《Exit Sign: A Theatre of the Mind》 Introduction Introduction You are about to read an odd book. Inside, you will meet Dave, and you will learn about his struggles with consciousness. You shouldn¡¯t be remiss to learn that this is not a terribly exciting book; there are no car chases or love triangles (spoiler), but there is a sincere tale about struggles which we all have faced or will face. This book is personal, and so I hope it is therefore true not just to me the writer but to you the wise and noble reader. I hope inside you find comfort and wisdom, and I hope you begin to imagine what happens when we chance to love. I also said to myself, ¡°As for humans, God tests them so that they may see that they are like the animals. Surely the fate of human beings is like that of the animals; the same fate awaits them both: As one dies, so dies the other. All have the same breath; humans have no advantage over animals. Everything is meaningless. ¨C Ecclesiastes 3:18-19 NIV I said in mine heart concerning the estate of the sons of men, that God might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are beasts. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity. ¨C Ecclesiastes 3:18-19 KJV ¡°Why should I fear death? If I am, death is not. If death is, I am not. Why should I fear that which cannot exist when I do?¡± ¨C Epicurus ¡°It is easier to build strong children than it is to repair broken men.¡± ¨C Frederick Douglass ¡°The knowledge that nothing matters, while accurate, gets you nowhere. The planet is dying, the sun is exploding, the universe is cooling, nothing¡¯s gonna matter. The further back you pull, the more that truth will endure. But when you zoom in on the Earth, when you zoom into a family, when you zoom into a human brain and a childhood and an experience, you see all these things that matter. We have this fleeting chance to participate in this illusion called ¡®I love my girlfriend, I love my dog.¡¯ How is that not better?¡± ¨C Dan Harmon ¡°Loneliness does not come from having no people around you, but from being unable to communicate the things that seem important to you.¡± ¨C Carl Jung Chapter 1 ~ October 5th The warm winds birthed by the sun¡¯s burning caress of the world had come and gone for the year. A bleak sky. Bland pigments brushed across the dry land like a god worshipped by the old trees, forsaken by summer¡¯s breath. The believers spread the faith to the brown grass around them. Early autumn. Two twenty-one-year-old college dropouts gabbed as the cool wind chilled their cheeks. ¡°I just couldn¡¯t get into it. I really wanted to like it, but I just didn¡¯t,¡± said Dave. ¡°The whole time I was sitting there, I was thinking ¡¯why did I pay for this?¡± ¡°Really? But, it was so good,¡± said Billy. ¡°It wasn¡¯t though. It was all action and no weight, a power fantasy without feeling. The heroes were doing all of these things, punching and blasting the enemies, but the brief takes and awkward continuity editing lost any consequences from all the punching and blasting, so the action fell flat and developed nothing for the story. It was like throwing a ball of paper in the wind; it went somewhere, but do I really care?¡± ¡°Okay. I guess I see what you¡¯re saying, but there was so much tension and anticipation built up that made the plot so good. We¡¯d been waiting for all of these things to happen that were built up in the first two movies, and then they finally do! I thought the fight at the end was a real pay off.¡± ¡°Really? It all felt empty to me. The whole time, I just kept looking at the exit sign and wondering ¡¯what happens if I leave?¡¯ I could have left. I should have, I wanted to, but I didn¡¯t.¡± Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator. ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°Because, I paid for the movie. I had to get my money¡¯s worth out of it.¡± ¡°Okay, so you¡¯re telling me it only takes a ten dollar investment for you to make yourself miserable?¡± Dave sat for a moment. He took his cold, black coffee in one hand and drank deeply, rolled his options around in his head, and savored the bitter swill. He opened his mouth and cast the dice with his next words. ¡°Well, I didn¡¯t want to be irrational. I paid for it; the least I could do is sit it out. I also hoped things would get better; they just didn¡¯t. Plus, my wife enjoyed it, to be honest. I wasn¡¯t gonna leave her there; it wasn¡¯t that bad. And, I figure, her opinion has to be just as valid as mine. Maybe there was something I was missing.¡± The wind ran her fingers through Dave¡¯s hair. They sat in the shade outside the fast food place where Dave traded his hours for eight-twenty a piece. He stared out to the gray sky, wondering if rain would come and give the world a rinse. ¡°You know, that movie cost over four hours of my life: two to watch it and two to pay for it,¡± said Dave. ¡°Spending money is why we work though. Glad I got Sunday off this week; Sundays are the worst.¡± ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s hard to feel sorry for ¡®struggling¡¯ theaters when they charge so much.¡± ¡°It¡¯s hard to feel sorry for them when we work so hard and make so little.¡± ¡°It can be hard to feel sorry for anyone, I think,¡± said Billy. Looking down at the white paper cup stained brown on the inside, Dave drank the last of once warm coffee. Today, the cold wind got her fingers on everything she could. Why am I spending my day off here? It¡¯s like I can¡¯t get away from this place he thought. Chapter 2 ~ October 6th C¡¯mon! Hurry up! Pull up! thought Dave. He looked out the drive-through window with a hot drink in his hand and a smile that spread to the corners of the world. The black car still sat there, a short line behind it. Only a few seconds had passed, but when you work for speed every second feels like three. Another car pulled up to the box, setting a ding in Dave¡¯s ear. ¡°Hi! What can I get for you?¡± asked Dave while he stared at the black car creeping forward. In his mind, he was glaring, but his face ran the other direction, chasing cheer and understanding. ¡°Can I have just second?¡± spat the driver at the box. Callous. Dave could almost hear her saying ¡¯seriously!¡¯ under her breath. ¡°Absolutely! Just let me know when you¡¯re ready, ma¡¯am,¡± said Dave. Drop it. Let¡¯em walk. The black car rolled up beside Dave¡¯s window. ¡°Hi! How are you?¡± he asked. ¡°That was supposed to be iced,¡± said the driver haughtily while the customer at the box began to rattle off her order: ¡°Okay, I need a cookie chunk frappee, a blah, blah, blah, a frappee mocha, hot sugar, sugar, sugar, fat, fat, fat, a Big ¡¯Un Burger, four Big ¡¯Un fries, and a white machi audi!¡± ¡°Oh, okay,¡± said Dave out the window, holding onto his smile with gritting teeth. ¡°Just a second then.¡± He set the drink on the counter. ¡°I need this remade. She wants it iced.¡± ¡°She didn¡¯t say iced.¡± ¡°Yeah, but, she wants it iced. Ma¡¯am, you said you wanted a double trouble chocolatey chip frap, a blah, blah, blah, a mocha frap, hot sugar, sugar, sugar, fat, fat, fat, a Big ¡¯Un Burger, four Big ¡¯Un fries, and did you say a hot white chocolate mocha?¡± ¡°No, I said a COOKIE CHUNK FRAPPEE AND A WHITE MACHI AUDI! And make sure they¡¯re Big ¡¯Un sized.¡± ¡°Alright! Your total is ten-eighty-four. Sorry about that mix-up; it will be just a moment,¡± said Dave to the driver of the black car. He felt like a Saxon warrior flanked by two grisly, unforgiving trolls in Gucci sunglasses. ¡°I need to reload my card,¡± said troll one, staring in the window. Her gaze bit into his shoulder and rending his flesh and mail. Blood flowed from his wound, fury from his eyes. Dave flourished his axe in one hand and lived the only way he knew how to: ¡°No problem! How much! Ten dollars? Okay!¡± said his axe. ¡°Ma¡¯am, we don¡¯t actually have a drink called the ¡®cookie chunk frappee¡¯ or a ¡®white chocolate macchiato,¡¯ so I thought you might have meant the double trouble chocolatey chip frap and the white chocolate mocha,¡± said his shield. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°Well, I get it at the other store all the time!¡± thundered the other troll against that mighty Saxon shield, threatening to splinter his bones beneath the wood while he reloaded the black car¡¯s card. Distracted, he kept punching the wrong numbers on the register¡¯s touch screen. He took a deep breath and found his focus again. ¡°Here you go!¡± said Dave as he handed the driver her card back and then her iced drink. ¡°What about my other drink?¡± snapped the troll, but Dave whirled round and bashed her with his shield. Blood from her nose mingled with the blood from the torn red nails and busted knuckles of the other troll. Combat was a hideous thing. ¡°It¡¯s right here, miss! It¡¯s just a lot easier to hand you one drink at a time,¡± he said with an earnest smile, though his heart begged to be scathing, yearning to burst with fire and fury, to loose the wraths of his day upon her. I¡¯m not your doormat! he said to himself through teeth like a garrison keeping his words locked in. The mask of his smile and bright eyes betrayed nothing. Dave imagined the troll rolled her eyes behind her Gucci glasses then drove off. ¡°Have a good one!