For me, Pac-Out was the local fast food joint at the bottom of my hill. At least for this Boisean, it occupied a privileged place in my imagination, as it was (and is) across the street from the nearly mythological McU Sports and that rainbow road to downtown, Harrison Boulevard.
And so it remained, enshrined in its past glories. It was my junk food joint of choice, and between the ages of 13 and 18, the home of the $4.85 Herby Special––a greasy pile of meat, lettuce, and pickles, hurled carelessly into a golden nest of french fries and served up with a white foam cup of Mountain Dew.
Imagine my disappointment when I revisited my old haunt yesterday, only to find that the Herby Special had almost doubled in price. I felt like Michael Douglas in Falling Down, when he trashes a convenience store over the grossly inflated price of Coca Cola. I wanted to jump over the counter and tip over the Soft Serve ice cream machine. I wanted to belch bile and fire and hate.
Luckily I didn't. I don't have enough money to replace a Soft Serve machine, and it would take years for the innocent high schoolers who work there to process such an outburst, let alone comprehend it. But I was truly crestfallen that such a magnificent facet of my youth was now prohibitively out of reach. There are better things for a guy like me to do with eight bucks and change, and there's a certain pain that comes from having your favorite junk food fail to meet the cost/benefit test.
When I came down with the flu in high school and lost 18 pounds, it was to the Herby Special that I turned to regain my strength. After my protracted fight with that illness (during which I couldn't eat, sleep, or even pee for three days) my stomach had contracted, and I couldn't even finish my meal; but being so full I might burst never felt so good.
During my junior year in high school, my then-girlfriend, Tanya, had a part time job at Pac-Out, and I well-remember visiting her there to stuff my face and gaze into her blue eyes. She had just gotten out of a relationship with her 26-year old manager, whom I met several times, and who could never remember who I was. (I was convinced he was the biggest idiot in Boise.) After Tanya quit and left for college, she told me that she still dreamed about the drive-thru buzzer going off.
Soon after I noticed that the burgers got a little greasier, and the fries a little drier, a little less scrumptious. I went to college myself, lost touch with Tanya, moved out of the Boise highlands, and forgot about my beloved Herby Special for almost a decade.
When I returned to Boise from graduate school I hit up my old haunts. In my opinion, you haven't settled back in to living in Boise until you've dined at Guido's Pizza, Chang Mai, and Parilla. Occasionally I'd be in that neck of the North End, and hate myself for not carrying enough cash to visit.
Last night was going to be Pack-Out's night. My lady-friend lives near 26th, and we were going to grab a bite to eat and do the First Thursday thing by visiting an art gallery. We parked in that no man's land between Pac-Out and Hill Road, walked to the counter, and peered myopically at the menu. My heart revved, fluttered, and sucked in bloody backwash: "$8.35 for a Herby Special? WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON HERE?" I thought.
Those sweaty summer evenings when I would bike down and get a hamburger or visit Tanya washed over me like a tsunami and dragged me out to sea. After taking leave of time and space, I took leave of my senses and launched into an anti-Pac-Out tirade that I'm sure drove the new car smell from Vanessa's RAV-4 and will be the ultimate demise of our relationship.
My inarticulateness stuck in my craw: Why am I never as good at expressing myself with the spoken word as I am with the written? Why is the past always brighter than the present? My only consolation is that the Herby Special continued its slow decline and isn't coated in gold leaf like it is in my fondest memories.
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