《Venn》


 Monday, pt. 1

    The trees were beginning to shed their leaves en masse. A few stragglers lingered at the top like perched birds huddled in the branches, and the gentle breeze swaying the tree limbs did nothing to dispel the illusion of birds shifting feathers and feet. Dried and brown leaves skittered along the road and sidewalk all around Timothy as he made his way to work. Most of the houses along this street had lawns cleared of leaves and giant piles awaiting pick up along the curb. Pumpkins dotted the stoops and porches he stepped past. A car sped by going much too fast for this sleepy suburban street. At the stop sign, he quickly scanned left, then right. It was a four-way stop, and Timothy still checked every time. He had lost count how many times a car simply didn''t stop, even if he was in the middle of the road. Close calls made him weary of any traffic. As he turned, up ahead was his squat Burger Korner store, pale sun-bleached green and toasted orange, big windows, sparse and barren landscape. Timothy noted the cars in the parking lot: Angel, Charlie, Lori, and Jameela. His eyes shifted across the road where an elementary school stood. The building was relatively new and sparkled in the sun. Timothy couldn''t pull his eyes away. He wondered what it looked like inside. He wondered what his new coworkers would be like. He wondered what it would be like working with little kids. Timothy came to, pulled from his thoughts, maybe by the car, he wasn''t sure, but Timothy was certain he was moving too slow. A quick glance at the time proved him right.


    He leaned into the motion of his body, pushing off and stepping wider. His manager, Angel, would throw a fit if he was late. Even one minute was unacceptable. She would be standing at the counter watching the door intently. Before he was fully inside the store, her voice lashed out, "You''re late! It''s 3:01. I need to get out of here." Timothy tried to school his features to stillness, despite the quickening of his pulse. Not a soul was so busy that a single minute too long would be too much. He chose not to say anything, instead he pulled open the Employees Only door, went directly to the computer, and punched in his code. 3:02. "Is there anything left to do down the mid?" He had spoken to himself, apparently, for Angel wasn''t even around. He scanned the front counter, and saw that napkins weren''t stocked, straws weren''t stocked, sauces weren''t stocked. His lips tightened. He heard the heavy back door crash shut. Not thrown shut, at least. He grimaced. The floor had not been swept. He said his "Hi, how''s it going?" as he passed by each person. He checked the sales numbers: low today.


    Lori was in the drive thru, which is what he expected to find when he got to work. The mess he walked into was also expected. "Lori, make sure--" She brushed past him talking loudly into her headset. "A Number 1 with fries..." Timothy threw some fries into the fryer and pressed the timer. The oil came to life in a sputtering, popping roil. Lori began another order. Timothy flicked open a paper bag in an easy, practiced, singular motion while he scanned the monitor. Two burgers, two fries. His nonslip shoes allowed him to glide confidently back to the fry station. He grabbed a fry box and stuffed it full of fries. Another box, more fries. Without real thought, the bag was filled and organized and set on the stainless steel countertop by the register. Lori glanced in the bag and turned to open the window with her hip. "Alright, here''s your food," she said, and passed out the bag. The person outside rolled up their window and sped off. He was already bagging the next order, and Lori was already talking to the next car. So it went for a few minutes, car after car after order after order. Jameela was on the line frying up burgers, assembling sandwiches, and throwing them down the chute. Timothy was thankful no one came inside to disregulate this careful ballet of car-fryer-burger-bag. Stuart was due in soon to replace Lori. Jameela was closing, and he was glad for that. Stan came in at 5:00.


