McDonald's of the Millennium

September of 2002. 42nd St. bet Broadway and 8th Ave.

It was awe inspiring, mesmerizing, stupefying. It stopped me in my tracks as I walked from the N train to my apartment down the street—that small sanctuary from the madness of Times Square and the filth of Port Authority, five flights up, but not far enough. I was like a moth attracted to the bug zapper but trying to keep away because I knew that it would kill me with it's fried food and saltiness. It was beautiful, all reds and yellows and light. It was warm just to look at, like a synthetic fire hovering above, keeping passersby warm, saying a big hello and welcome and why don't you come in for the best fries you've ever had. It was an oasis to look at, a sight to behold. It was the McDonald's to end all McDonald's'. Nobody could resist—not the policemen on horses, not the homeboys from Harlem, not the tourists from wherever they're from.

But I did.