I lost my virginity in the Burger King ball pit. God glimmered between kaleidoscopic plastic orbits. My mother was halfway to the moon aboard the shuttle. It’s impossible to live up to the expectations of an astronaut. I’m the incel son of an American hero floating in zero gravity. Dad somersaulted from the George Washington Bridge last night. Mom doesn’t know yet. It’ll only make her more famous.
I’m in heaven. Whoppers make me weightless, another nerd in the soft sesame seed bun of earth. Mom’s never been more legendary than this week. Seventh grade girls suddenly love me—rocket fuel and black holes. The ball pit reeked. Our movements churned a putrid fusion of French fry grease and sweaty socks. It was the most beautiful aroma of my life. Dizziness made it impossible to tell up from down. A million miles from Earth. Finally home.
Dad’s funeral smelled like a McDonald’s dumpster. A carnival of sunburned mourners bowed to his eyelids. His taco-shell corpse bloated with formaldehyde. Dad commandeered the casket with charisma. A rocket ship that would never return. My father was farther than the moon. His cadaver leaked stardust. I could taste the Hudson River when I kissed his cheek. Polluted, turbid, cold. I wondered why Dad decided on the somersault. He was more a cannonball and can-opener guy.
“Your mom’s famous and your dad went viral dying,” Veronica said.
The Burger King ball pit spun in her eyeballs. I could smell our tears. I could hear her heartbeat. The secrets of the universe sweated from her armpits.
“You’re no longer a nerd,” Veronica said.
I thought I found my orbit. Veronica’s mother is the Burger King manager. Burger King is her mom’s rocket ship. Burger King was Veronica’s place to escape the world. The ball pit sucked stale oxygen from our lungs. A shrinking universe. It’s easy to get lost forever. Toddlers died. Smothered by a cornucopia of plastic. Silenced by the weight of the pit. Knocked out by a kneecap to the skull. Never turn your back on a Burger King ball pit. The ball pit will eat your baby alive.
“Wow—thanks for coming, Veronica,” Mom said. “I wasn’t aware you knew Nicholas existed.”
“Everybody knows Nicholas,” Veronica said. “He’s the son of the courageous shuttle commander.”
“You’re too cute,” Mom said. “Dick told me last month that no woman has ever been so far from the kitchen. Look at Dick now—he’s cooked.”
“You’re an inspiration to every girl,” Veronica said.
They hugged. Mom smelled like a vodka sandwich. A Martian waved within the wet vastness of her eyeballs.
“She’s cool,” Veronica said.
Veronica dreamed of becoming the next Kim Kardashian. A few selfies with Mom would launch her into orbit. All she had to do was harvest the virginity of a nerd. One small step into Burger King for clout—one giant leap into the ball pit for incels—a swirling cosmos of French fry slime, greasy fingers, plastic orbits, and stolen innocence.
I scrutinized the murky current of the Hudson River from the George Washington Bridge. I inhaled the funk of my father in the fall wind. It was Halloween. His somersault harvested a hundred million views on YouTube. Dad stripped down to skid-marked tighty-whities before the somersault. Vehicles screeched. Horns honked. Tourists screamed. It’s a miracle those tighty-whities survived the plummet. Dad mooned the world. Mom stuffed Dad’s shredded tighty-whities into a cardboard Whopper box, added a fresh Whopper, and buried it in our backyard. A time capsule of our family’s collapse. The Whopper would last longer than the cotton underpants.
I launched bottle rockets off our roof, aiming for the glowing eye sockets of jack-o’-lanterns. They whistled into invisible orbits. The moon rose higher. Mom swerved into our driveway drunk. She was wearing her astronaut suit and helmet.
Veronica somersaulted into the Burger King ball pit. Her kneecap knocked me unconscious. I drifted into a blanket of slimy stars. Flames swallowed the fast-food joint, chewing the walls and ceiling. Burger King cratered into a charbroiled sesame-seeded bun. We burrowed deep into the ball pit, searching for space. I swam to the bottom. A Whopper coffin.
