billyburgers

The burgers were wrapped neatly in tin foil, with extra helpings of wet lettuce and tomato and almost half a pound of piping-hot ground beef. The grease would glisten as it oozed down my wrists, dripped onto my plate, and coated the tin foil.

“Why do you eat those things?” the senior sales manager at Fox 45 would ask me from time to time, squinting in disgust.

“They’re good,” I’d say. “You should try one.” And that was true – although a bit overpriced, they were good. But that wasn’t the real reason billyburgers had become a daily tradition for me. The real reason was a bit complicated.

Billy’s was just across the street from the Fox 45 building. TV stations don’t need to be located on prime real estate, and Fox 45 certainly wasn’t – it reached the Greater Baltimore Metropolitan Area from the middle of a run-down neighborhood of rowhouses that looked almost abandoned. The only local lunch place was Billy’s, a convenience store that appeared as abandoned as everything else, except that the front door was always propped wide open to the relative darkness inside. Nothing else was within walking distance, so my first day at the slick, high-dollar TV station, I decided to give Billy’s a try.

Inside was a grungy, stubborn contrast to the bright spring outdoors. A few fluorescent lights, yellowed beyond their time, gave the air a pale, sickly look. The place was small – no bigger than a large eat-in kitchen – and every available inch was shelved with dusty candy bars, soda cans, and bags of potato chips. The linoleum floor was begrimed, almost sticky. Two lifeless video game machines rested against one wall, power cords lying loosely away from their sockets. A plexiglass counter shield ran along the back, dimmed opaque and covered in peeling stickers. As for people – I didn’t see anyone.

“Hello?” I called out.

I was answered by an “Oh,” and the recognizable shuffling of a newspaper. Billy stood from behind the counter. “What can I make for you?” he asked. He was Korean, medium height and obviously strong. His wide face looked weather-beaten and tired beneath his close military-style haircut. Later, as I got to know Billy, I would notice the tattoos lining his arms, and I would learn that he had served in the U.S. Army to gain his citizenship.

When I asked what he suggested I try, it took him a while to commit to a response. Finally he produced what he called a “billyburger” which, although squishy with grease, was still far better than anything at Burger King or Wendy’s. Because he had so few customers, everything at Billy’s had to be made to order, so I’d sit at one of the two small tables with peeling varnish as he’d cook my lunch.

Billy had a ready chuckle and easily shared facts about himself. He lived in Howard County and commuted 45 minutes into Baltimore every day. He’d returned to Korea only once, to get married, and then brought his wife back with him. If I ate late enough in the afternoon, his two young boys would return from school, Billy would plug in the video games, and they’d play against me. Sometimes I’d play the video games while he cooked my burger – he’d let me plug them in myself, then unplug them when I’d finish.

If I ever offered to play against Billy himself, he’d chuckle and shake his head: “Nah, I’ve played too much – make you feel bad.”

He’d explain how business was bad, how the neighborhood had gone down the tubes. He wanted to leave but couldn’t find a buyer – and since he was in debt, he couldn’t simply cut his losses and go. “But I’m thinking about doing something to this place,” he told me once. “Maybe turn it into a McDonald’s. That would bring in more people.” Then he turned to me – fresh out of college, still trying to find my own place in the world – and asked me, “Do you know what you have to do to get a McDonald’s franchise?”

I’d usually take my billyburgers back to the TV station so I could cover the phones. As I’d leave, Billy would occasionally ask, “Why don’t the others come?” And I could feel his frustration, every day watching the Fox 45 parking lot fill up with Jeep Cherokees and Lexuses and BMWs, smooth sales reps in suits with briefcases and slicked hair, just across the street from him. They ate lunch at sushi bars in downtown Baltimore with reps from corporations like Ford and Coca-Cola. They’d never step foot in a place like Billy’s – so I made my own small gesture to apologize for them, continuing my daily pilgrimage across the street.

“One day I’ll be out of here,” he’d tell me as the smell of grease and fries would begin filling his cramped, dim store. Over the clanging of his metal spatula against the grill, he’d describe his hopes for his boys, their education, their future careers. “They’re growing up quick,” he’d say, wrapping up the day’s burger in tin foil. And then, always, with an upbeat yet restrained smile as I’d walk out the door: “Keep coming back, Mike.”

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copyright © 2002, michael w. hobson