Free Amnesia Moon by Jonathan Lethem

the hippie was crazy, his McDonaldonians only imaginary companions.
    â€œCustomers!” the hippie yelled. He guided them through the maze of plastic furniture to the front counter.
    One by one the McDonaldonians appeared, slinking noiselessly out of the back kitchen. Three rail-thin white ghosts in their late teens or early twenties, wearing grease-stained food service uniforms in the company colors. Two of them hovered near the frying machines, while one stepped up to man a cash register. “Hey, Boyd,” he said, smiling sadly. Chaos saw that the kid’s cheeks were swollen with acne.
    â€œYo, Johanson,” said the hippie, Boyd. “You cats aren’t looking so good. You ought to eat something.”
    â€œC’mon, Boyd. Keep your voice down. You know we ain’t supposed to eat the stuff. It’s against the rules.”
    â€œHey, man. Time to break the rules if you ask me.”
    Johanson shrugged. “What you want?”
    â€œGive me a minute, man. Got to make up my mind. I brought a guest here to your fine dining establishment, man. Johanson, this is Chaos, Chaos, Johanson.” He gestured at the two in the back. “Stoney, Junior, this is Chaos.” Stoney and Junior nodded and looked at the floor. No one looked at Melinda. Boyd pointed up at the backlit menu over the counter and said, “Pick something out. You got money?”
    â€œUh, no. We stopped using it where I was.”
    â€œNo problem, man. It’s on me.” He lowered his voice, put his mouth to Chaos’s ear. “It’s all over the place, you know. Piles of it. I keep trying to tell these cats to go get some, then they can pay for the food they take. But they can’t leave the premises. That’s against the rules too.”
    Chaos studied the menu. “I’ll just have a burger, I guess . . .”
    â€œHey, man, have a
couple
of burgers, they’re small. And fries. This is the U.S.A.”
    Chaos didn’t ask what the U.S.A. was. “Burgers okay?” he asked Melinda. She nodded, her eyes nervous. “Okay, give me four burgers and two, uh, packages of fries,” he said to Johanson.
    Johanson leaned over and repeated the order into the microphone, then punched it into his register, on keys that featured pictures of the food. Behind him Junior pulled a box of frozen patties out of the freezer while Stoney switched on the frying belt.
    â€œYou ready?” Johanson asked Boyd.
    â€œSure man. I’ll have a Whopper.”
    â€œC’mon, Boyd,” whined Johanson. “We been through this. That’s Burger King. You know I can’t make a Whopper—”
    â€œOkay, okay, just kidding. Big Mac, hold the dirt and grease and stuff.”
    â€œBig Mac,” said Johanson into the mike. He gave Boyd the total, and Boyd paid.
    â€œLet’s sit down,” said the hippie. “Takes them a while to get things cranked up again.” He led them to a table at the other end of the room, to Chaos’s relief. Chaos didn’t want to have to look at the McDonaldonians while he ate. Boyd leaned back in his seat and grinned. “Did I tell you?” he said.
    â€œThey’re the only ones left on the whole Strip?” asked Chaos.
    â€œApart from me and the raccoons.”
    â€œI don’t get it. Why—”
    â€œThese cats are from the mountains, man. They probably dropped out of kindergarten. Probably never even seen television. We’re talking
Appalachia
here, man. Tobacco Road. They came down here to the Strip and got jobs for three-fifty an hour and it’s all they know. The company rulebook is their bible. So when everyone cleared out of the Strip, these cats just stuck, because they didn’t know anything else.”
    â€œWhat do they think—”
    â€œThey don’t think, man. That’s the point. Like Elaine is to those cats up in the green, Ronald McDonald is to these guys. They live to