RIP White Castle

When I moved to New York City I had $7, which I immediately spent at White Castle. - XMASTIME

My beloved White Castle on Metropolitan Avenue is closed.

"But Xmastime", you say in the voice of Craig “Ironhead” Heyward from those soap commercials (RIP), “didn't you write about this White Castle a zillion times?"

Sigh. Yes, faithful readers. Yes I did. 

Mukluks: Op!
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I felt bad about having to pull Chuck from the playground, so we swung by White Castle.  It’s difficult to think of a worse place to bring a two year-old than one covered in bullet-proof glass and toxic grease, but I’d just watched a retarded guy drop his pants and was having an “I need a real career” crisis, so I felt like some goddam White Castle.  And God bless Chuck; after getting our order and sitting down at a table, he still wanted to talk about what I was going to do with the rest of my life.

“Rats!”

I gave him a cup filled with Goldfish and dug into one of my many, many cheeseburgers.

“That’s right, lil’ buddy.  Rats needs a job.  A career, even.  Everyone else I know has one.”

“More gofish, Rats!”

“You got it, lil’ buddy.”  I dumped another handful into his cup.  “I’m telling you, I should’ve latched onto some stupid corporate job the second I graduated college, right?  Some faceless, whatever corporation with six weeks paid vacation, free coffee and Super Bowl pools.  How the heck did I not do that?”

“Whayou doing, Rats?”

“That’s the whole point - I had no idea what the heck I was doing.  Did I do it on purpose, lil’ buddy?  I mean, it’s not like I consciously decided ‘eff the man!’ and came here to be some sort of bohemian, cool guy artist that refused to make money or be a part of society, right?  No, I came to New York City, and have been wandering around in a fog ever since, doing nothing that means anything to anybody.”

“Rats!  Meful, Rats!”

“No no, you’re right,” I corrected myself, “all this time with you has meant something.  You’re right.  Everything else, though, it’s been a big fog of nothingness.”

“Nuffin rats!”

“You said it, lil’ buddy,” I agreed.  “A big, fat nothing.  I can’t even sell out right; I’m like the starving artist, but without bothering with the pesky part of being an artist.  Or, obviously, starving.”