    Stuart clocked in a few minutes early, and Timothy directed Lori to stock things up before she left. She scowled and stomped around, but she did it. The transition was seamless, and their little ballet continued. "Stuart, I need to fill up the fry freezer, so you''re on your own for a second!" Timothy scuttled to the freezer, grabbing a cart on the way. The cart''s wheels rattled loosely, and soon the hum of the freezer consumed most other sounds. He found the almost overwhelming sound sensation to be soothing, insulating. The intense cold was bracing and pleasant. Timothy quickly threw enough boxes of fries onto the cart to fill the fry freezer when a stray thought shattered his focus. He could count the times he had left to do this act. There were single digits left of emptying boxes of nondescript brown paper bags packed full of frozen fries. His entire existence had become a vast and uninterrupted litany of clock in, clock out, sweep this, fry that, clean this, bag that, greet them, hand that out. His mind flowed backwards into history, flashing rapidly from day to humdrum day to monotonous day to tedious day, like those infinity mirrors stretching eternally. Timothy found the entire construction of his life had become featureless, squeezed of all variety by the constant motion of Burger Korner. IF THERE WAS TIME TO LEAN THERE WAS TIME TO CLEAN. Timothy startled himself from his reverie when his cheeks became damp from his tears. A sob squawked from his throat before he could put a lid on these abrupt emotions. Just four more shifts.


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    He wiped his cheeks dry quickly and cleared his throat. The sound was strange and loud against the hum of the fans. The cart was heavy now and no longer rattling. The wheels were burdened and had no space for anything but their meager purpose. The store seemed brighter to Timothy as he pushed out of the walk-in cooler. The air seemed clear and vibrant. His steps were lighter now, he felt lighter now. Every day he came into this place, and every day he came into this place it was a struggle to move. Each step took an extra ounce of strength to initiate. Every decision was fogged over before the choices were clear to make. If he paused for even a millisecond the boulder would send him careening down the hill again. But that fate was all in tatters now. He was no longer holding up that boulder, but looking on to someone else''s suffering. Suddenly lists of duties trickled through his mind. Scrub the floors: 4 times left. Clean the fry station: 4 times left. Count the drawers down: 4 times left. Lock the doors for the night: 4 times left. Each task he completed became more exciting, more possible, easier to see through. There was no light at the end of the tunnel, no. This was weight after weight cast aside, and Timothy''s feet lifting from of the muck, and his flailing arms gaining strength and purpose to lift him up from the depths. Soon his head would break the surface, soon he would breath fresh air again. Soon he''d scan the horizon and see distant possibilities.


    Timothy shut the safe and made sure it was locked, all the drawers counted down and tucked inside. The doors were locked for the night, the window was locked. The lights were off. Everything was fresh and clean and immaculate. Always when he closed, the most unsettling thing was the lack of radiating heat from the fryers. They were still and dark. If you put your hand near, though, they still were hot. They were waiting for morning when life would be returned to them. He scanned the store one last time, running through his mental checklist. Done, done, done, done. He looked to Jameela. "Ready to go?" She was waiting with her coat on, keys tinkling expectantly. The heavy back door closed behind them, and the crisp night air was refreshingly free of all things Burger Korner. Across the street, the school''s parking lot was lit, but no cars were present. That made Timothy smile. Even the cleaners were gone already. No more late nights for him, no more weekends for him, no more holidays for him. These startling realities kept piling higher in his mind. "Jameela, this is my last week here." Timothy''s voice was ripe with a smile. He had every intention of keeping his secret until his final shift, but something about the Fall air sent his cares tumbling away.


    "What do you mean?" Jameela was looking up from her phone. A smile tugged the corner of her lips, as well. The optimism pouring from his soul was unavoidable.


    "I''m quitting!" Timothy started laughing. "I can''t believe I get to say that. It doesn''t feel real. I think I''m making that up."


    "Did you get a new job?"


    "Yes!" Timothy pointed at the motionless school across the street. It was so still. "I''m going to be a paraprofessional. I interviewed for the job last week. They called me about it before work today."


    "What is that?"


    "Honestly, I''m not really sure. I think I''ll be helping a teacher in their classroom. My friend mentioned the job to me. No holidays, no weekends, no evenings...That''s not something I could ignore, you know? I''ll be able to make real plans." He sighed wistfully.


    "What am I going to do now," she joked. "Kathee sucks at closing, and Angel won''t do it."


