Continuing to not eat at Roy Rogers

Roy Rogers

Roy Rogers

I know I’ve done Roy Rogers before, but man, any fast food joint that I’ve passed by this many times deserves a repeat.

It’s not that Roy Rogers is good. It’s that it’s hot, and it’s satisfying, and it’s *there*. It’s there on dark, lonely nights when you’re driving for hours on Route 90, and you have to pull over to pee or to get gas or to stay awake. You don’t need to eat a bunch of greasy, salty crap. But you see that inviting red logo miles in advance, and it gets you thinkin’.

As you pull in to the rest area you see the big glowing red sign, and you can’t help but think some more. And as you walk toward the bathroom you smell that deep-fried smell and your pace slows, as though you just passed through a boundary layer into a region of heavier, stickier air. You see the french fries starkly outlined in the glare of the lamps.

Sometimes you don’t make it out of there with your wits intact. Sometimes your legs take you up to that glowing counter, and your hands grab a tray and load it with a foil-wrapped burger and a greasy little cardboard box brimming over with fries. Well, then you have no choice but to pay for it and eat it.

But sometimes you’re strong. That smell still slows you down, and you probably stop for a moment to look longingly at the contents of those gleaming metal chutes — maybe long enough to imagine what it would be like to eat it. But you walk away.

Today I was strong. I’m proud to say that I’ve been strong for over four months now. I hope I can continue to be strong.


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