"Elizabeth and the Burger Escape"

Down on Main Street, Elizabeth runs the 99 Cent store—though nothing’s really 99 cents, except maybe a soda pop if she’s feeling generous. Most things hover around $5.99, but I’ve never truly looked. If I like your store and your spirit, I stop caring about prices. Elizabeth fits that bill, same as Latin Deli & Grocery. If she likes you back, you get the bonus: a break from the day.

She’s the Mary Worth of the block. A listener. A fixer. A Scorpio-whisperer. I go in with my gripes—because November-born Scorpios don’t just stew, we erupt. Elizabeth absorbs it all like a bartender with a sixth sense. She’s got answers, even solutions. Handy human to have around. Who needs Google when Elizabeth’s behind the counter? Especially when Google’s AI starts acting smug, telling me my question’s stupid or unanswerable. I wasn’t asking for perfection—I was asking for a point of view. Any view. You arrogant MF.

Anyway. It was one of those days. The kind where escape feels urgent—not from the city, but from the mind. Horror movies help, but only if you’re watching in a place you love. Otherwise, even the monsters feel hollow.

I was loaded with that need to flee, but also generous. The kind of day you don’t turn away the town drunks asking for change. You give, because you realize you’re just as drunk—on memory, on mood, on longing. But what I really wanted was a burger.

Not just any burger. A real one. The kind I used to get at Zuni Café or Original Joe’s back when it was still on Taylor Street in the Tenderloin. Even Herb Caen loved it there. You could order just a burger and still get a liter of wine, tuxedoed Italian waiters tossing jokes like confetti. The burgers were crisp on the outside, pink in the middle, melting into sautéed onions and cheese on a French roll or Zuni’s own bread. That was my burger.

So I made my own. Whiskey River’s good, but not quite right. I went to C-Town, gathered what I needed, and cooked it just so. It rocked. I hadn’t made a burger in ages, maybe that’s why it hit so hard. It was huge. I thought I was hungry enough. I ate and ate, drank, and got so full I thought I might collapse or combust.

Later, I told Elizabeth. She knew exactly what to do. Mint tea. Another tea. Rest. Fast through the morning. Eat salad. “You’ll be all right,” she said.

​And I was.

I paired it with a horror flick—an old one called Dog Soldiers, recommended by someone important from Whiskey River. It was terrifying in all the right ways, though a bit too graphic. I had to turn away during some scenes. Even escape has its limits.