¡± he tossed in her direction. Now, the battle turned toward the other troll. ¡°Could you describe those drinks for me?¡± asked Dave with all the goodwill he could muster. I won¡¯t let them win. I won¡¯t let them win. They will not beat me. I won¡¯t let them win. ¡°One is blended with ice and has chocolate chips in it!¡± She was almost shouting in his ear. ¡°That sounds a lot like our double trouble chocolatey chip.¡± ¡°No! I don¡¯t want that! I want the one with less chocolate chips in it!¡± ¡°Well, we only have that one drink, but I can put less chocolate chips in it for you if that¡¯s what you would like,¡± sang Dave as best he could. It felt like a hard bash in her face from that Saxon shield. ¡°Whatever. The other one is hot¡­ like a cappuccino. It has Cool Whip on top.¡± ¡°That sounds a lot like our white chocolate mocha,¡± said Dave. ¡°No! I don¡¯t want chocolate!¡± IT DOESN¡¯T COME WITH CHOCOLATE! ¡°You are absolutely right; it doesn¡¯t come with chocolate! So, you wanted a double trouble chocolatey chip frap light on the chocolate chips, a blah, blah, blah, a mocha frap, hot sugar, sugar, sugar, fat, fat, fat, a Big ¡¯Un Burger, four Big ¡¯Un fries, and a hot white mocha with our hand handcrafted whipped cream. Anything else I can get for you?¡± ¡°Whatever. That¡¯s hot right?¡± ¡°Absolutely! Your total is--¡± the connection ceased as the car at the box pulled forward. Dave took a deep breath and welcomed the ¡®polite¡¯ soul who had been waiting at the window. The man was wholly unresponsive to Dave; he just held out his money out his car window and looked straight ahead. I won¡¯t let them win. I won¡¯t let them win. Drinks and food lined up by the window, waiting to be sent out. All of this in two minutes. Dave looked over at the clock; only six more hours and he could leave. But, this was Valhalla; he¡¯d be back to fight again the next day. Leaving the store, leaving at the end of his shift never really meant the end. Dave still had to come back and sit trapped in the same audience seat. He still had to come back and push the same boulder up the same hill. All anyone ever told him he could differently was smile; all he had control over was the look on his face. He turned his gaze from the lights on stage and stared at the exit sign in the theatre. Red glowed in the darkness. No. What happens next? Chapter 3 ~ October 5th ¡°What are we doing with our lives?¡± asked Dave like a comedian. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen you in a year and a half, and we¡¯re sitting here talking about a crappy movie. I mean, I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve seen you since¡­ my wedding.¡± ¡°I guess it has been that long. How¡¯s Elizabeth?¡± ¡°She¡¯s doing well. She¡¯s working hard; she just started a new work-from-home job a few months ago.¡± ¡°Yeah? I¡¯m trying to find work right now myself.¡± ¡°You know, you should get a job here. Come work nights with me. It¡¯d be great to have a friend around.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t do that, man.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°I just can¡¯t.¡± ¡°I mean, the pay and benefits are good enough.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got meetings that I go to. I can¡¯t work nights.¡± ¡°Meetings?¡± ¡°Yeah, meetings.¡± ¡°What kind of meetings?¡± asked Dave. He gave a sideways glance. ¡°Are you in a cult or something?¡± ¡°No!¡± laughed Billy. ¡°Well, what kind of meetings?¡± ¡°...Uh, A.A. meetings.¡± ¡°Oh! Good for you!¡± said Dave. When that tooth was pulled, a breath of life flooded the conversation. Some things get to be said with a little chuckle; some are said with a little wince. ¡°You have a problem? I knew you smoked a lot, but I never really thought of you as a heavy drinker. I guess I just wasn¡¯t there for it.¡± ¡°Yeah. I¡¯m still not sure how to feel about it, I guess. I blacked out for a month, and the next thing I knew, one of my friends was driving me to Alabama in the middle of the night. You remember Trevor, right? From college.¡± Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings. ¡°No, I never met a Trevor. Wow though. Good guy. I wish I could have been there for you. I wouldn¡¯t have known what to do though.¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s fine. I wasn¡¯t really reaching out anymore. You get to a point where it¡¯s easier to sink than swim. What happens next feels natural.¡± ¡°Man... I just wish I could have done something. Kudos to you though. I¡¯m proud of you for getting yourself together. I guess I kind of watched Cliff go through the same thing; I didn¡¯t know what to do for him, and I wouldn¡¯t have known what to do for you.¡± ¡°What happened to Cliff? I haven¡¯t seen him since your wedding either.¡± ¡°Awe, we had a falling out when I needed his help selling fireworks last summer.¡± ¡°This past summer?¡± ¡°No, the one before, right after the wedding.¡± ¡°Oh yeah. I remember you asking me for help with that, but I couldn¡¯t.¡± ¡°Yeah, I don¡¯t want to go into details on what happened. We just had a falling out. I want to hear your story. What was going on?¡± ¡°I was having a hard time. I was working too much because I didn¡¯t have any money because I was spending it all on alcohol to help me deal with working too much. I met a lot of people in rehab who did a lot of messed up things. Stealing, mostly, but it¡¯s never as simple as that. We all kind of put each other¡¯s mistakes into perspective. ¡°I thought I was normal,¡± Billy went on. ¡°I used to work at this call center, and I¡¯d fill up my cup with rum before I went in. I always had a two-liter of Dr. Pepper in the car, and I¡¯d pour some in just for coloring. I thought everyone was doing that, that everyone was on something. I thought it was normal to just try and make it through the day.¡± ¡°That¡¯s heavy man. I¡¯m glad you¡¯re here.¡± ¡°Thanks. I¡¯d do that every day. Then my bosses found out when a cup spilled, and I got fired. They were nice people, some old guy and his wife. One spilled cup broke the cycle. I blacked out for a month and woke up in another state.¡± ¡°How do you feel now?¡± ¡°Well, even though I don¡¯t have a real job, I have a lot more money now that I¡¯m not spending it on drugs and booze.¡± ¡°Good for you, man. I¡¯m really happy for you,¡± said Dave. He took another sip from the paper cup. ¡°Happy for you: it¡¯s weird and phenomenal that people can do that.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± asked Billy. ¡°I mean, I don¡¯t think humanity could flourish as it has without delighting in the success of others, but that¡¯s such a complicated thing to do. You have to tell me your story, I have to understand it enough to feel what you felt, and then it creates the response in my brain that says ¡®I¡¯m glad you¡¯re okay!¡¯ And this can happen with anyone. Close friends. Strangers. I¡¯m telling you, man, empathy is a kind of black magic.¡± ¡°You callin¡¯ me a wizard?¡± Dave laughed. ¡°Maybe I am. You hungry?¡± ¡°I could go for something, I guess.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s go across the street; I want a burger from somewhere that isn¡¯t here.¡± They tossed their trash and headed to the new burger joint, journeying through the gray city on the windy autumn afternoon. Chapter 4 ~ October 6th The clock crept closer to eleven-thirty while Dave and Elizabeth sat and told each other about their days. They recited ballads of the demons they faced and the giants they slew. They told tales of heroic feats to appease the mean, cruel, greedy, and generally undeserving gods of the cold world beyond the drive-through window and phone line. That¡¯s how they saw it here in their own little world. Why is it so cathartic to tell her about the boulder I pushed up the hill today? wondered Dave. It¡¯s the same boulder as yesterday. It¡¯s the same hill as yesterday. My rock and hill aren¡¯t really different from hers, I don¡¯t think. Conversation is a curiosity. I think, rarely do I feel more as though life is worth living. It¡¯s not the sameness that¡¯s antagonizing me¡­ it¡¯s something else. Two dim lamps worked to light the townhouse living room. The Craigslist couch and loveseat stuffed the room like fat legs in skinny pants. In good light, the walls were solid white, but at any other time, they had the privilege of being gray or yellow. Landscapes painted on five by seven canvas boards hung here and there. Dabs of color like windows into dreams. ¡°I love you,¡± said Dave. ¡°Let¡¯s go get food.¡± ¡°Are you sure?¡± asked Elizabeth. ¡°Of course I¡¯m sure I love you,¡± said Dave with tired eyes. ¡°No, silly! Are you sure you want to go out? We¡¯ve been eating a lot of fast food lately.¡± ¡°Yeah, I guess you¡¯re right. Let¡¯s just go get some salad.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want salad.¡± ¡°Are you sure? I¡¯ll make it.¡± ¡°Okay. I guess.¡± ¡°Or we¡¯ll get a frozen lasagna.¡± ¡°There you go. I¡¯m down for that.¡± ¡°Cool. You¡¯re driving.¡± ¡°Nooo, don¡¯t make me drive.¡± ¡°Fine, I¡¯ll drive. Lasagna and Lambrusco?¡± ¡°They don¡¯t sell wine after eleven.¡± ¡°Yes, they do.¡± ¡°No, they don¡¯t. It¡¯s on all the signs in the grocery store now.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s stupid. I mean, what kind of law is that? I¡¯m allowed to buy wine in the store now, but not after a certain time, even though I can buy beer whenever I want from a grocer or a gas station. That¡¯s bureaucracy for you! It never quite gets the house clean.