The Owner of My Go-to Chinese Spot Gives Me a Call, Since I Have Not Ordered for a While, and He Is Worried About Me

Fiction. For one thing, I, in real life, haven’t ordered food via a verbal phone conversation since the early aughts. And I shan’t ever do so again.

It takes a lot for me to answer the phone. I don’t do it for just anybody. There’s a list of a select few that includes family members, a couple friends and anybody I instinctually believe might be a recruiter. (For a job in advertising. Not the Army. Though I have done advertising for the Army. I am not a soldier but admittedly also have no soul.) Especially if it’s unexpected. Even if it’s someone I know, love and always enjoy catching up with, I’ve still gotta prepare. Have it on my calendar, preferably, or at least my radar for a while before it actually happens. Cold calls make me break into a cold sweat because I automatically assume something horrible has happened, and once I’ve talked myself down from that dark assumption, start to panic because I have no talking points prepared. I don’t even raw-dog conversations with my therapist. Usually. I’m more a staged and rehearsed sitcom than “yes, and…” improv guy.

Truth be told, though, I guess I do answer the majority of my incoming calls. My way of telling you I don’t get that many of them from anyone outside my exclusive inner circle. This stat skews a bit during an election year, when I get more campaign calls than notifications from my Oura Ring app asking me if it’s time to “stretch my legs a little bit.” So, a significant amount of people hitting me up to try and tell me if I don’t donate “They” (whoever makes up that conglomerate) will in fact take my guns away (I do have a pretty powerful massage gun for which I hold no license) and immediately kill any legislation against enacting an annual “purge” or something vaguely similar (to me it’d be no fun if it was actually legal anyway).

There is one glaring outlier, though.

I will always take a call from KFC. And I get them. A lot. My recent calls list is more often than not a glaring record of this.

This is not quite as glamorous as you may be thinking. Something like, “The Colonel has this dude on speed dial? Firstly, why? Secondly, does he get free biscuits? Thirdly, does he have the right to go way off menu? And finally, does he have a soda fountain in his apartment that the Colonel’s people gifted him as a sign of appreciation for his enduring support, camaraderie and sagely counsel? Oh, and one more: How in tarnation did the “Chizza” get green-lit?

No. Not applicable. No. Probably not. No, despite wishing for one every time I catch the clock at 11:11. (Technically I wish for happiness, but feel my very own soda fountain would help bring this into my life.) Finally: Nobody knows.

I’m talking about Kyle’s Finest Chinese. Not Kentucky Fried Chicken. Sorry to bury the lede. I just wanted to get “Chizza” in here somewhere. I saw my opening and I took it.

Kyle named it this by design. Obviously. Christening a restaurant isn’t generally a random thing or an accident. Like, if you don’t believe the geniuses behind the Pizza Ranch empire hadn’t realized a double-entendre was in play, you believe in a serendipitous alchemy I will never comprehend. The Bojangles people might have been high or something, but I assume there’s still some meaning there. Tangentially related: Hardee’s, while likely just a family name, real low-hanging fruit, may not have been settled upon as a name so easily these days. But back then, nobody could have predicted they’d one day make supplements that help men get hard with ease.

Made sense in a strange way, this selection, because Kyle had kind of a tongue-in-cheek temperament about him. He was also very philosophical. Kind of like a fortune cookie writer with a really acerbic bent to his approach. Several times, he’d said things to me that I balked at in the immediate, but upon further contemplation, probably while staring at a ceiling fan in the middle of the night, I’d mutter something like, “That guy’s a dick. But he’s right.”

One night I asked him why he’d named it Kyle’s Finest Chicken and always answered the phone with, “KFC, how’s your day?”

“I figured people might get confused and be too embarrassed to not order something,” he said. “Also, I have made it my goal in life to learn SEO, so that I can confuse people on the internet, too. You know SEO, right?”

“Has anyone ever called you actually having mistaken your joint for a Kentucky Fried Chicken? Who would call a Kentucky Fried Chicken? Do they even have phones there?”

“To be honest, it hasn’t happened yet. But the sentiment has been there from the beginning.”

“Is there a Kyle’s Fine Chicken? A Kyle’s Finer Chicken? Is this a legacy brand?”

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

Because it most certainly is, this probably strikes you as a rather intimate or at least overly detailed conversation to be having with the man who takes your frequent orders from KFC. Do not misread that as “frequently takes.” My calls were abundant and my orders generally consistent. Kyle always answered every occasion I buzzed, which meant I heard his voice more than some of the most important people in my life. I have been in love with women with whom I have spoken for less cumulative time on audio calls. Dude would even answer on Christmas. (I am not proud that I know he works on Christmas. But one time I couldn’t make it home for the holiday and wasn’t about to bake a ham for myself, so made do.) He spoke immaculate English but didn’t wield much of a helpful hand when it came to the food prep, and his mother and father, who ran the joint with him, struck an agreement where the making of the cuisine would fall predominately to them and the rest of the staff, while Kyle took care of everything else, occasionally being granted an opportunity to slide something original and boldly innovative onto the menu.

