Letters to Wendy's
by Joe Wenderoth
Verse

Joe Wenderoth's fourth book of poetry — "Letters to Wendy's" — is odd by any stretch of the imagination. The book is made up of over 150 short, short pieces written on customer forms from Wendy's restaurants, each dated between July 1, 1996 and August 7, 1997. Yet the collection is original as well as peculiar, and while many of the pieces are duds, a few shine through with a poise and peculiar sincerity about a subject that — and I feel pretty safe in saying this — no one in their right mind has ever considered addressing before.

At its best, these pieces (officially "prose poems," but that's a term ridiculous beyond any need for further discussion) plumb the depths of the fast food experience, something millions of Americans participate in every day yet never think twice about. Wenderoth's speaker (who is, I hope, not Wenderoth himself) is solitary and lonely — one gets the distinct impression that a trip to Wendy's is about the only human contact he gets all day. Writing his inner thoughts out on cards is his only form of therapy. More than that, they ask questions like "why is it wrong to stare at other customers?" — questions that seem asinine until we admit that, yes, we've all probably thought the same thing at some point, if only fleetingly.

The majority of the pieces — each no more than a few sentences, with no consistent form — are offbeat paeans to America's greatest fast-food also-ran. They center on things like Biggie drinks, Wendy's coffee and the chain's employees. Some are pieces of advice ("I think you need painkillers on the menu"), while others are meaningless slices of humor ("Today I bought a small Frosty. This may not seem significant, but the fact is: I'm lactose intolerant"). There are a few expressing longing for Wendy herself ("Wendy is possessed of — or possessed by — a barbaric coquettishness"), and still others, well, read for yourself:

December 8, 1996

To stroke another customer's head. Run my fingers through his hair and whisper to him: "You're going to be all right …" I would be called responsible if he were bleeding to death on the floor, but I would be called inappropriate if I did it when he was in good health. I would be, like all trustworthy prophets, called a nuisance and promptly arrested.

If the Wendy's-centric pieces are those written while the speaker sits alone in the restaurant, eating his Biggie Fries, then the rest — about sex, mostly, but also random things like dwarves and chickens — are the ones written late at night while the speaker sits, still alone, in his messy studio apartment, dreaming of killing a celebrity. Where else could the inspiration for August 16, 1996's entry come from?

My penis, it sounds like confetti. My face is too strong, so forget it. My sleep is burning, so let it. There is just so much to prove since I've come. Too much to prove all alone. Too much to prove since I've come. Too much to prove all alone. And time, time rolls on like a mountain — there's just so much to prove. And I just can't prove it's undue.

"Letters to Wendy's" is, unfortunately, a lot more fun and interesting to talk about than it is to own. At $14, you wonder, ultimately, if part of the joke isn't on you, the customer, for buying what is basically an uneven (albeit original) collection of missives. It's one of those books they always place up near the register — smaller than most, and with a funky cover — to tempt you into buying just one more book. The kind of book you'll tell everyone you saw, but wouldn't be caught dead buying. Often, this is a bad instinct, as some of those books are pretty good. In this case, your instincts will serve you right.

— Clay Risen (clay@flakmag.com)