¡± Elizabeth sat and nodded her head, watching with the patience of experience. ¡°Beer doesn¡¯t pair with lasagna!¡± he went on. ¡°How are people that don¡¯t get off work until eleven supposed to pair their drink with their pasta! Whatever¡­¡± She stared at him with a soft smile that silently and politely asked, ¡®are you done?¡¯ ¡°Beer it is, then.¡± ¡°No. No, I don¡¯t want beer. Hard lemonades.¡± ¡°C¡¯mon! They¡¯re too sweet.¡± ¡°That¡¯s too bad!¡± ¡°Fine. Lemonades it is,¡± said Dave with a sigh and smile. His distress over the wine was vaporous. He liked investing his emotions in something, anything, even if it was petty. It¡¯s a reason to care; that¡¯s all I¡¯m looking for in the end. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. There life was to Dave, all expressed on the theater¡¯s stage: politicians bellowing about life and death the way they had for thousands of years and celebrities feeding off of their audience like spiritual vampires from the realm of righteous feelings, but the businessmen walked down the isles shushing those who asked what was happening on stage. It was a big stage: impossible to follow everything. Dave did his best to care about what he could, but my opinion has no effect on the performance. It seems pointless to worry and therefore seems pointless to feel any joy; either way, the show goes on. To what end? Nothing outside the small sphere of day to day struck Dave as particularly real. The world events echoed in his head like a dream from the night before. Thinking about the dream too much left him realizing how small he was next to the oceans and their unlit depths. I can¡¯t stop injustices. I¡¯m just a guy in the audience. It is what it is, I guess. Dave drove to the store with Elizabeth. His brow furrowed like a crumpled post-it note that read ¡®lost in thought.¡¯ If I¡¯m so detached from the world stage, why is everything still so heavy? If nothing matters, there should be no weight. If I die, some things I believe in will happen. Or won¡¯t. Either way, what goes through my head makes no difference on what will be. Can¡¯t know for certain. Can only believe. Maybe this heavy feeling is just how much a body weighs when--- ¡°Dad called again today,¡± said Elizabeth. ¡°Oh yeah?¡± said Dave, a little irritated she hadn¡¯t read his note. ¡°Yeah. Just wanted to see how I was doing,¡± she said. Her wistful sigh hit Dave in the chest. ¡°Oh, okay.¡± I¡¯m not sure what to say anymore; dude¡¯s always messing things up. ¡°I asked him if he was still coming out on Tuesday so I could see him.¡± I wonder how that happens. ¡°He said he was.¡± How does life become a chain of mistakes? ¡°But, we¡¯ll see about that.¡± Elizabeth looked out the window. ¡°I hope he shows up,¡± said Dave. I really hope he shows up. For her sake. He can¡¯t keep doing this. I wish I could do something about it¡­ I¡¯m just stuck here in the audience. ¡°Yeah, me too...¡± They went into the apartment. Dave put the lasagna in the oven and the drinks in the fridge. Elizabeth picked up the living room and turned on the tv. She pulled up The Joy of Painting and got out the paints, brushes, and a couple of five by seven canvas boards. Dave let the dog in. He sprinted through the kitchen and into the living room. He circled around, bounding from the loveseat to the couch to the floor at least thrice before the couple could follow him in. Elizabeth snapped at the dog. Dave shrugged his shoulders. ¡°Camus! Get down.¡± I wish I knew how to keep him from doing that. Camus ran up to Elizabeth¡¯s feet and sat, licking at her knees in frantic apology. His body rocked with excitement. ¡°Uh-huh! You¡¯d better be sorry, mister,¡± said Elizabeth. She reached down and ruffled his ears while he licked her face, still apologizing. Dave and Elizabeth started painting while they waited for the lasagna. The dog spent the day tied up outside on a long lead. He was something of a terrier, something of a boxer, something of a beagle, but mostly a mutt; nothing¡¯s simple, nothing¡¯s clean, but sometimes something¡¯s perfect, thought Dave as he watched Camus chew on a rawhide bone. He looked back to his canvas. Sometimes it is what it is. Dave sat in the dim light downstairs scrolling on his phone. He¡¯d told Elizabeth he¡¯d be up in a minute. It was one o¡¯clock in the morning. He had to squeeze the last bits of value he could out of the day. He scrolled hoping for an article to read or a video to watch; learning was a favored pastime. Who needs college? Everything they teach is free somewhere on the internet. There was always the hope that he¡¯d stumble across an edifying moment or the sanctification of enlightenment, but rarely did pixels offer these diamonds in the rough of the human experience. Who am I kidding? None of these people are any better off than I am. They¡¯re just louder and wealthier. They have nothing to offer. I¡¯m just looking for distractions. He scrolled along social media looking at the past, at all the circumstances that had changed in his life, at all the people who had pranced and strutted across the stage, only to exeunt for the rest of the show. I don¡¯t feel apathy towards these people because I¡¯m a jerk; I feel apathy towards these people because I¡¯m lazy. I don¡¯t have the force of any motives to keep myself in touch with them. I¡¯ll never know if they were worth keeping in touch with. Meh, I¡¯ll just assume they weren¡¯t. He finally made his way upstairs. His wife had put away her phone, the last light left upstairs. The full dark of night entered, and now welcomed sleep, but the buzz in Dave¡¯s mind drowned out the invitation. ¡°I¡¯m glad I got to talk to Billy yesterday,¡± said Dave. ¡°Yeah? How¡¯d that go?¡± asked Elizabeth. ¡°He¡¯s an alcoholic now.¡± ¡°Oh¡­¡± ¡°Yeah, but he goes to A.A. meetings.¡± ¡°Good! That¡¯s really good.¡± ¡°I¡¯m really hurt I wasn¡¯t there for him. I wish I could be there for all my friends.¡± ¡°You can be there for him now.¡± ¡°Yeah¡­ I can try. I think the problem isn¡¯t circumstances. I think the problem is me.¡± ¡°Oh¡­ okay,¡± she said as she cast off into the sea of slumber. ¡°I think I¡¯m just an ass.¡± Chapter 5 ~ October 5th The inside of the new burger joint looked like anywhere else: the tan, brown, and gray palette of franchise America are the safest colors for hiding stains from dirt and time. They sat down with warm food in blue baskets. Dave looked at his meal and let it spark a new conversation as he picked up his burger in two hands. ¡°You know, I¡¯ve never seen anyone take a bite out of a cheeseburger and say they hate America.¡± ¡°Yeah, that sounds about right,¡± said Billy as he poked at his chili fries. ¡°Right? It just doesn¡¯t happen. Good cheeseburgers must make people love America. They¡¯re a cultural staple. I think bad burgers have an opposite effect though. It¡¯s like eating a cheap burger makes people feel like they¡¯ve been taken advantage of,¡± said Dave. ¡°Actually, I love cheap burgers. I could eat those things all day.¡± ¡°Yeah, when you¡¯re not thinking about what¡¯s in ¡¯em.¡± ¡°I mean I know they¡¯re not the best for you, but I don¡¯t even care. Sometimes, I just want a cheap quarter pounder, you know. A real cheap, nasty sandwich that refuses to get moldy.¡± ¡°Okay, but it¡¯s not a quarter pound of beef. It¡¯s like a quarter pound of beef and filler stuff.¡± Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! ¡°So?¡± ¡°So, it¡¯s kind of like paying for someone to lie to you. I dunno. I guess I¡¯m just critical of it all because I work in fast food. It¡¯s all kind of gross to me. I kind of admire what they¡¯ve done while despising what they do.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡± ¡°Let me put it this way: they¡¯re snake oil salesmen who hit it big. Time-traveling carpetbaggers in Armani, and that¡¯s not easy to accomplish.¡± ¡°Well, I guess I get where you¡¯re coming from.¡± ¡°I used to think I might wanna be one of those carpetbaggers,¡± said Dave before sinking a thick, golden fry into crimson ketchup. ¡°What changed your mind?¡± ¡°Well, everything that happened with Cliff and the fireworks tent rattled my courage. Made me see how easy it was to become the bad guy. That was scary. Then, this past summer I sold satellite subscriptions at the supercenter. It was too easy to lie doing that, too easy to bend the truth to make a buck, and if you didn¡¯t have much charisma to begin with then lying became a living.¡± ¡°Couldn¡¯t get past your conscience then. That¡¯s respectable.¡± ¡°Couldn¡¯t get past my sense of self. Also, I was short on the necessary skill sets, which is why I admire the carpetbaggers in Armani: they have special talents I have fallen short on trying to possess.¡± ¡°Most of ¡¯em are just standing on the shoulders of man-eating giants if it makes you feel any better.¡± ¡°I guess you¡¯re right,¡± said Dave. He stared at the blue basket in front of him, thinking about how unusual it was to see such green lettuce on a burger. ¡°The whole time, during both of those opportunities, I couldn¡¯t stop thinking ¡®I wish I had my sister¡¯s help.¡¯ She would¡¯ve done a way better job selling satellite, and if she¡¯d been available during fireworks season, I wouldn¡¯t have had to put so much on Cliff.