It's a snowy February night in Surrey, B.C. as a train of empty cars pulls into the station to rest for the night before the next day's haul. While the conductor stays put and dozes off, taking any sleep he can manage, a lone freighthopper steps out of an open-doored cargo carrier and onto the tracks.
The homeless wanderer, a man in his mid 40's with a thick, red beard and a look of disdain in his eyes, surveys his surroundings. In the distance, he sees a lit parking lot with a rather familiar fast food restaurant. "I could go for a bite," mumbles the man as he hikes over the tracks and starts to walk towards the restaurant.
It's been a long, cold winter; one of the worst in past years. But it hasn't always been this way for the middle-aged drifter. You see, before his days of going train to train, sleeping in bus stations and struggling just to stay alive, he was a wealthy professional athlete.
Somewhat of a Cinderella story, his career saw many dead ends before a major breakthrough that led him to ultimate stardom in the big league. A godsend from the minors, he had brought his team back from the dead and miraculously carried them to a championship. After signing a lengthy, and quite luxurious, contract, he became a household name, revitalizing a franchise and helping skyrocket them to elite status for the next decade.
What came after the fame was a truly tragic decline. Numerous lawsuits for copyright infringement set his financial situation into a tailspin. And after a failed attempt at a comeback in the pros, his illustrious career was declared dead.
The details of his journey to homelessness are haunting. Anything but your everyday fall from glory. Once the heartbeat of a city, he was now left without any place of belonging. A constant hopeless traveler.
As he trudged through the untouched, snow-covered field, the man never took his eyes off the restaurant, which was appearing closer and closer by the second. A sense of comfort ran into his body as he locked in on the golden arches. Even during all these years lacking residence, he always felt at home when in sight of the giant, yellow beams that towered over the red rooftop of every establishment alike.
Opening the doors, a gust of warm air greeted him into the restaurant, which, at 3 a.m., was understandably looking like a ghost town. He strolled up to the counter to find a surprisingly upbeat employee awaiting his arrival.
"Hello, sir. Welcome to McDonald's. How may I help you?" she asked.
The man politely ordered a burger and coffee and grabbed his wallet. He reached in and pulled out the only card that the leather contained: a shiny, platinum-coloured piece of plastic that had "lifetime of free food" written on the front. It was almost a one-of-a-kind. McDonald's said that over their many years of existence, only three food-for-life cards had ever been given out.
He handed over the card to the woman at the cash register and she nearly choked on her tongue when she realized what was in her hand. To a mere McDonald's night-shift worker, food-for-life cards were a myth; something the employees joked around about on break.
The woman struggled to say anything as she stuttered and stumbled over her words. After gaining composure, she spoke. "Can I-.. could I.. May I please have your name for the order, sir?"
"Of course," the man said. "My name is Andr-," he stopped and paused for a second. Caught up in a moment of reminiscence, he felt like he had to be true to himself. Collecting his thoughts, the man spoke once more.
"My name... is The Hamburglar."