    More exuberant laughter. "That''s not my problem anymore, sorry!" Jameela sighed now. "Don''t tell anyone else, though, alright? I want to see Angel''s face when I quit!" Timothy wanted to cartwheel with that thought. Angel would be so angry. But it was for the best. Angel deserved zero warning after all those times Timothy walked into a mess. For all the times Timothy had to stay late or come in early. For all of those times Angel ignored his request off, but made sure all of her plans could go forward. He was vibrating with anticipation. As soon as he found out he got the job, Timothy envisioned walking into the store Sunday morning, walking up to the counter and asking for Angel. His keys clattered onto the pale green surface, and he found himself smiling. When the words left his mouth, Angel''s face collapsed into a dark scowl, and he simply turned and skipped away. No longer would that scowl play a role in his life.

 Monday, pt. 2

    Everything was darkness save for the cones of light illuminating segments of sidewalk and street. The wind still whispered through the trees, creaking their branches faintly, and shuttling leaves about. Timothy was soothed by the faint immensity of the shrouded world. He could not perceive his footsteps as he passed by each dark, shuttered house. Even the dogs his presence normally excited were away and resting. Occasionally the mint green of a garage light caught his eye, startlingly bright in the deep night. After the perpetual rush of his shift at Burger Korner, this eased his frazzled nerves.


    It seemed a steep price to pay to experience the natural world, but his food service existence did not often afford him the time or energy to adventure frivolously. Tonight he was akin to the aquarium patron casually strolling through the deep tunnel. A world existed all around Timothy, yet he was not part of it. A cat trotted deeper into the night. A car started in the distance. A leaf or two swirled into reality and away into obscurity. Timothy was a spectre passing through a world he no longer belonged to. He was too physically and emotionally spent to care or otherwise trouble himself with existing fully. His passage was unremarkable in this moment, and he preferred it so.


    His thoughts turned to the tears that erupted from his eyes in the freezer. He found that display of emotion startling. His colleagues would get frustrated, hell, he would get frustrated! Sometimes they might go in the back and cry. He could recall a time or two where he went back to get a box of this or that only to find one of the girls crying amongst the shelves. The guys were typically more violent: kick a box, punch a box, yell in the freezer. He tended to yell in the freezer. Fast food is a brutal slugfest of physical and emotional punches. Plaster a smile on your face, energize your voice, pep in your step. Stand over the hot fryers for an eternity, push out into the freezing cold, the pouring rain, and sweltering heat. The grill blasting you with heat. The freezer chilling your bones. The entire process was a study in extremes.


    Tonight a lady asked for fresh fries. Timothy internally rolled his eyes as he set off to gather the necessary things for her order. Drink cups, sauce packets, sandwiches on the tray. Next came the fries, which he deftly scooped into their containers and brought over.


    "Are those fresh?"


    "They sure are!"


    "But they were sitting there when I ordered."


    "I pulled them out right before you got in here.


    The lady popped one into her mouth. "I asked for fresh fries."


    Thunk. Thunk. Fries in the garbage.


    "Ok, I''ll bring them out to you."


    Constantly questioned or doubted. Constantly assumed to be a halfwit or incompetent. Talked down to, yelled at, even just being ignored. At best, an interaction with a Customer was neutral. At worst, an interaction with a Customer was a heart-pounding, adrenaline fueled cage match. Then, rarely, like when the lights kick on after a power outage, there are those times a Customer is impressed or genuinely pleased by an interaction and Timothy was left glowing from praise or pride. These things were absolutely random, devoid of any relation to his performance. Timothy and his peers were at the whims of the Customer.


