Waiting for my breakfast burrito to cool enough to eat, I watched an old red Camaro that had "Iroc-Z" on the side of it bump across the US-1 median and enter the McDonald's parking lot. It entered through the exit and pulled into a parking spot.

     The Camaro's doors opened, and a family of five piled out. Dad was in a muscle tee and jeans. Cowboy boots. The rest of them were barefoot.

     Dad yawned and stretched. Beside him was a younger version of himself, sans cowboy boots. A boy, middle teens. (Let's call him Bud). Bud leaned into the car and withdrew a pack of cigarettes.

     Mom was wearing a dress. Red flowers on white. Sis wore terry-cloth shorts and a pink tee shirt. She was at that age when breasts just begin to show, but they're too small to need support. She turned to watch a semi truck go by, southbound.

     The fifth family member was a boy, no more than four or five. His legs and tee shirt were dirty.

     They were all sort of dirty.

     I checked my burrito. Scorching. I looked back outside.

     Mom was handing out shoes. No shoes, no service at McDonald's. Sis got sneakers. They were the same color as her tee shirt. The Little'un got sandals, brown sandals like his older brother's, and he sat on the asphalt to put them on.

     Bud lit a smoke and put a hand on the Camaro's roof. He nonchalantly pulled his sandals on one-handed, effortlessly exchanging both foot and cigarette.

     Mom's shoes were sandals. They were a be-sandaled bunch, except for Dad and Sis. The teen boy smoked, and then the entire family turned to watch as a Georgia State Patrol car went by, lights flashing, northbound on US-1. Dad looked at Mom, and the two shared a spot of nervous laughter.

     Sis reached for Little'un's hand. She was pretty, piney woods pretty, and I imagined I saw a glimpse of the woman she would become. She'd be a swamp flower.

     Little'un tugged on Sis's hand. He was ready for a Happy Meal. Sis said something to Bud, and he said something back that made Sis grin. Mom slid in close to Dad, and the family walked toward the building. At the door railing, Bud flicked his cigarette away with practiced ease.

     I turned to watch them enter the store. Sis in profile was Mom in profile, but that was okay because Mom had been a catch. Dad knew it, too. He looked around to see if anyone was looking. I quickly looked at my burrito.

     They stood in a clump, discussing the possibilities. The boy was pointing at a Happy Meal display. I saw Dad approach the counter. I was too far away to hear what was said, but there was an extended discussion with the counter clerk, and Mom and Sis were drawn into it. At the end, a bill was laid on the counter, and the clerk counted out the change in twenties.

     Sis had not let go of Little'un. He was practically beside himself with Happy Meal lust, but he visibly controlled himself after receiving a sharply-toned reprimand from Mom.

     The clerk placed two trays on the counter and started heaping food on them. Bud nodded at Dad and ambled off to the rest room.

     The Happy Meal arrived. It sat on the tray, tantalizingly lovely to Little'un, who yearned to snatch it up and tear it open. He glanced wide-eyed up at Mom, and he becalmed himself.

     Sis reached behind herself and scratched at the lower hem of her terry-cloth shorts. She was very tan.

     Prodigious amounts of food appeared on the trays, with nary a burrito in the bunch. These weren't breakfast burrito-eating folks.

     Dad and Mom carried the trays. They carried them right past where I was sitting and out into the playland. I noticed that Sis's tan legs and pink sneakers were dirty.

     They all sat down on molded plastic chairs mounted around a molded plastic table. I surmised that they ate inside at home. They always ate inside at home. At McDonald's, they could eat outside.

     I turned around to continue watching, but I reached for a newspaper to disguise my intention. Bud brushed past as I settled on the opposing bench. Bud smelled of cigarette smoke.

     Little'un got his Happy Meal. Joy incarnate. Sis and Mom grinned. Dad passed out food.

     I looked at the old Camaro. Mustang GT's and Camaro's are popular around the Okefeenokee. I thought about Bruce Springsteen singing about rumbling through the promised land, and I realized something.

     This breakfast burrito and half-consumed Diet Coke were nothing to me but breakfast. No event. No big deal.

     For this young family, however, it was a big deal. They had gotten up early on Saturday morning to go to McDonald's. They had packed their SHOES, for Christ's sake, and had piled into the old Camaro and gone to McDonald's.

     It was the promised land to them.

     I mused on this, and I imagined myself as a member of their family. I mused as I dumped my tray, the unpalatable burrito sliding off and away into the gaping mouth of the trash receptacle.

     I walked past the playland on the way to my pickup. I heard the family's laughter. I smelled cigarette smoke.

     I thought about Springsteen's shut down strangers and hot rod angels. The Camaro was ticking. Straight pipes stuck out of its rear.

     Where's the magic? I wondered. It's Saturday, and I have no plans. In a little while, I'll eat lunch, and it'll be something as uninspiring and unpalatable as breakfast was. My life has become predictable, sedate. Where's the magic?

     I cranked my truck. A Mustang GT dashed across the median into the parking lot exit and snicked into a parking place next to the Camaro.

     My boring day ahead, I wondered where the young family's adventure would lead them. I sat at the edge of the pavement of US-1, and I looked across the grass and asphalt, and I knew.

     WalMart!