It’s safe to say there would be no Portraits of America without McDonald’s. That’s where I’ve written most stories and worked on most photos. I’ve used its Wi-Fi and power outlets a thousand times, I’ve stayed awake and driven across the country on its cheap coffee. I’ve spent entire rainy days inside — and many nights. I’ve secretly eaten my own sandwiches, had free refills, and even showered there.
Is it ideal? No. It sucks. But I’m grateful. It allowed me to meet thousands of people across the country, share their stories with thousands more, and continue to dream. I can’t tell you how many people I’ve talked to, who relied on McDonalds to get by at some point in their lives. When they struggled and had to live out of a car, they would get up, go to McDonald’s, use the bathroom to freshen up, and then go to work. No one, not even their friends, knew about their predicament.
And every time I hear someone say, “Oh, I hate McDonald’s. I’ll never go there,” I think “Good for you. But many people need it — to survive.” However you feel about its food, wages, impact on the environment, role in the disappearance of local diners and cafes, or anything else, the fact is that, for millions of people, McDonald’s has become a a sort of shelter — safe and unassuming — on a par with public libraries, except with more locations, longer hours, cheap drinks, and TV. It allows people to remain inconspicuous and preserve their dignity. I’m not sure what this says about our society, but it puts things into perspective. The poor, the elderly, the loners, those between jobs or residentially challenged, they don’t go to organic eateries and fancy-ass coffee shops.
I don’t know if it’s because of corporate responsibility or human decency, or whatever, but I have been asked to leave only once, in three years, right here in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Oddly enough, I had spent only 20 minutes inside. The security guard dozed off, woke up, looked around and thought, ‘Aaah, that dude with the laptop. He must’ve been here for hours.” In small-town America, there are no security guards, just elderly women who walk around with coffee pots to check on you and fill your cup, diner style. Once, after four hours and five refills, I told one particularly nice lady that I felt bad. ‘Oh, we’re happy to have you here,” she said.
Even in those 24-hour locations along the major highways, where no one comes to you with a coffee-pot in the middle of the night, the staff looks the other way and never says anything about time limits and loitering. On many nights, I’m not alone. It’s 3am and the guy across from me has been there for hours. He’s left several luggage bags outside, but it’s clear he’s not catching a plane. He takes a nap, then looks at his laptop. My instinct is to talk to him and find out what his story is. But I stop myself, because, sometimes, I like to imagine. I want to believe that he hasn’t been homeless for long, that this is only a temporary setback, that he’s pursuing a dream, working on a big project, maybe even sharing stories with the world. And just like me, he wouldn’t be able to do that without McDonald’s.
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