¡± ¡°What exactly happened?¡± Chapter 6 ~ October 5th He was late, just enough to be pissed off. He knew driving sixty-five in a fifty-five wasn¡¯t going to make red lights green, but it might get him through a yellow one or two. It was all a gamble; he was just trying to increase his slim odds, his no-good chance. Dave sped past a red car. The roulette stopped; the pill landed on red. Dave pumped the brakes, came to a stop, and waited. He¡¯d bet on black. That red car pulled up on Dave¡¯s left. The driver looked over at Dave and shook his head, his face rich with judgment like a fellow gambler who had lost a smaller sum. Dave grit his teeth and looked at the perpendicular lights to the left: green, yellow¡­ red. He took his foot off the break and hovered over the gas. Rolling. Green. The pale Prius sped forward like a gimp horse out of the gate. White Lightning. His foot oppressed the pedal with wrath and frustration, any sense of hope and reason lost before his scramble out of the townhouse. White Lightning was a name for a Prius Dave found delightfully ironic, sarcastic even. He laughed at the idiot in his driver¡¯s seat, at himself. It doesn¡¯t matter how much sooner I want to get there, I¡¯m still subject to the theatrics around me, a member of the audience along for the ride. At best, I¡¯m an actor playing his part. The script can¡¯t be changed. Maybe that¡¯s how life becomes a string of mistakes: it starts by leaving the house late, the one thing I had control over. He drove faster as if booing from the audience. The show went on. Dave exited the highway. Around the bend, another red light halted Dave¡¯s heroic efforts in defying time, bringing him to a familiar stop. No one here today. It was too common to find a panhandler here. Dave had learned their faces, but he stayed shy from learning their names. Today, there was no sad face or cardboard sign, and Dave sighed relief. I don¡¯t have any cash. I need to remember to grab my tips when I get to work. The light turned green. Three lanes of traffic stood still. Bloodshot eyes hanging on black wires stared at Dave, the city itself mocking his journey. What good am I doing by being upset? he thought, staring back at them. I think I¡¯m just upset because I feel like I¡¯m supposed to be. I¡¯m the one on stage, pretending I care about this job. I¡¯m just an actor playing his part. I should quit the show, just walk right off. A red beacon glowed over a black door on a black wall, quiet compared to the bright stage. It said one word to Dave. Watching passively and walking out can¡¯t be my only choices. I can¡¯t be the only one sitting here thinking this. He looked at the parking lot as he turned onto the side street; every spot was filled. The drive-through line backed up out to the road, barring entrance to his store and the restaurant next to it. He drove up the road to try the other entrance and parked at that neighboring restaurant. He trod across the lawn with his apron in hand, slipping between bumpers in the drive-through. After slipping into the back office, he tapped his username and password into the computer. Enter: 2:32 pm. Two minutes late. That bothered him. It bothered him more than it bothered anyone else. They were too distracted working. If being late doesn¡¯t matter, why does it get to me? That means I think it matters. Why do I think it matters? Just another emotion I don¡¯t seem to need. I hate this job. ¡°I don¡¯t want to work here forever,¡± said Dave over the headset. ¡°But, I don¡¯t know where to go next. I just feel like a bug on a leaf in the wind. Makes me wonder why I keep getting out of bed. I come here, I endure the miserable drudgery, and I go home and wait to get paid for the hours I spent. I thought I wasn¡¯t born to just pay bills and die, but if there¡¯s a purpose for me, why don¡¯t I know what it is or how to fulfill it? By deciding my purpose am I discovering the one I was given? I mean--¡± ¡°Whatcha working on?¡± asked his shift supervisor, Riley. ¡°Oh-uh, wiping out this fridge.¡± Figuring out who I am. ¡°Okay. Work faster,¡± she added. Then came the ding of an assault. Dave sat cross-legged with the fridge door open. He wiped milk-dribble up with one hand and reached to the button on his headset with the other. ¡°Hi, what can I get for you?¡± ¡°We need just a minute! Thanks.¡± The reply was sharp and insensitive like a bodkin shot into his ear. He watched the clock on the monitor on the wall as it counted seconds of his life away. Right now, the seconds of Dave¡¯s life carried a doubtful advantage. Those moments he begged to pass were moments he¡¯d never have again. Everything, life, crept away from him while he waited for his freedom from the clock. Red numbers ticked by. The customers were still attempting to rally their order. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. The war horns resounded on Dave¡¯s eardrum: ¡°OKAY! WE¡¯RE READY!¡± He recoiled, yanking the headset behind his ear. He rallied his defenses, turning his headset down low. He got up off the floor and stepped over to the computer. ¡°Alright! What can I get for you?¡± he half-shouted back for no reason. ¡°I NEED ¡®TWO BUCKETS OF CARBONATED SYRUP WATER WITH A MONTH¡¯S WORTH OF ADDED SUGAR,¡¯ ONE ¡®THIS WILL TASTE GOOD NOW, BUT NOT IN FIVE MINUTES,¡¯ AND ONE ¡¯OVERDONE SELF-HARMING DEVICE ON A BUN!¡± ¡°Sure thing! Two extra large colas, one Tacos n¡¯ Fries box, and one Big¡¯un Burger!¡¯ Will that be all?¡± ¡°(mrmple)¡± Oh, now she stops yelling at me! ¡°Okay! Your total is twenty-forty-five; we¡¯ll see you at the window!¡± half-shouted Dave. ¡°HOLD ON! I SAID ONE MORE!¡± No you didn¡¯t! ¡°Oh! I¡¯m sorry! I couldn¡¯t hear you that time!¡± Why so passive aggressive? Because, I¡¯m not allowed to be real-aggressive. The employer has the illusory power of curbing radical free will. I give up free will in order to maintain it¡­ Why do I want it to begin with? Why do I even want to be alive. It¡¯s hard to appreciate life; I don¡¯t really know anything about its alternative. The four ticking digits on the monitor spelled the word ¡®exit¡¯ in bold red letters. ¡°Sometimes, I just feel like I¡¯m a crop on a farm.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± asked Tom. ¡°I didn¡¯t ask to be planted, I just was. I¡¯m just a plant with eyes. I¡¯ve been given room for growing, but that¡¯s just to feed someone else¡¯s machine that--¡± ¡°DO YOU HAVE A ¡¯QUESTIONABLE FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION?¡± Everything here is questionable for--¡°Let me check on that for you¡­ Yes! Yes, we do!¡± ¡°CAN I GET ONE OF THOSE WITH ¡®WE BOTH KNOW THIS ISN¡¯T CHEESE, BUT LET¡¯S PLAY PRETEND¡¯ ON THAT?¡± ¡°Absolutely! Anything else I can get for you?¡± said Dave, still half shouting at the woman who thought he was deaf. ¡°NO! THAT¡¯S IT! THANK YOU!¡± ¡°Okay. Your total--¡± The car pulled forward cutting Dave off like a hand put in his face. Part of him seethed at her capacity for such lack of consideration, but the rest of him knew it did no wellness to mind this sense of being trampled over. To her, his thoughts and feelings were cast beyond the edges of perception, the edges of the world, the edge of significance; Dave realized this is where I live: past the edge of significance. How on earth do I change that. ¡°Hi! How you are doing?¡± half-shouted Dave filled with the kind of joyful energy that makes it sound like you say everything that way. The woman didn¡¯t look up from her phone, didn¡¯t say a word, but stuck her arm out the window for Dave to grab her card. She turned to her passenger and said something. Yep. Past the edge of significance. ¡°Good!¡± yelled Dave. ¡°I¡¯m doing well too.¡± She never turned to look at him, except when he handed her the order, and then she didn¡¯t even say thanks. She drove off, still talking to her passenger as they sorted out the contents of their order. BLACKOUT. From the corner of his eye, the gentle red glow was all Dave saw in the dark theater. That quiet glow seemed to care more than that yelling arm from the drive-through. The sign knew he wanted out. Out of the theater. Out of the dark. It knew how to get him there. ¡®What are you waiting for?¡¯ it wanted to ask. ¡®I¡¯m right here for you.¡¯ Dave looked over, staring into the four red letters. He thought about getting up, about what it would be like to shuffle sideways through the row of seats murmuring excuse me. He imagined himself in front of the door; he put his hands on the bar. The steel was cold. It clicked and gave way a little when he pushed. He was back in his seat, looking at the stage. Where do I even begin to live? The curtain rose. Dave was on stage at work again. ¡°Do you guys ever think about how when people meet us here at work, they really only see us as a shadow?¡± asked Dave. ¡°Yeah,¡± said Tom. ¡°But, it doesn¡¯t bother me.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°Because, most of them are older than me. Most of them have unhappy lives and dead end jobs, so far as I can tell. I¡¯ve got a chance. I know what I¡¯m doing. I know who I am and what I want, and that¡¯s what¡¯s important.¡± ¡°It¡¯s kind of like they¡¯re dead and you¡¯re alive?¡± ¡°Uh, yeah.¡± ¡°Who cares what a dead man thinks, right?