Growing up in “small-town-America,” there had to be some sort of burger joint in the area - the place you went to with friends during the summer, where the food is entirely predictable and greasy.
At the back of a tiny dining area is a Mrs. Packman machine that I persistently dragged my dad over to so I could watch in awe as he played. Now and then I wish I could go back to that moment, watching the icon dart around. I have yet to shake off my lingering love for onion rings and tartar sauce.
In 2020 they closed the dining area and turned the parking lot into a checkerboard of red and white paint littered with rickety benches and tables. I haven’t seen the Mrs. Packman machine in a while. I hope it’s still there.