Gutbomb

Midway between my home and the Inn's reservation office is a Krystal. For the uninitiated, Krystal is a fast-food restaurant that sophisticates would say serves a questionable product to an equally questionable clientele. Much of the chain's dubiety derives from its signature "entree" - a hamburger that is also known by the sobriquet "gutbomb" - apparently in conjunction with the funk some lightweights experience the morning after consuming them.

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That many, including its detractors, patronize Krystal to cap off a night of heavy boozing when few other troughs are available, suggests this funk may be as much the function of a hangover as a hamburger. And while those with a dim or condescending view of Krystal may be in the majority, this mutt of a restaurant inspires cult-like adoration among a jaded minority, of which I proudly count myself a member.

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Now to the point. Once every week or two after dinner, I'll revisit the office for a few hours. Returning home I pass the Krystal on Franklin Road, where once or twice a month with pilgrim-like devotion, I hit the drive-through. I've performed this ritual with waxing and waning piety for five years, placing the same order every time - two Krystals and a small fry. My patronage so tenured and my requisition so consistent, the manager Eric knows who I am as I place the order, and treats me like royalty - or perhaps "like clergy" is a more apt simile.

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On one visit about six months ago as I'm retrieving my repast, Eric announced "this one's on the house." I felt like I had died and gone to gutbomb heaven. Not three months later, Eric extends the same gesture! If the first occasion was a novelty, the second deserved a response. Without a gift budget this year, I decided to give him the only thing I had to give - a certificate for a night's stay at Evins Mill.

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I arrive at the drive-through a few days later, not to place an order but to deliver the present - a singular moment in Krystal history I suspect. As I gave it to Eric, he was at a loss for words, maybe even dumbfounded. I drove away before he opened it, but when I placed my next order six weeks later, Eric must have seen me pull in, for as I'm about to request my usual, I hear through the speaker "two Krystals and a small fry?" Eric had enclosed with my order an envelope in which I later found a heartwarming thank you note and a Krystal's gift card.

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As we spoke that night, I learned he will celebrate his third anniversary at the Inn this July. What is most meaningful to me about this whole exchange is the thought of Eric vigilantly waiting for six weeks to give me that card, not knowing when I would alight next. During those long late night shifts, he must have been holding that card close at hand - if not close to heart. For my part, these reciprocal kindnesses reminded me that thoughtful gestures, however modest, pack a powerful punch - a notion that now more than ever will inform how the Inn treats its own devoted clientele.

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All this mawk and mush has stirred my appetite. Eric - see you momentarily.