Walking the quiet, midnight streets of Milwaukee, O.J. Mayo took his time, relishing the peacefulness after an exhausting, yet exhilarating, win. Scoring 25 points was so much better than game after game of DNP’s as he had experienced the previous season.
He soon approached the McDonald’s that was on his route. Intending to walk by it without even so much as a hitch in his step, O.J. turned his head to look at other things. Then, that beloved, yet at the same time, foul stench drifted into his nose.
The aroma of McDonald’s french fries.
Immediately coming to a stop, he stared across the street at the fast-food restaurant, its windows brightly illuminated in the darkness. On their own accord, his feet took him to the window, and he pressed his face against the glass. Inside, a bored-looking employee mopped the floor, and a singular customer chowed down on a Big Mac.
“No. I…I can’t,” O.J. murmured, shutting his eyes. “That part of my life is behind me.” But even with eyes closed, his mind’s eye replayed happy memories from last year, when O.J. would visit this very McDonald’s after every home game and be greeted happily by fans. The manager had always been willing to throw in a free quarter-pounder, and O.J. had always been willing to eat it. In those joyous days, his hunger for food never seemed to be sated.
When O.J. finally opened his eyes, that same manager was waving at him and smiling, beckoning him inside.
“NO! I AM DONE WITH YOU!” was O.J.’s anguished yell. Then, without another glance at the restaurant, he turned and ran down the street, down into the chilly Wisconsin night.