¡± ¡°Bingo.¡± ¡°But, they¡¯re not dead. They¡¯re people too, and we only see a shadow of them.¡± ¡°That¡¯s¡­ something I never thought about,¡± said Tom. ¡°I try to imagine that what I¡¯m seeing most of the time is the world at its worst. It¡¯s like I¡¯m trapped in a fire, trying to find my way out, but there¡¯s smoke in my eyes. Somewhere, there¡¯s a place with less smoke. That¡¯s what I¡¯m looking for: the other side of the smoke.¡± ¡°Hey, Dave,¡± said Riley. ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°Two words. Word economy.¡± ¡°I know, I know. I¡¯m talking too much, I¡¯m sorry. I¡¯ll get back to work.¡± ¡°Sounds like the fire¡¯s really just in your head,¡± said Tom. ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s like everything¡¯s covered in ash, and I can¡¯t imagine the world without it. Smoke and burning eyes are normalcy, reality,¡± said Dave. He hadn¡¯t understood what Tom meant. Tom hadn¡¯t understood how dangerous an imaginary fire could be. Neither realized they weren¡¯t really saying anything to the other. ¡°It sounds like you¡¯ve got it figured out,¡± said Tom. ¡°It does?¡± ¡°Yeah, now you just have to do something about it.¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s not that simple.¡± ¡°What are you guys working on?¡± asked Riley. ¡°Is everything done? Are we ready to go?¡± asked Riley as she shut off the lights. ¡°Oh! Wait,¡± said Dave as he ran into the back office. He thumbed through the tip envelopes until he found the one with his name on it. He took the money, hoping he might see a panhandler on his way to work tomorrow. This time I¡¯ll be prepared he thought as he marked his initials on the envelope. ¡°Sorry about that. We¡¯re ready,¡± said Dave. Where do you begin to live? I guess I¡¯ll start here, wherever that is. Chapter 7 ~ October 9th He walked to his car from the grocery store with a bag of greens, a bag of shredded cheese, and a bag of frozen chicken breasts. It was dark out, but Dave could see just fine because of the streetlights. He could see the city, but not much else. It¡¯s something like living in a cave; you can¡¯t see the night sky in a cave. We¡¯re still searching for fire; the cave¡¯s just a lot bigger. The whole clan still lives here in the cave, but we don¡¯t know what to call each other. May as well just be grunting sometimes. I¡¯d better hurry home; this chicken will take a while to cook. He was driving away when he saw a man laying down under a streetlight with a cardboard sign. Oh! Now¡¯s my chance. He rolled down his passenger¡¯s side window and reached for what was left from his tips. It¡¯s late out; he¡¯s probably a little desperate for whatever he needs: food, water, cigarettes, or booze. Dave only had two ones. He knew that wasn¡¯t enough to cover much. He dug a little more and found a five. The man noticed Dave¡¯s car had slowed. He noticed the open window and started to get up. He had a slow and sore looking walk, like someone stepping out of a brief dream and into a body crumpled from years of hard use. ¡°Hey, how you doing, man?¡± asked Dave. A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation. ¡°Awe, not too good,¡± said the man. He was probably in his fifties. He was a small guy with a voice that creaked like an old door. His accent might have left you imagining he¡¯d just come down from the mountains somewhere, someplace you¡¯d never heard of. His white beard and dirty flannel shirt made him look indigenous to the city''s gutter. Dave couldn¡¯t get a good look at anything else; it was too dark out. ¡°Someone done stole my socks,¡± said the man. ¡°How¡¯d that happen?¡± ¡°While I was sleepin¡¯. They stole my socks while I was sleepin¡¯.¡± ¡°Seriously? Who does that?¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I said. What kind of person do you have to be to steal someone¡¯s socks while they¡¯re sleepin¡¯? Damn junkies.¡± ¡°Well, here you go,¡± said Dave as he reached as far as he could toward the man. His hand poked out of the window with the two ones wrapped around the five. ¡°That should get you some new socks.¡± ¡°Thanks, man. I just still can¡¯t believe it: who steals someone¡¯s socks?¡± Dave¡¯s mind turned back toward the chicken as he let his car creep forward, saying, ¡°I can¡¯t believe it either. Have a good one, man. I¡¯ll see ya.¡± ¡°Thanks! I¡¯ll see ya.¡± Dave drove away knowing he¡¯d probably never see that man again; the cave they were living in was a big place, the kind where nobody really knows anyone. The kind where somebody would steal a man¡¯s dirty socks while he was out cold. I¡¯ve gotta get home. Gotta make supper. I wish I could¡¯ve done more for that guy. I¡¯m not sure I actually did any good at all. I think all I did was dribble a cup of water on a burning house. People aren¡¯t houses though; he probably appreciated it, and that¡¯s what matters¡­ I think. Chapter 8 ~ October 9th Where is he? she thought. Elizabeth sat on the couch scrolling through her phone. Her eyes were glassy with exhaustion, haunted underneath by the day¡¯s dark circles. She¡¯d taken her contacts out and put her glasses on, one step closer to the place of dreams. She let her eyelids slip slowly down then yanked them back open when she realized she was sleeping and not blinking. Her phone screen reflected off the glass lenses as she scrolled and scrolled. He must have worked late. I¡¯m so hungry. I wonder if Dad¡¯ll call back. Probably not. I hope Dave remembers to grab supper. I wonder how Mom¡¯s doing. I can¡¯t wait to go to sleep. Dave came through the door with his hands full of groceries. The bags shushed against each other with the crinkle of plastic. ¡°Hello. You¡¯re home. What took you so long?¡± asked Elizabeth as she smiled as much as she could with her sleep soaked face. It was a dear and pleasant smile as warm as a hug and as refreshing as an autumn breeze. ¡°We got out a little late, and I had trouble finding things at the store.¡± ¡°Okay. Are you ready to eat?¡± ¡°Sure,¡± said Dave as he headed to the kitchen. ¡°How was work?¡± ¡°Not good.¡± ¡°Tell me about it.¡± ¡°Everyone was in such a bad mood. ¡®Where¡¯s my package? Why don¡¯t you have this in red? Well, you better give me a refund!¡¯ I had a customer make monkey noises at me today. Not good.¡± ¡°Monkey noises?¡± ¡°Yes. She told me, ¡®I bet you¡¯re a rep from one of those dumb states in the South. I always get you stupid reps. I bet you didn¡¯t even graduate high school! I bet you can¡¯t even read! I bet you¡¯re inbred!¡¯ And then she just started making monkey noises.¡± ¡°Did you tell her to shut up?¡± asked Dave. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Reasons why I can¡¯t work in a call center. You¡¯re so patient with these people. I don¡¯t know how you do it.¡± ¡°Thanks. I don¡¯t know either.¡± ¡°Did you transfer her to the offensive line once she started ¡®oohing¡¯ at you?¡± ¡°No. It¡¯s too much work to do that.¡± ¡°Yeah, it¡¯d be easier if she just wasn¡¯t a jerk in the first place.¡± ¡°Right. If I transfer her, I have to find the call later, I have to write a report to my supervisor saying what happened, and I have to do both of those on the clock and in between calls or spend my break taking care of it. It¡¯s more hassle than it¡¯s worth.¡± I hate Christmas. I hate the way it makes people behave. ¡°I understand. It¡¯s easy for me to say, ¡®She¡¯s a bully. She needs to be socked in the mouth so she shuts up.¡¯ But, you¡¯re the one who has to throw the punches when I say that.¡± ¡°Yep.¡± And tomorrow, I spend all day taking more punches. ¡°I gave a homeless guy some money on the way home.¡± ¡°Oh yeah?¡± Why on earth would you do that? You¡¯re always complaining about money, and there you go, giving it away. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Yeah¡­ I know we don¡¯t have a lot to give. I know you work hard, so I feel kind of bad just handing it out.¡± ¡°No, you work hard too. It¡¯s your money too. How much did you give him?¡± ¡°Seven bucks, I think.¡± ¡°Oh, okay. That¡¯s not bad.¡± That¡¯s an hour of your life, Dave! How can you do that? We have bills to pay. You don¡¯t pay them though; I pay them. I pay all the bills. I do all the chores. All you do is sit around and be sad. Get over it. Your sister passed away years ago. You¡¯re only sad because you won¡¯t do anything with yourself. I have problems too. My parents have been at war since before I was born. I¡¯ve lost people too. I don¡¯t get to see my brothers and sisters for Thanksgiving or Christmas. My dad barely talks to me. My mom only calls for one of two reasons: she needs something, or she wants to talk about Grey¡¯s Anatomy. I¡ª ¡°Thanks. I knew you¡¯d understand. You¡¯re the best.¡± ¡°Of course. It¡¯s only seven bucks.¡± I¡¯m being too hard on him. I¡¯m being too hard on everyone. ¡°Thank you for working so hard today.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve gotta get by somehow.¡± I just want it to stop. I want the fighting to stop. I want my family to get over themselves. I want you to get over yourself. You weren¡¯t born to pay bills and die, Dave. Figure that out. ¡°I¡¯m sorry that woman called you a monkey.¡± ¡°Bitter about that.¡± I want you to do something with yourself, Dave. Go back to school. Look for a better job. Do something. Anything. ¡°You want me to kick her ass for you?