Why do I call to order my Chinese food in this day and age? It’s unnecessary to do so, for sure, especially among Millennials. My dad will still ring up local joints for takeout, but the man is a troglodyte and damn proud of it. One time will visiting I used an app to order Sheetz delivery and the man was gobsmacked, but also, without any real reason, irate at the prospect of this possibility.

Basically it’s because when I establish some kind of brand loyalty, I want that business to do well. And for where I currently rest my head, KFC is the best Chinese food I’ve had within delivery proximity. I’m something of a connoisseur, but not of the high-class establishments. I’m pretty low-brow when it comes to what I put into my body. Gimme that walnut shrimp doused in some sort of mayo concoction over a fine-ass caviar any day. So when I landed in the neighborhood, I shopped around for a while before KFC rose to the top by a long shot, and I chose to stick with the sodium-saturated Devil I was really getting to know.

One night, I went to place an order and Uber Eats had crashed. My desire for some nosh outweighed my distaste for phone conversations with strangers that borders on a low-level phobia, and shit was gonna get real dark if the edible kicked in and all I was left with was my ill-stocked pantry and fridge empty of everything except an astounding accumulation of condiment packets, for which there is a dedicated drawer that I believe is meant for fresh vegetables in homes not inhabited by a single heathen.

So that was our first interaction. Must have been a slow night (probably because some people weren’t in as dire straits as I was and chose an audible to something else when Uber Eats shit the bed), because he had a moment to ask if I could, if it’d be cool, from then on, order by calling in lieu of patronizing that demonic app, which KFC only used out of necessity, like so many other similar establishments. (I attempt to sell my books through Amazon, so I get it on some level.) Kyle confided in me that Uber Eats’ commission rate took about 30 percent of the total order value, not including sales tax and driver benefits fees. That’s highway robbery. That I fact-checked. Seemed far from right. So I pledged that yes, I would call in my orders moving forward.

And it’s been worth it. We became fast friends, getting to know each other a little bit. Had even met in person a few times on the rare occasions when I would come pick up my robust package of Peking-influenced delights.

“You’re taller in person!” he said the first time I darkened the KFC doorstep.

“I actually get that a lot,” I said. “Something in the energy I verbally convey or whatever.”

He tossed an extra egg roll into my bag, gratis, said, “Big boy needs big meals.”

When I’d get delivery, which happened more often than I care to or can quantify, as there is no paper trail, I’d even pay and tip in cash. I wanted those cats to get every dime they deserved. And I only break out the billfold otherwise for my barber and cleaning lady. The nail salon, too, once in a blue moon when I’m feeling fancy and deserving of some pampering. Never sleep on a solid mani. Pedis can kick rocks, though. Way too much tickling, and they actually make my feet too smooth. I got one once and almost wiped out in the shower shortly after.

Our phone conversations would vary in length and depth. We established a pretty solid read on each other. When he had the time, we’d engage in some bullshitting. When it was a rush, it’d be more surface-level and business-like. He also seemed to be able to tell if I was in a mood to share my gift for gab, or if I just wanted to put my order in and be left to my own devices to do whatever it was I was gonna do before it arrived and I consumed it on the couch, hovering over my coffee table while I watched Frasier. I’m mercurial to the point I don’t often even clock my own moods, so he might have had more of a grasp on my temperament at times than my very own self.

But like with so many relationships of any sort that I embark upon, or any repeated act of communication that approaches any level of intimacy, even the platonic kind, I eventually found reason to distance myself. Sometimes you gotta get off the ride before it’s too late. And my time had come, precipitated by a visit to my doctor where I shared some radical honesty about my health regimen (or complete lack thereof) and my dietary tendencies.

It was time to get the proverbial act together and shed a few stone. Had to make the difficult decision to cut KFC and its copious amounts of MSG out of my life for a while, cold turkey. I couldn’t even taper off because I knew for me and the way I roll that this wouldn’t work. I’m kinda all or nothing. You know, like a true addict. I eschewed wok-based offerings in favor of more healthy options, coupled with long walks along the lake and some other things that would in theory make me marginally healthier and result in a more modest midsection.

This appointment coincided, more or less, with a difficult breakup that served as a further catalyst to clean up my ways at least a little bit. Shouldn’t need that as a kick in the ass. Wild concept, I know, taking care of yourself while someone else cares deeply about you and is a huge part of your daily life, but it was what it was and I had to carve myself from a realm of complacency and make an earnest effort at bringing the sexy back. Which had, indeed, left.

