Pandemonium in McDonald’s play area: It’s lord of the fries

AMONG the places I hope never to visit again is any McDonald’s restaurant with a play area that is anywhere near a middle school, especially between the hours of 1:39 and 2:15 p.m.

In terms of places to avoid at certain times of the day or year, it is right up there with Siberia in the winter and the Gulf Coast during the hurricane season.

I have instructed my wife that if I ever seem inclined to be there during those dark periods, she should give me a quick slap in the face and shout, “Snap out of it, boy!” She has promised to do so with pleasure.

There is one of those chaotic places in the Valley that is dearly beloved by small children and their pre-pubescent counterparts whose brains have not yet evolved beyond infancy, although their bulk has.

It is a favorite restaurant, a veritable Les Hermitage, to my good friend Joshua, who is 4 years old and knows what he wants when he wants it. There are Happy Meals there with hamburgers and French fries, and tunnels one can climb into and slide down in, and things to squirrel up on and into.

It is also a magnet for the students at nearby Hale Middle School, who swarm into the place like migrating wildebeests moments after the 1:39 p.m. school’s-out bell.

Masses of them jam up to the serving counters, talking endlessly in high-pitched tones, screaming for no apparent reason in decibel levels equal to a departing 747, and confusing any line that existed before they thundered in, seeking food.

I am a man who prefers the quiet of more peaceful climes, avoiding the disorder that accompanies the presence of anyone who seems vaguely out of control, which would include unruly drunks and unemployed actors striving to be noticed.

I prefer cotelette de veau to chicken McNuggets and shudder at the possibility that the company might someday evolve into adult restaurants that will serve something called Vodka McTinis.

But McDonald’s is where Josh wanted to be and I am a slave in the boy’s small hands, so we stood in line, many lines, forging forward through the baying herd until we reached the counter where the clerk, due to the roar of the beasts, had no idea what we were saying.

Ordering became a matter of “whats?” fired back and forth, seeking gaps in the din to communicate the need for two Happy Meals, one with chicken fingers and the other with a kid’s McBurger, plus the things Cinelli and I ate, which required no names. Stuff. We ate stuff.

Then we went into the McPlayroom. It is a multicolored melange of tubes, tunnels, nets and climbing things that is complicated enough to challenge the strength and daring of the most adventuresome children. One fears that a kid could easily vanish in the maze, never to be seen again.

Josh dived into his Happy Meals with the enthusiasm of a hungry puppy, delighted with a monster figure gift called “Dead Juju” in one, but rejecting a “Kick It Girl” doll in the other, which he handed to me. The name, by the way, had to do with soccer, not any effort to rid herself of a drug addiction.

The place was in a constant state of pandemonium, the squeals of infants played contrapuntally to the bellows of the preteens who, by shoving and smashing at each other (boys) and screaming and flashing their navels (girls) are in the beginning stages of preparing for future rutting seasons.

I tolerated all of this up to the point where they discovered they could use food trays both as skateboards and as slides in the tunnels, thus imperiling children and adults. No one was there to tell them not to, so I did and then quickly left, fearing a coalition of kids who, like the boys in “Lord of the Flies,” could join forces to do me serious harm.

Josh was less than happy with having to leave, and when a creative child is unhappy, he or she can contrive all kinds of methods to drive a grown-up crazy. Josh chose repetition. For every word or sentence I said, he said.

“Time to go home.”

“Time to go home.”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Did you have a good time?”

“Into the car.”

“Into the car.”

“Keep that up and I’m taking your Dead Juju.”

“Keep that up ... you are not!”

He clung to the Dead Juju with the possessiveness of a starving man clutching a pork chop. I didn’t know, and still don’t know, what a Dead Juju is, but grandparental control, not identity, was the important technique at that moment.

“It’s mine,” Josh said.

“It’s mine,” I said.

“No, it isn’t,” he said.

“No, it isn’t,” I said.

“What in God’s name are you doing?” Cinelli demanded.

“Having a little fun,” I said.

“Having a little fun,” Joshua said.

“You keep that up and I’m throwing you both out,” Cinelli said.

Neither Josh nor I replied aloud, because you don’t mess with an angry woman. But I could hear Josh mutter, “You keep that up and I’m throwing you both out.”

I gave him a high-five. The kid has guts. (The kid has guts.)

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Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He can be reached at [email protected].