The Burger King

The Burger King

Act 1: Ken

    Meet Ken Hollingshead.  Ken is strange.  Ken is a strange man who has "bacne" and zero friends in this world (okay, I guess Roger, his pet calico, counts as one, but even Roger doesn't really like to spend time with Ken).  Ken hates his job and his crummy little apartment and most of the people he's ever encountered, which, admittedly, is relatively few compared to normal human beings.  Ken sits at the break room table at work and eats ungodly amounts of Little Debbie products.  Ken is poorly educated and qualifies for government assistance programs.  Ken is sad.

    The particular episode of Ken's life that we will be examining begins in a local Burger King in Alliance, OH.  This Burger King has since been remodeled, but at that time was about as glamorous as Ken Hollingshead himself, making the pair a perfect fit.  It had the aura that communicated to its consumers that nothing had been replaced since the 80s, including the condiments.  We find him there on his lunch break.  The clock on the wall (the one that works; not the one that had been broken for six months) read 10:23, indicating that his lunch break was nearly over.  Thankfully his employer was located a mere 1.1 miles away.  He choked down the last two bites of his Bacon King and hurriedly shoveled his trash into the garbage can.  He grabbed his Mountain Dew and made his way to the door.  As he fled the scene, his eye caught a glimpse of something sitting on a high-chair.  The bright Alliance sunshine accentuated its vibrant colors.  He grabbed it and rushed through the door to his beat-up '88 Ford Econoline.

    Ken made it back to work with two minutes to spare, so he sat and admired his find.  In his hands he held a crown, golden and bejeweled, with the words "Burger King" emblazoned on the front.  His hands trembled as he soaked in its beauty.  He leaned forward and placed it on his head.  As he sat back up, the crown hit the roof of his van.  He hunched back down quickly as he cursed his crappy old van.  He smoothed out the creases and set it gently on his passenger seat.  He was taken with it.

    "Crap!" he shouted, snapping out of his daydream.  His lunch break had ended three minutes before.  He galloped into work and back to his production line.  Ken worked in manufacturing at Northern Pet Products—the mainstay of Alliance manufacturing.  Northern Pet, as it was known colloquially, had been around for a half century and it seemed like every Alliance native had done their tour of duty there.  The workforce was a mixed bag of newbies (the turnover rate was notoriously high) and veterans, Ken being one of the latter.  He had been employed there since high school, his only other job being a short stint at Acme-Clicks at the ripe age of 16.  Now, no one would go so far as to say that Ken loved his job at Northern Pet, but he had dedicated himself to that establishment for the better part of three decades, and so, at this point, he was pretty much stuck, but he made the best of it.  He was detail oriented and a lover of rules.  This was all he really had at this point of his life, so he defined himself by his work, and that meant he had to be the very best at making dog collars and other miscellaneous pet products, which is respectable, but sad.  Part of Ken was bitter that he had never made it into a management position.  In fact, he had literally been in the same exact position for his entire career there, minimum wage hikes marginalizing every raise he had ever received.

    Enter Dick Vanscoder.  Dick had seniority over everyone.  Literally—Dick was 78, which made him older than the current owner of Northern Pet Products.  He had worked there since it had opened 48 years before.  To say that Dick lacked initiative was a tragic understatement, but he was a model employee nonetheless.  He was content clocking in and clocking out day after day, week after week, year after year.  He had never taken a sick day and had only ever called off one time—begrudgingly (he had begged his wife to have their child on a weekend).  His hands were twisted with arthritis and wrinkled with time, but his work was second to none.

    Ken worked at his station, the monotony becoming rhythmic.  The air was full of the smell of burning nylon and rumble of the tote-return machine.  He peered over at Dick as he sealed the buckles onto the neon straps of nylon.  Under his stone exterior he was somewhere between fuming and envious.  He hated Dick.  He hated him for having seniority over him.  He hated him for doing better work than he did and for being the old guy that everyone called "Gramps."

    "Hey, Gramps!" Kim said as she strolled by on her way back to shipping.

    "I hate that," Ken thought.  Mainly he hated Dick because he knew he would end up like him—beyond retirement age, but still plugging away every day—but without all the friends and memories.  It's a terrible thing to know your destiny.

    As Ken peered at Dick, his mind began to wander.  He dreamt of getting out of that place.  He dreamt of going somewhere and doing something interesting.  He dreamt of talking to a woman who wasn't his mother.  That crown kept slipping into his mind.  He dreamt of holding it.  He dreamt of wearing it.  He dreamt of being royalty.