It worked. I swiftly said goodbye for now to several pounds in a matter of about three weeks. Spent what I would have on one entree with fried rice on a contraption that enabled me to punch a new hole in my belt. (Take from that what you will regarding just how sedentary and slothenly and gluttonous I had been.) I will not reveal how much weight I dropped, because while it’s easy to be proud of and brag about these things, quantifying the amount has a way of making people (potential love interests) wonder about where you’ll get to if and when your shit goes off the rails again, which it almost inevitably will.

But sometimes when you’re focused on self-improvement, you become even more self-centered than usual and don’t give much thought to how your newfound ways of making it through the day might impact those around you.

I guess you could say I ghosted Kyle.

Didn’t even to think to let him know I’d be stepping away from the satisfaction his food and, not gonna lie, our conversations had brought me over the past year and change. Didn’t seem right to have a conversation that went, “It’s not you, it’s me — but actually more your menu and the lack of power I feel when presented with it — and I’ve got to say goodbye. At least for now. I hope you understand.”

So around the first of the month when my phone buzzed and I saw KFC with a heart emoji next to it, I figured the call must be a mistake. A case of wires crossed. Or maybe Pavlovian instinct that had kicked in, causing Kyle to punch in my number when someone had ordered two full orders of salt and pepper shrimp.

I chose to answer. I owed the man and his small business that much.

“Hello?”

“Do you want the usual?”

Weird thing to call someone and say without some pleasantries. But it didn’t come off as curt.

“Kyle?”

“The one and only.”

“I think you’re calling the wrong number…”

“Nah, you know, I just thought I’d call and see. Felt like you might be hungry.”

“What?”

“It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, about that…”

“Are you okay?”

“I mean, depends on who you ask.”

“You haven’t ordered in a while.”

“I’m…sorry?”

“Well, I wanted to check in. I hope this isn’t weird.”

Sure wasn’t not weird, but he had me on the horn now, so.

“Okay…”

“We’ve been worried around here. About you.”

“What? Why?”

“We hadn’t heard from you.”

“What is this? A welfare check?”

“Mostly. For lack of a better term.”

“Sure. I’m…I’m fine, man.”

“This brings me great relief. No joke, we’d been Googling your name every now and then and crossing our fingers that an obit wouldn’t pop up.”

“Well, worries of my untimely demise were unfounded.”

“Did you know some guy with your same exact name recently died of a coronary?”

Sure did. I’ve gotta Google alert set up for myself and if you don’t I don’t understand you. But he didn’t need to know that.

“That’s news to me, but I hope he rests in peace.”

“We knew it wasn’t you, though, when we read he had been serving as a school board member in Medina, Minnesota.”

“Right. Not me.”

“That kind of public service can send anyone to an early grave, though. Parents gotta be tough to deal with.”

“Sure, I bet.”

“Anyway, to be honest, we were thinking about sending a guy over if you didn’t answer.”

Talk about some stellar service.

“You thought I might be rotting away in my apartment alone?”

“That was indeed a thought, yes.”

“That’s dark.”

“Sometimes the darkest considerations end up being the truth.”

“I won’t argue there.”

“Well, I’m very happy to hear your voice. It’s good to be alive.”

“Another statement I will not greet with an argument.”

“So, like, what’s the deal, though? Have you been cheating on us? Seeing that Szechuan abomination over on the corner of Lake and Wabash?”

“No, it’s not that. Yours has been the only Peking Duck in my pond for eons now.”

“This brings me some level of comfort. Unless of course we did something wrong that turned you off?”

“Negative, man. Nothing but rave reviews from me, always and forever.”

“You did pen one of the most eloquent Yelp Reviews I’ve ever seen.”

“It was a labor of love.”

“So then, what is it? You quit the whacky weed or something?”

“Oh god, no. Never.”

“My man. If you ain’t dancin’ with the Devil’s Lettuce on occasion, what’re you even doing? That’s when the demons can really take over.”

“That’s a guideline so good it should be gospel.”

“We all have our moments. You having money problems? Find yourself in the dreaded red?”

“No…”

“If you are, you can tell me. We’re buds, after all, I’d like to think. We could do a payment plan. A tab. Maybe layaway, whatever.”

“How in the fresh hell would layaway work for prepared-upon-order Chinese food?”

“That would take some figuring out.”

Actually, my finances were in tip-top shape, comparatively speaking to where they’d been even a month before. To the point my Rocket Money app, which tracked my expenses and overall spending, was being a little too congratulatory — pointing out that I’d spent astronomically less on restaurants and dining than I’d probably ever done before. Then there was the Credit Karma app, which hit me with random questions via notifications that made me briefly wonder if I was part of a sting operation to discern if I was conducting some sort of scam or form of insider trading. I do not seem like the kind of person that would have a credit rating in the 800s.