¡± asked Dave with a wolfish grin. ¡°No. What good¡¯ll that do?¡± It¡¯d be a start. I¡¯d rather you just keep cooking. ¡°I dunno. I just thought I¡¯d ask.¡± ¡°I had another customer threaten to sue me.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°First, he was trying to get the name and address of whoever he was on the phone with previously, so he could sue them. When I told him I didn¡¯t have access to that information and that I wasn¡¯t allowed to send him another order for free, he threatened to sue me.¡± ¡°What on Earth?¡± ¡°Yep. He also kept asking for our CEO¡¯s personal information so he could sue her.¡± ¡°What a crazy person.¡± ¡°Later, someone in my team was asking on the group chat to see if anyone had been threatened with a lawsuit. I said that had happened to me, and she asked if I¡¯d refused to send the man a free order of his vitamins. I told her it was me, and she said, ¡°Well, he¡¯s looking for you.¡± ¡°Holy cow!¡± ¡°I mean, there¡¯s nothing he can do. I didn¡¯t give him any information other than my first name and employee number.¡± ¡°I bet he was from New York.¡± ¡°He was from New York.¡± ¡°Unbelievable. You know, imagine how many pushups and situps he could have gotten done in the time he was on the phone. He must have spent at least three hours trying to sue people.¡± ¡°Why pushups and situps?¡± ¡°Well, I just imagine he has a bit of a gut that his thin white t-shirt won¡¯t cover-up. He¡¯s walking around his apartment, scratching his belly, and smoking a cigarillo while he yells on the phone.¡± ¡°Oh yeah?¡± chuckled Elizabeth. ¡°Anything else about him?¡± ¡°He drinks a lot of kool-aid; that¡¯s why his belly¡¯s so big.¡± ¡°Why kool-aid?¡± You¡¯re a goober. ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m asking. If you¡¯re going to drink your calories, there are plenty of tastier options. He drinks kool-aid though because that¡¯s what his mom used to make him. Every day, he¡¯d come home from school to a big red glass of ice-cold sugar water to wash down his chocolate chip cookies. ¡®Momma, you bake the best cookies,¡¯ he¡¯d say. Things haven¡¯t been the same since she passed away.¡± ¡°Hello, real life.¡± ¡°Indeed.¡± ¡°How¡¯d she go?¡± ¡°Statistically, it was a heart attack or breast cancer.¡± ¡°Okay, but how did she die?¡± ¡°You could say the smoking killed her.¡± ¡°How?¡± ¡°Well, she was driving to the corner store to pick up another pack of smokes when she rear-ended the car in front of her.¡± ¡°So, she died from a car accident.¡± ¡°Well, it was the heart attack that really did it.¡± ¡°While she was trying to buy cigarettes.¡± ¡°Right. They rushed her to the hospital where they found out she had stage four breast cancer. Her body couldn¡¯t take the trauma from the heart attack with the cancer, so it just quit. Didn¡¯t even turn in a two weeks notice, just didn¡¯t show up for work the next day.¡± ¡°What was our kool-aid drinking lawyer doing while his mother passed away? Was he at the hospital?¡± ¡°He was at the hospital. But, he steps outside for a smoke break. He smokes one, then figures he¡¯ll have another. And another. Just to deal with the stress. These are hard times. His brother comes out of the hospital. It¡¯s late at night, early in the morning. His brother says, ¡®She¡¯s gone, Frank.¡¯ He drops his cigarillo and cries into his brother¡¯s shoulder. He realizes that the cigarettes caused his mom to get into a wreck that day. He still can¡¯t put¡¯em down. He just wants to join her for another smoke sometime.¡± Chapter 9 ~ October 12th I wish I was Mozart, thought Dave. He was waiting in the lobby of the store for his shift at two-thirty. When asked why he was so early, he explained that sometimes he wanted to sit and think before his shift; the truth was he often had no idea what time he was scheduled, so he showed up the earliest he knew he would have to work. He couldn¡¯t remember. He could barely care at this point, but he hated getting a call asking if he was coming in today. I wish I was a prodigy. Talent delivers purpose. The wishing man sat and looked out the window. I wonder what Mozart thought of his talent, of the hours spent playing with a blindfold, paraded as his father¡¯s prodigy. I bet he thought at times it made him better than everyone else, and it did¡­ at making music. And to Mozart, making music was all that mattered. Music was purpose. The sky scattered a silent, steady drizzle across the city outside. The soaked streets reflected golden headlights and streetlamps, filled too full with water to devour more light. Where is my music, God? Dave looked around the store while he mused on Mozart; he only saw people living in the way life. Obstructions. Once again, the parking lot swelled with people in the way. The drive-through line reached out to the road. Dripping, wet tires rolled upon asphalt with that unique, man-made hiss. Everything bustled. Dave observed the bustle from behind a paper cup, a man in the audience of a complex and winding dance. Each of these moments is unique; it¡¯s never been these exact people swarming in these exact spots, and it will never be these exact people swarming in these exact spots. Each person is different from the ones here and there yesterday. I can¡¯t say how they¡¯re different; to me, they¡¯re still no more than people. I guess that makes them just the same. Everything is different and the same. He looked down at what was left of the latt¨¦ macchiato, now devoid of foam and warmth. In his head there sparked a certain kinship with the paper cup; the natural sweetness drained out and warm passion slowly seeped away. All the admirable qualities and their nuance were gone. He delighted in the nuances of life, but what is delight when it is found alone? Unshared, appreciation oft withers and fades. I had once thought appreciating nuance nurtured a hunger to live, but I feel so alone chasing hidden values and unthought treasures that now I think nuance is nothing more than illusion. No one else cares. Revering obscure minutia is merely a worship of the imagination. I may as well hold my head back and pretend the rain is wine. May as well watch tv. Dave downed the puddle left in his cup. He looked up at the register and then followed the line with his eyes all the way to the door. Damp folks covered the tile floor in muddy prints, just glad to be out of the drizzle after leaving their warm cars. He was going to be asked to mop that up later. I am thirsty, but there¡¯re more people in the way. That¡¯s all I see in them now; humans are a frustration. I don¡¯t want that though. I bet they all have loved ones of different sorts. I bet they laugh on their birthdays. I bet they¡¯re just trying to get by sometimes. I bet the ones that are rude are only so because they care or cared too much. Caring takes a lot of strength; now maybe, they just don¡¯t care at all. Now, they¡¯ve grown too tired and too weak. They¡¯re just taking another step toward a life long chain of mistakes. Their so used to problems, they can¡¯t tell the difference between them and solutions. Why do these people make me so bitter? I don¡¯t even want to blame them; I don¡¯t want to give them that power; I don¡¯t want to bend to their battering. He imagined himself like he often had, a Saxon warrior armed to the teeth, leaning on his spear with a shield slung across his back. But, here I am, reminded of the nails I feel being driven into my skin and bones. Every day they come, each one the slow ¡®tink¡¯ of a carpenter¡¯s hammer. And, every day they see me wince a little more. I wonder what nails I help drive into others. How many hands has my hammering pierced? Am I just too sensitive? All I¡¯m talking about is people asking for food. All I¡¯m talking about is patterns of chemicals seeking sustenance. What can I say of Jesus and the loaves and fish? I¡¯m not sure. I¡¯m not sure. I wish I had that much patience. The line eventually trickled out the door and back into the damp city after flooding the lobby floor with incessant and inane chatter about the advantages of Twitter versus Facebook, shallow analyses of promiscuous pursuits, and ignorant but passionate platitudes on the status of the election. Conversation is a curious happening; it¡¯s sometimes just a hamster in a wheel. Dave took the opportunity to order one more small latt¨¦ macchiato before his shift. He saw himself in his mind¡¯s eye as that proud medieval warrior now waiting with his spear for service at the register. This is such a silly place to go to war. Such a silly hill to die on. ¡°You know, Jess, I kind of hate pleasantries,¡± he said sardonically when his coworker came up to the register. ¡°Except for ones about the weather; I kind of like talking about the weather. But really, pleasantries are like canned conversations.¡± ¡°You hate what?¡± asked Jess. ¡°Pleasantries.¡± ¡°Oh, yeah. I hate those too,¡± she said, not listening, not caring as she wrote his order on his cup. Dave decided it would have been unfair to be upset with her; he realized she was working, and he had sent an invitation from the middle of his mental monologue. He went to the handoff plane and waited. He didn¡¯t feel like talking anyway. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it ¡°How¡¯s your day going?¡± she asked once she started making his drink. ¡°I¡¯m about to clock in here; how do you think it¡¯s going?