"Favorite Friendly's Memory?"

Recently, the Boston Globe's website, boston.com, posted a topic on its message boards entitled, "Favorite Friendly's memory?" I of course chose the hepatitis outbreak in Arlington, Massachusetts.

Back in the late spring of 2004, I moved to Somerville—Union Square, to be specific. A friend of mine—who shall remain nameless (other than the moniker "friend")—helped me move in the final few items. Afterward, we decided to get something for supper, and down the street from her apartment was a Friendly’s. Why Friendly's? We were tired, and Friendly's was fast and cheap, just like your momma—SNAP! A few days later, during my commute to work, I heard a report on the radio stating that an employee at the Friendly's in Arlington had been diagnosed with hepatitis! And anyone who had eaten at that particular Friendly's was in danger of contracting the disease! Not much of a Happy Ending™, aye? Great.

After I arrived at work, I called my doctor in a mild panic and asked him if had the vaccine, to which he replied, "Where do you think we live? In Congo? I don't have that stuff. Go to the hospital. Bitch." He then kindly informed me that on the very next day a hospital in Arlington would be giving away free vaccines, among other fabulous prizes, to anyone who had eaten at the Arlington Friendly's. Hooray. I called "friend," and we made plans to go to the hospital. The next day, as we arrived at the hospital, we saw something that caught us off guard: a line of more than 4,000 people. I couldn't believe that all these people had eaten at that one Friendly's within the past week; I soon considered that these were all the people who had ever eaten at any Friendly's.

After creatively parking my car on a grassy incline in a manner that defied the known laws of physics, "friend" and I got in line behind the world's most horrible human being (I think it was his official title). This young man couldn't have been more than 21 years old. He had a wife, somehow, and three—yes, three—not-so-adorable "children." He was the last person I would have chosen to disseminate DNA to future generations. He had a tiny, rodent-like head and a Paul Snider (of Star ’80 fame) moustache. I deemed him Rat Boy.

Four hours later, literally, after our section of the line had finally entered the hospital, a nurse was dividing the line in two: one for people with children on hand, and one for people without. The nurse came up to "friend" and me, and told us to get into the childless line, which immediately set off Rat Boy: I had only taken one step forward when he stuck his puny arm in front of me and said, "You're not going in front of me!" Rat Boy was under the impression that "friend" and I were receiving some sort of special treatment. Why is that? Why do the ignorant always think everyone is getting "special treatment" but them? For fuck's sake, I had eaten supper at a goddamn Friendly's! Hadn’t I been standing in the same goddamn line behind you? Prick.

Anyway, Rat Boy was about five foot seven and weighed almost 100 pounds, if you included his belt buckle, so I considered taking his tiny head and ramming it into the concrete wall. But the nurse saw this lame confrontation and repeated her instructions again, directly into Ray Boy’s stupid pointy face. After that, "friend" and I were inoculated and on our way out within five minutes.

So, die Friendly's die, for making me stand in that Bataan Death March-like line with Rat Boy, his mate, and their litter. I hope Rat Boy caught hepatitis.