It dawned on me that maybe I’d been such a prolific KFC patron that I was negatively affecting their bottom line — fucking up the numbers they’d aimed to hit for the fiscal quarter. I’m ashamed to say it, but it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that profits made exclusively off my doughy ass had been paying the full amount of the electric bill for the apartment above the restaurant where Kyle’s parents retired after the end of their long days. An easy commute. I was probably even shelling out enough to cover their monthly cable bill, high-speed wifi included.

“But like — what is it? You gonna make me pull it outta you?” he continued.

Time to tear the band-aid off, I thought.

“I’m trying to — I had to, have to — get a little bit healthier,” I said. My weight and blood pressure and cholesterol and tendency for extreme lethargy are too high, and my vitamin intake and general morale is too low.”

There was a brief pause.

“Okay, okay. I get that. I suppose there was a reason we feared you had met a tragic end.”

“Tough, but fair.”

“Your orders were rather…impressive.”

“I know this. Thank you for the reminder. It’s not like y’all are shilling stuff with nutritional value on the level of a Sweet Green.”

“Yeah, because nobody wants that shit.”

“That’s not entirely true.”

“They’re a goddamn scheme. But I digress. I will point out something you may be interested in, however.”

“Shoot.”

“The special diet menu.”

I laughed harder than I had in quite some time, which actually made me feel vaguely sad.

“That shit is fully for show, and we both know it,” I said. “Low-sodium blanched bok choy? What even is that? Get the fuck outta here with that nonsense. Nobody orders that, and for good reason.”

“Jeez, man. For someone on a health kick you really got amped up there.”

“Sorry. Old habits.”

“Apology accepted. And, no joke, we do have someone who orders from that menu rather regularly. Never met the lady, but she always puts in the special instructions on the app to ‘blanch it harder.’ I don’t even know what the fuck that means.”

Another laugh nearly reaching guffaw levels. Dude was on a roll — really making my night. Which, again, made me feel vaguely sad. But filling with gratitude at the same time. I don’t know. It was weird.

“So, I respect where you’re coming from, and of course I always want what’s best for you,” he said. “But this means what? That you will never come back?”

“I would never say never.”

“This comforts me. And while, like I have indicated, I do respect your decision and appreciate your honesty, I will leave you with one more proposition.”

“Being?”

“Are you familiar with the concept of a Cheat Day?”

“Intimately.”

“Well, I would like to say you should live every day like it’s cheat day, because I would like to send my kids to college or culinary school or clown school or whatever and not leave them in crippling debt, but health is wealth and all that shit.”

“Aptly put.”

“But, you know. Maybe every once in a while. For old times’ sake.”

He had me.

“You know what, Kyle? I can get down with a cheat day every now and then. I wish I could quit you, but I think deep down in our semi-clogged hearts we both know that’s just not going to be a reality, unless I move far, far away.”

“Don’t you ever leave The Loop.”

“Words you don’t hear often.”

“Okay, so, that’s settled. What’ll it be. The usual? Or are we gonna go off-script? Mom and Dad said they’d even fire you up something completely off-menu, if you wanna sample this wild stir fry we’ve been trying to nail down.”

“Well, I’m good for tonight, but…”

“It’s got an astronomical amount of pork belly in it.”

I began to salivate, but cooler heads prevailed.

“I already ate. Trying not to do that past 10 p.m. anymore.”

“It’s like I don’t even know you.”

“I’ll always be me. Just different. And that’s for the better. I’m evolving.”

“Like a Pokémon. Alright, alright. I won’t try to force you. We’re not that hard up over here. For now, I remain too proud to beg.”

“That’s good to hear.”

“Cool. Well. Great catching up. I missed you. We all missed you. Have a good night and give us a call sometime soon.”

“I promise I will.”

Three hours later, the text came in.

“U up?”

I was indeed. No matter how healthy you’re trying to live, you gotta get down on Friday, especially when a new John Wick is out and you have a little dream in your heart.

“I am; what’s up, Kyle?”

“We’re still open. You ready for a cheat day? I’ll bring it over.”

At this point I had doubled up on the normal allotment of milligrams ingested via THC-infused gummy bear. My defenses were low. Nearly non-existent. You know, demon-fighting and whatnot.

“I’ll have the usual,” I typed back.

He responded with that gif from The Big Short where Ryan Gosling screams, “I’m jacked! I’m jacked to the tits!” and then follows it up with, “You got any wine? I’ll bring some Merlot.”

“I’m not drinking any fucking merlot.”

“Sideways! Nice ref, my man.”

“I’ll go with the usual. And throw in that new pork-belly stir fry concoction if Pops is still manning the wok.”

“Dope. Consider it done. I’ll be there in 20 to 54 minutes.”

“See you then.”

“Looking forward to it.”

“Likewise.”

Sometimes you backslide.

And that’s totally alright.