¡± he said. He rolled his eyes inside his brain; yeah, she has no idea what I was trying to say about pleasantries. ¡°How long are you working?¡± ¡°Until three. It¡¯s been a long day.¡± ¡°You¡¯re almost there!¡± he said with a cheer. There¡¯s something she understands: work. Crappy work. Something we all understand, here at least. ¡°You can do it, man.¡± ¡°Thanks.¡± His shift started in ten minutes. As he walked to the back office, he glanced at the black and red sign over the front door, listening to its invitation. I could go. I don¡¯t have to stay here. I could leave right now, and if I got a job elsewhere and never returned, it would never matter. They¡¯d be mad. They¡¯re always mad. We¡¯re always mad. It¡¯d all be different, but it¡¯d still be the same. After clocking in, he waited until two-twenty-nine before he went over to his dugout. I wish I had a foxhole for real; at least in the trenches I¡¯d be part of something big. I¡¯d say ¡®I¡¯m defending my home. I¡¯m fighting for freedom.¡¯ I¡¯d be brave, bold, and called a hero. I¡¯d be something. I wish there were dragons to slay and giants to conquer. I wish I had some struggle to emerge from with greatness on my shoulders like a mantle sewn from timelessness. I want more. I need more; is more even real? Dave started taking and closing orders. The barter between him and the employer had begun; he upheld his end. He took a deep breath, looked out the window, and endured the tink of hammers. This job isn¡¯t so bad, thought Dave. A faint smile fluttered to his face like a ghost. His eyes looked just as dead. Sometimes¡­ I think I¡¯m the one with the problem. Not the world. All he had time for was to take and close orders, to talk to the person at the box and the person at the window, and to sift through the vomit of pleasantries and orders while exchanging tender. He kept his shield up and his spear out. These were the daily mental gymnastics of Dave¡¯s unskilled labor, and anyone could replace him. ¡°This isn¡¯t right,¡± said the Fomorian slamming against Dave¡¯s shield. The last hit sent him sprawling onto his back. ¡°You¡¯re right. I¡¯m so sorry about that. Let me fix it for you.¡± I can¡¯t get anything right today. He left the window and started to make a blended peppermint mocha. Ice. Milk. Syrup. Sauce. Base. Cap. Blend. He ran over to the register and hit ¡°right now recovery¡± to take the most expensive item off the order. Dave pulled the window open and stuck his head out. The Fomorian glared at him with one nasty yellow eye. His purple skin was scarred with warts and tumors. ¡°I¡¯m really sorry about that mistake¡ª¡± ¡°You¡¯d better be,¡± said the Fomorian as he swung his massive club. Dave raised his shield again to intercept the blow. His spear dropped from his hand as his body rattled like a drum from the Fomorian''s blow. ¡°Right. So, it¡¯s only gonna be five-thirty-five.¡± ¡°Here.¡± Dave took the card and processed the transaction. Tom had already performed the last steps of the sequence, trying to help keep the line moving. Pour. Whip. Drizzle. Top. ¡°Thanks,¡± said Dave as he took the beverage then looked at the line of drinks by the window. Keep going, he thought, drawing out his longsword. He thrust the drink out the window and said, ¡°Have a good day, sir. We¡¯ll see you again.¡± ¡°No, you won¡¯t.¡± It was a simple mistake, dude. Get over yourself, thought Dave as he watched the Fomorian drive off. The next car pulled up. He had the order ready, and he continued to get the next few cars out as quickly as possible. I¡¯m coming along now. His line of drinks shrank. A woman in a yellow car pulled up to the box. ¡°Hi, what can I get for you?¡± ¡°Mmm, that new Confectioner¡¯s Coffee Candy Caramel Cocoa Cream Crunch Cookie Frappee sounds delicious.¡± ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s great.¡± Tastes like sugar. ¡°Can I get that iced instead of blended?¡± ¡°You know, that¡¯s not an option, but I can make you up something special,¡± said Dave. He looked at the monitor to see that she was the only person in line. I¡¯m going to do something nice; it¡¯ll make me feel better, and it¡¯s what I¡¯m here for. He punched in the order and hit ¡®ask me.¡¯ He got the next few cars through then personally made the drink for the woman in the yellow car. Espresso. Milk. Ice. No, not blended (it still needed to be mixed in the blender because of the powders). Start over. Espresso. Milk. No ice. Syrup. Candies. Cocoa powder. Confectioners sugar. Whipped cream. Cap. Blend. Drizzle the cup. Pour. Ice. Whip. Cookie sprinkles. Top. He opened the window, but before he could¡ª ¡°What took so long?¡± said the ogress witch in the yellow car. Dave thought she had snot hanging from her nose, but it was just a septum piercing. Her face was painted a deep blue on one side and a brown-red on the other, the color of dried blood. Boldly, he raised his shield and peered from behind it, his sword drawn and balanced on the edge of his green and white shield. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± said Dave, doing his best to be genuinely kind. ¡°There isn¡¯t a standard for this, so I kind of had to make it special for you. If you don¡¯t like it, let me know and we¡¯ll make you something else. Also, if you want it somewhere else, they might not make it for you, so please don¡¯t be mad at them.¡± ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t they make it for me?¡± ¡°Because there isn¡¯t a standard for it¡ª¡± ¡°I¡¯m from California. When I ask for it iced in California, you guys just make it. That¡¯s what you¡¯re supposed to do.¡± ¡°Never mind,¡± said Dave, rolling his eyes. And lo, how the mighty ogress¡¯ strike did bring him down by her flames and the sundering of his alder shield and arming sword. Sparks and splinters filled the air: I¡¯m done. What¡¯s the point? She doesn¡¯t care about what I just did for her. She¡¯s not listening. She can screw off. The ogress cackled. ¡°It¡¯s okay. I¡¯ve been a customer since before you started working here. I know how things work.¡± ¡°Cool. Have a good day.¡± I don¡¯t care about your ignorant lack of frugality. I don¡¯t care about your endless hunger for empty calories. I don¡¯t care about you; get out of my drive-through. Dave shut the window and walked away. The ogress witch drove off, blissfully unaware of the damage she¡¯d done. Dave grabbed the espresso machine and threw it on the ground in his mind¡¯s eye. The only thing that stopped him from doing it for real was the fact that he was too weak to lift it. Fury and apathy rushed through his veins like the venom of two snakes as he glared at the stage from his audience seat; this is how the workday started. Chapter 10 ~ October 5th ¡°I¡¯m trapped in a bubble of solipsism,¡± said Dave. ¡°Why¡¯s that?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not sure; it just seems like I¡¯ll be the fool no matter what I think or do.¡± Dave took a bite out of his burger. ¡°Well, I start here: you have to eat and pay rent,¡± replied Billy. ¡°You need to know how to make money, how to support yourself then the people around you, and how to clean up after yourself. After I do that, I go to bed.¡± ¡°No, I mean does truth really make a difference? There are hundreds of rooms on the Titanic, but no matter which one you choose, the ship¡¯s gonna sink.¡± ¡°You sailing on a ship of hubris?¡± Dave made a face and rolled his head in acknowledgment. ¡°I¡¯m just not satisfied with where Jesus, Nietzsche, Sartre, and Camus leave me,¡± said Dave. ¡°Do you believe in God?¡± asked Billy before shoving a forkful of chili fries into his mouth. ¡°I try to, no matter how stupid anyone says it makes me.¡± ¡°I couldn¡¯t come around to accepting the idea. It just didn¡¯t make sense to me, believing in something I didn¡¯t have proof of. Finally, my sponsor said, ¡®do you know where all the wires in the walls are that lead to the light switch?¡¯ ¡°I said no, and he went on, ¡®do you know where the power plant is that the electricity comes from or the exact route that the powerlines follow?¡¯ and again I said no. ¡°He said, ¡¯what do you think¡¯ll happen when you flip the switch? You believe it¡¯ll connect the circuit, the current will alternate, and the light will turn on, right? ¡°He told me I knew a lot about electricity, but that I didn¡¯t know everything about it, and the light still turns on, regardless of what I think or know about it.¡¯ I told him, yeah but I can go look all those things up and figure all those things out. He said ¡¯and you could do that with God if you were more than a man.¡± This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version. ¡°I¡¯ve heard that before. I always thought the example worked better with a computer. Most people think computers are magic. I¡¯ve got my own reasons though.¡± ¡°Okay, so what makes you believe in God?¡± ¡°Imagine you spent months working on a clay sculpture, tediously making every detail perfect. Every day, you tweaked with the arms, or worked on the texture of the ¡®cloth.¡¯ Every day, you looked at your project while you wash the clay off of your hands. ¡¯This is going to be great!¡¯ you think. ¡¯I can¡¯t wait until I¡¯m done. This¡¯ll be my greatest work.