Act 2: The Crown

    It was still dark as Ken drove to work at just after 5 A.M the next morning.  The rural streets were quiet.  As he sat at the seemingly-endless light at Edison and Ravenna, his gaze fell upon the crown that still sat on his passenger seat.  He stared at it longingly.  “HOOOOOONK!”  His trance was interrupted by the blaring horn coming from the car stuck behind him.  It turns out people don't like it when you sit at a green light.  He punched the gas pedal and continued on to work, periodically glancing down at the crown.

    He pulled into Northern Pet somewhere around 5:30.  He was that guy—the one who gets to work freakishly early for no conceivable reason.  He stared into the distance at the metropolis that was Northern Pet.  What a vision of hopelessness.  He looked down at the crown.  He reached over and picked it up.  It felt so heavy in his hands.  The red jewels sparkled against the gold setting in which they lay.  He hunched over and cautiously rested it on his matted hair.  He arched his back so that he didn’t smash it on the van roof again.

    "No," he whispered, "you can't."  He set it back down on the seat.

    "Why not?" he responded, picking it back up.

    "Everyone will make fun of you."

    "They already do!" he insisted.  "This will make you special.  This will make them respect you."

    He paused.  He mulled it over like a dog gnawing at a bone.  "Why not?" he thought.  He straightened the crown and stepped out of his van, a strange wave of confidence rushing over him.  It erected his spine like a shot of euphoria.  He strolled into work, the crown aloft his bloated head, and sat down confidently at his production line.  The giggles began to ripple through the facility, followed closely by rumors and pointed fingers.  Ken sat working intently, oblivious to the disdain that was surrounding him.

    Enter Bart "The Bartman" Bartholomew.  Bart is a jerk.  Bart has hated Ken since the day he met him and the feeling was more than mutual.

    "Hey, uh, Ken," Bart began.

    "Yes, Bart?"

    "Uh...watcha doin', big guy?"

    "Just trying to work," Ken retorted.  "You should try it sometime."

    "No, man, I mean why are you wearing that?"

    "What are you talking about, Bart?"

    Bart paused for a moment.  "You do know you have a Burger King crown on your head, right?" he said.

    "Yes, I am aware that I have a crown on my head."

    Bart stood there expectantly, awaiting further explanation.  "And...?"

    "And what?" Ken replied.

    "And why do you, a grown adult, have a Burger King crown on your head at work?"

    "A king has to have his crown," Ken replied.

    Bart's eyebrows shot up simultaneously.  "Oh...you're a king now?"

    Ken, his eyes and hands still engaged with his work, was unmoved.  "That's right," he said, "and I'd appreciate it if you would quit speaking to me in that tone.  You may respectfully address me as "King"—“Your Highness" will suffice, if you prefer."

    Bart laughed nervously.  "You're joking, right?"

    Ken slowly raised his eyes from his work and stared deeply into Bart's soul.  The indignation was tangible.

    "Alright, Your Highness," he said, backing away slowly.  Ken continued with his work, his resolve unimpeded.  When quitting time came around, he sauntered out to his chariot, his chest puffed and his smile wide.

Act 3: The Deep End

    Ken continued to wear the crown everywhere he went for the next few days.  He strategically placed a couch pillow on his passenger seat so that he would have somewhere to rest it wasn’t gracing his head.  Predictably, people everywhere mocked and derided him, but he persisted nonetheless.  His coworkers, now more than a little concerned about his mental health, enlisted the aid of their supervisor to talk some sense into him.

    "Ken Hollingshead to the Bob’s office...Ken to the office."

    Ken walked into Bob's office, surprised to be there.  People were only ever called into Bob's office for two reasons: either they had done something wrong or they had done something extraordinary.  Ken never got into trouble and very rarely did anything of note, so trips into Bob's office were pretty uncommon.  He walked in and closed the door behind him.  He plopped down into one of the chairs.

    "Um...yes?" he said.

    "How are you doing, Ken?" Bob began gently.

    "It's ‘King,’ Ken replied.

    "What?"

    "My name is ‘King,’ Ken clarified.

    "Oh...okay," Bob said, his pupils dilating.  "Well, anyway, you're probably wondering why I called you in here."

    "That is correct," Ken interjected.

    "Well, a few of your coworkers are genuinely concerned about you."

    "Me?  That’s a first!"

    "Yeah, they're a little bit worried that maybe you're getting a little stressed out or something like that.  Is everything okay?"

    "Uh, yeah," Ken assured him.

    "There's nothing going on with you that maybe, um, you want to talk about?"

    "Nothing comes to mind.  What could possibly be the cause of their concern?”

    "Well, Ken...I mean, King," Bob said uneasily, "they're a little bit worried about this whole crown thing you've been doing lately…and the fact that you’re making everyone call you ‘King.’"

