he watches the gas station attendant walk down the row of pumps toward us. “Look, Raud, here comes a burger angel.”