Garlic Fries, Kafka-Style

I had a really hard time finding garlic fries at Fenway the other day. Below is what I imagine Kafka might have written if he had gone through the same experience as me. I incorporated what I think are a lot of the elements one finds in Kafka's writings: a mysterious summons, a confusing search for something, bureaucratic lines and time, corridors and windows, an inconclusive abrupt ending, and a pinch of random violence. After reading what I wrote, though, I realized Kafka is too heavy for garlic fries. Kafka is not the right writer for garlic fries.

THE CONSUMPTION

One day, for no reason at all, K. received a text message from an unknown number, telling him he had a ticket to the Red Sox game waiting for him at Gate D. That day after work, K. went to Fenway to claim the ticket. He went to the only window where he saw someone working, even though it was labeled "Media Credentials Only." When he told the old man behind the bars that he had a ticket waiting for him, the old man gestured and told him he was at the wrong window: he had to go to the next window. He walked three steps, turned the right corner, and presented himself at the other window. The same old man swiveled around on his stool to face him and demanded to know what he needed. A ticket. Waiting for him. Gate D.

Section 16, Row 19, 1. K. climbed the stairs to his seat, at the very top of the grandstand, right in front of where the standing-room only crowd began. Someone was waiting in his seat for him. He wore a baggy jersey, his eyes obscured by a baseball cap pulled down low. "Excuse me. Did you call me here?"–he asked a little breathlessly. He looked up first in surprise; and then a look of defiance came over his red-rimmed, beery eyes. "This is my seat!" he bellowed at him.

K. thought about showing the man his ticket, but changed his mind. A few people looked at them with amusement and curiosity, but no one seemed like they had been expecting him, ready to explain the mysterious summons to him. He decided to leave and go home. He wasn't that interested in tonight's game, and he wasn't feeling well anyway.

Out in the concourse, a beat or two before reaching the turnstiles, he noticed a sign: "Garlic fries." An arrow pointed in the other direction. K. felt something like hunger stab him in the gut. "I haven't had dinner," he thought, giving in. He walked in the direction the arrow pointed him.

He stopped at the first refreshment stand that made sense to him and waited in line. The child in front of him was crying uncontrollably, throwing a small Wally the Green Monster doll repeatedly to the ground. His mother would pick it up and hand it back to him – this would only make the child cry and throw harder. In front of them, two big, animated men wearing nothing but Red Sox paraphernalia were watching the TV screens to the right of the register. They looked intently for every opportunity to hug and slap the other's butt.

After what seemed an eternity, K. finally made it to the register. "I'd like some garlic fries"–he said, the hunger pain growing immeasurably. "We don't have garlic fries"–the teenager behind the counter said without looking up.

"We don't have garlic fries." "We don't have garlic fries." "We don't have garlic fries."

Seven stands and an hour of waiting in lines later, K. was clear on the other side of the stadium and ready to give up. Until he saw another sign: "Garlic fries." This sign pointed down a long, narrow corridor. In the distance, he could squint and see that it ended in a door.

At the end of the walk, he opened the door labeled "Garlic fries" and walked into a closet. Two police officers were beating a third man – the drunk fan who had been in his seat! Without pausing much, one of the officers handed him a bat. Dumbfounded, he automatically grabbed the bat and ran out the door – and onto the field! The crowd roared at his appearance, drowning out his screams of help for the man.

"You're up. Don't let us down."–a hand pushed him toward the batter's box. A nervous hush fell over the audience. A scream from his throat ripped the silence in half.

"WHERE ARE THE GARLIC FRIES?"–and then he blacked out.