    "Ohhhh," Ken said.  "I get it.  Don't worry about me.  I think I know what's going on here."

    "Yeah?"

    "Yeah.  Don't tell them I told you this," Ken said, leaning forward his in his chair and lowering his voice, "but I think a couple of them are a little bit jealous."

    "Jealous?  I don't think..."

    "Oh, yeah!  Don't worry about me.  I'll be fine."

    Ken jumped up and exited Bob's office before Bob could say anything else.  His "concerned" coworkers rushed in when he was out of sight and grilled their supervisor.

    "Sorry, guys," Bob said.  "There's really nothing I can do.  He keeps to himself and his work has never been better.  I can't stop people from being quirky."

    "You call that 'quirky'?" Bart said.  "Quirky is wearing stripes and polka dots together.  Wearing a Burger King crown to work?  That's certifiable!"

    Bob shook his head in frustration.  "I know, I know.  It's weird.  It's more than weird—it's creepy, but I can't do anything until his work suffers or he becomes a safety risk."

    Everybody spilled out of the office and back to their work stations.  They tried to avoid Ken’s line of sight, but it didn't matter.  He wasn’t paying them any attention anyway.  He was engrossed by his work, as happy as he had ever been.

    "Nothing he can do?" Bart fumed.  He sat at his station muttering.  Bob's answer just wasn't good enough for him.  "How is that freak not a safety risk?"  He tripped over a tote as stood up to put a fresh spool of nylon on his press.  His eyes lit up and the proverbial light bulb appeared over his head.  A sly smile crept across his lips.  He picked up the tote and headed down the aisle towards Ken.  As he neared Ken, he "tripped" and stumbled into Ken, making sure to swat the crown from his head.

"Oh!  I’m sorry, Your Highness!" he said.  Ken's face turned to crimson as he jumped up and searched for the crown.  He found it several feet away, crumpled and tarnished.  He fell to his knees and scooped it up like it was an injured dove.

    "What have you done, you imbecile?" he shouted.  He did his best to repair it as tears forced their way through his tightly pursed eyes.

    "Whoa, dude!  Chill out," Bart said.  "What's the big deal?"

    Ken slowly rose to his feet and turned his gaze towards his mortal enemy.  He placed the crown back in its rightful place.

    "What's the big deal?" he whispered.  "The big deal," he said, his volume rising with each word, "is that you have offended THE KING!"

    "Get away from me, you freak!" Bart said, turning and walking away.  Ken rushed towards him and tackled him to the ground.  He grabbed a fistful of hair and quickly bashed his head into the cold cement more times than he could control, specks of red glazing his crown.

    The monotonous hum that filled the building stopped suddenly, being replaced by shrieks and bawling.  People began to gather around and gawk.  Had this really just happened?  Ken stood up and soaked in the attention.  It was intoxicating.  He had never had so many eyes trained on him.  He had never commanded such undivided attention as he now possessed.

    "Behold!" he shouted.  "This is what happens when you question the king!"  He picked up his crown and ran towards the door, a sea of cowards scattering to let him through.

    "Call the cops!" someone yelled, but it was too late.  Ken was already absconding in his chariot.

Act 5: The End

    The police immediately began a search for him, and, with a description like the one they could offer of Ken, it wasn't hard to find him.  Someone quickly spotted his rust-bucket driving through the Burger King drive-thru, reportedly hearing him screaming obscenities out the window as he raced passed the window.  The Good Samaritan called the police and followed him until his stopped at an unlikely spot.

    The police found Ken at Holy Cross cemetery in his hometown of New Hope.  He was hunched over a small headstone, tears and blood now smeared across the face of it.  Several police cars pulled up, followed by an ambulance.  The police officers approached him, cautious but curious.  They shouted orders at the pitiful figure, directing him to prostrate himself and place his hands behind his back.  He ignored them.  He remained hunched over, gently sobbing.  A team off officers surrounded him and pulled him away from the grave.  The marker read: "Isabelle Hollingshead: 1948-1979."

    They dragged him to the back of the ambulance without a struggle.  As the sedatives began to kick in he had a moment of clarity.  "I miss you, Mom," he cried.  “I’m sorry.”

    Meet Ken Hollingshead.  He is the king of the St. Luke Mental Hospital in Canton, OH.  He keeps mostly to himself (after all, he doesn't want to associate with the peons).  At any given moment he can be overheard whispering the words "I am the King" as a reminder to himself and to anyone else who might hear him.  Whenever his crown is dirty or creased, one of his servants in white fetches him a new one.