    The Customer is always right, they say. Customers would mockingly say that to get their way. Seeing it, hearing it, or even reading it set Timothy''s bones on fire with purest rage. Customers were dim, dark creatures. Their entire existence a pantomime of real human life. They thrived on their basest instincts. Want! I want that! Need! I need that! Give! Give me that! A Customer claws to them any tiny perceived creature comfort. Customers waltz in with dirty, wet, wrinkled dollar bills and expect the world laid at their feet. For $5.89? Timothy didn''t care how much money they had. They weren''t signing his paycheck, nor was their $5.89 making its way to his pocket. That line of reasoning was true and not true simultaneously. It was impossible to draw the dots from those cruel goblins to the numbers in his bank account. The Customer was always right is just a clever form of torture for customer service professionals everywhere. The people making the real money, they were out of reach of such grime and muck.


    Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Timothy''s thoughts flicked to the owners of his store. In fact, they owned all of the Burger Korners in the immediate area. Two brothers. One handled the numbers, the other handled the machines strewn throughout food service. Timothy knew a few details about the brothers. He recognized them if they came into the store, and he had an impression of their temperments. They would work during special occasions, like holidays, just for the thrill of it. Ostensibly they knew how to do every job. Timothy had seen them cook some food, bag some orders, even take an order or two, though they tended to struggle with the computer. They were competent, but unpolished. They lacked the grace of constant practice. Those two brothers inherited this fast food empire. Truly, they were kings of men, and like all kings, they came into the world with silver in their mouths, and a golden throne for their meals. They''ve kept the business going, those two millionaires, frolicking about their greasy forts.


    It irked Timothy when they were about. Over his years, there were a few instances where someone was fired because the owners heard something they didn''t like or saw a tattoo or some other harmless thing to end someone''s employment over. Truly blessed at birth, those two. In particular, he was fully cognizant of the imbalance of power in their "relationship." Timothy made enough money to live his life, assuming nothing terrible happened, and he worked constantly to achieve that modicum of acceptiblity. Timothy literally sweat and bled and now cried for Burger Korner. He had three sick days for an entire year, his insurance was a whisper of care, and he had one week of vacation possible. So yes, he worked with snot attempting to pour out of his nose or right after a car crash where his car was totaled and he was a bit scraped up and a bit bruised. His entire existence at Burger Korner hinging on the whims of a Customer, who with dedicated effort and even just a slight bending of the truth, could probably see Timothy fired. Then in come these brothers, perfectly optimistic about all things because they were kings. Their houses ate his apartment for lunch, their cars were next year''s best model, and those Customers were faceless, tiny gnats they might notice if and if it flew directly into their eye. In pranced those kingly brothers to see how the peasants behaved, but otherwise never appreciated the true weight of fast food.


    When he first became an assistant manager, Timothy recalled a new hire, Octavia, who would linger after her shifts just chitchatting with him and the others. One of those times, she was sitting on the stainless steel counter between the sandwich chutes where bags were kept; food was never prepped there, and yet, a customer saw her sitting there, complained, and she was promptly fired. Timothy later had a meeting with the District Manager about that incident, and a bad taste lingered in his mouth to this day. That was the weight of fast food. It was a constant debilitating pressure that began to squeeze all hope from a person''s spirit. The unrelenting physical demands, the fickle emotional traumas, and sameness of it all. After every shift, Timothy was less defined as a person. Each night, while sweeping up old fries and sesame seeds and bits of lettuce, he was also sweeping up soul dust and person powder. Burger Korner was grinding him down. His spirit was rounded out, his interests were smoothed over, his dreams were made flat. If you''ve time to lean, you''ve time to clean. If you''ve time to lean, you''ve time to clean. If you''ve time to lean, you''ve time to clean.


    Those kings amongst men never had to clean. They never found themselves on their hands and knees with a razor scraper cutting congealed grease off the back of the fryers. They never weighed the affect that calling off would have on their paycheck when they were ill, and whether all the bills would be paid or enough food would be put on the table. Those kings had land and assets! The little gnat-Customers never sought to see their lives ruined for a bad burger and some cold fries. Those kings pranced in and pranced out, the same as they ever were, unground and whole. By the time Timothy got home and showered away the day''s grime and eaten some real food and relaxed as a real person, it was time for bed. And so he prepared himself for bed and promptly fell into an exhausted slumber.