¡¯ ¡°Finally, you¡¯re done, everything is just right, and you put your masterpiece of masterpieces in the kiln. You open the kiln, and out pops your little person, the person whose face you looked on day after day as you paid careful painstaking attention to every single detail that could possibly be noticed. ¡°She looks up at you and says, ¡®wow! Who are you?¡¯ You say, ¡®I made you! I worked really hard to do so. I counted the hairs on your head and the pores of your skin. I also made everything in this studio. I thought you would fit in as the masterpiece of all these works. I hope you like them because I made them for you too. What do you think?¡¯ ¡°Your project covers her little ears and screams ¡®La la la la! I can¡¯t hear you. I hate you. You don¡¯t exist. You¡¯re dead to me. I made myself in the fires of creation. Where were you then? Everything around me is happenstance and I¡¯ll prove it. What have you done for me lately?¡¯ ¡°You¡¯d be pretty upset if that happened, right? It¡¯d break your heart. You¡¯d go home and cry about how you put so much hard work into that little gal, and she just kept screaming about absurdity and being a meaningless shout in the dark. All you wanted her to do was comment on your works of art, admiring what you¡¯d done, but there she goes running off to kill herself because ¡®there is no purpose.¡¯ I believe the Golden Rule is the most effective way to be a person, so I do my best to take the same approach to God.¡± ¡°That is an interesting approach.¡± ¡°Thanks, but it has the same problem as most examples; it¡¯s too simple.¡± ¡°You think so?¡± ¡°Yeah, we¡¯re just monkeys or barbarians talking within our limits. It¡¯s like that scene in Conan the Barbarian.¡± Dave put on a Schwarzenegger voice, ¡°Crom laughs at your electrical circuit and my clay sculptor.¡± Billy laughed and said, ¡°that¡¯s not half-bad.¡± ¡°Thanks, but do you get what I¡¯m saying? My model is a code I use to distill something from the enigma of life. In and of itself, it¡¯s still another riddle.¡± ¡°...And we, who found it, are just men. Not gods. Not giants. Just men.¡± Chapter 11 ~ October 12th And again-- ¡°Hi, what can I get for you?¡± ¡°I¡¯d like a large minty chocolate shake, six pumps of peppermint, extra, extra ice, double blended really thick and smooth with chocolate drizzle on top and not inside the cup, and can you make sure they only use two pumps of the syrup base, please and thank you?¡± ¡°Hi, Lola.¡± ¡°Hey, baby.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll see you at the window,¡± said Dave. Lola pulled around in her minivan the color of fake gold; if you asked her, she¡¯d tell you everywhere it¡¯d been. Dave could never decide if her hair looked more like faded copper wool or dull steel wool. Her eyes immediately told you they had some stories tucked underneath, and if you asked her more than how her day was, she might let a few of them slip out from behind the cigarette hanging off her leathery face. Most smokers her age creak and croak, but Lola¡¯s voice had stayed soft like a warm wind in the city, and like a city wind, it was filled with noise. Sometimes it was bitter. Sometimes it was sweet. It was always full of shit, a comfort to the avid listener. The folks at the store heard that voice a lot; Lola came to the store two to three times a day. No one seemed to be able to make up his mind how they felt about her. ¡°How are you doing today?¡± asked Dave. For the first time during his long shift, he sincerely wanted an answer. ¡°I¡¯m good, baby. Can you load the money onto the card and pay for it with the other card?¡± ¡°You got it, Lola.¡± She always ordered the same thing. She always ordered the same way. She always paid the same way. This woman seemed to literally be the same thing day in and out, just a little older each time. Dave didn¡¯t get it. To him, watching Lola putter around in her minivan was like watching a nature documentary; she was a majestic feature of the city¡¯s ecology. ¡°Here you go. Well, I guess I¡¯ll see you tomorrow,¡± said Dave. ¡°No you won¡¯t, baby.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°I¡¯m leaving the country.¡± ¡°Oh yeah?¡± ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m going to Cairo.¡± ¡°What for?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got a son in Cairo who wants to meet me. His daddy took him when he was little, and we¡¯ve never seen each other since he was a baby. He tracked me down and wants to reconnect with me.¡± ¡°No way! That¡¯s crazy.¡± This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°Yeah, it sure is. I can hardly believe it myself, but I¡¯m going out to Cairo for a month.¡± ¡°Wow, yeah, we¡¯ll see you when you get back. I hope everything goes alright. Enjoy your trip, man. Shoot, it¡¯s crazy that something like that actually happens.¡± ¡°Yeah, his daddy was from Egypt. He said he didn¡¯t want his son growing up in America.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°Said the culture was a violent plague and everything, so I just let him get out of here.¡± ¡°Oh yeah? Had he ever had a good cheeseburger?¡± ¡°Oh, I don¡¯t know. Why?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. I was just curious. It¡¯s hard to have a good cheeseburger and still hate America.¡± ¡°Well, you know he¡¯s Egyptian, so he probably doesn¡¯t eat beef.¡± ¡°Is that a thing with Egyptians? I¡¯m pretty sure that¡¯s just an Indian thing.¡± ¡°No, Indians don¡¯t have no problem eatin¡¯ beef. Just look at all the buffalo they killed out west.¡± Dave was kind of at a loss for words at this point, and he was even more lost on how he had made it this far. We just keep going, don¡¯t we Lola? Gotta keep going, Dave. Keep on going. ¡°Well, they¡¯re hollering for me to get back to work,¡± he said, pointing at his headset. ¡°I guess I¡¯ll see you sometime next week. Enjoy your trip, Lola.¡± ¡°Thanks, baby.¡± ¡°Hello, party people! We are officially closed! You can sit outside, but you can¡¯t sit in here! Thank you for your patronage!¡± shouted Dave from atop the front register counter. He watched as the three customers shuffled out the door. Riley went and locked it behind them. ¡°What¡¯s left?¡± asked Dave. ¡°You can sanitize that counter after you just stood on it with your dirty feet,¡± said Riley. ¡°Will do, chief!¡± Tom began shutting down the ovens and gathering a host of dishes for his pool party in the sinks. Dave grabbed a grubby rag soaked with sanitizer and a bottle of bleach solution. He sprayed and wiped, then began to help Tom, running forward clean equipment and bringing back the dirty stuff. In the midst of his shuffle, he remembered the bar that needed shutting down. They¡¯d cleaned the parts, but the beans needed to be sealed away and the grinders vacuumed out. He pulled out the drawer and dumped the couple of pucks that were left, then popped in two cleaning pills and set it to rinse. He ran the hopper back to Tom for one last rinse. I do this all the time, and all the time I forget to do it. ¡°Why do you two come to work?¡± asked Dave over the headset. ¡°So I can pay rent. How do those machines look?¡± asked Riley. ¡°They¡¯re almost done,¡± said Tom. ¡°Okay, but why do you come to this job?¡± asked Dave. ¡°I like to think it¡¯s because I¡¯m good at it,¡± said Riley. ¡°But it¡¯s really just because I¡¯ve been doing it for a while. Are those fridges stocked?¡± ¡°They should be,¡± said Tom. ¡°Well, make sure they are,¡± said Riley. ¡°Okay, but what are the redeeming qualities of being here,¡± asked Dave. ¡°You get to make people¡¯s day,¡± said Riley in a dry tone. ¡°Do we have any soy?¡± asked Tom as he looked in the bottom of a fridge out front. Never mind, thought Dave. These people just don¡¯t care. This is my own dragon to slay. There¡¯s probably something poetically or philosophically fulfilling about scrubbing things and preparing food and making drinks. I¡¯ll just pretend that¡¯s why I¡¯m doing all this. Celebrating the ordinary. Listening to stupid people make themselves fat is probably supposed to make me a better person. Who am I kidding? I¡¯m just a rich man¡¯s grunt. ¡°Guess what guys!¡± said Dave as he looked at the schedule. ¡°What?¡± asked Tom. ¡°When I go home tonight, I go home!¡± ¡°Oh, you¡¯re off tomorrow?¡± asked Tom. ¡°Yeah, man! Leaving the factory for a couple of days.¡± ¡°Good for you. I found the soy, by the way.¡± ¡°Good,¡± said Riley. ¡°I¡¯m almost done counting down this till, then we can go.¡± Tom and Dave set about making sure everything was stocked. They took off their aprons, turned out the lights, and then the three of them headed out the door. ¡°See you tomorrow, Tom. See you in a few days, Dave. Have fun going home.¡± ¡°See ya!¡± said Dave with the last of his excitement. Chapter 12 ~ October 12th White Lightning hummed ¡°Waiting for the Sun¡± as Dave wandered on the road. The speed limit was fifty-five miles per hour; the speedometer flicked between forty-nine and fifty. Most of Dave headed home, but the rest of him wandered lost in that dark forest where the wind whispered ¡°why?¡±, and Dave never felt he had an answer worth saying above his own whisper, here in the woods between tired and dead. Everything feels so selfish he thought in a sober analysis. I guess that¡¯s because everything tends to be self-motivated, and I have no value for my motives. You¡¯re right, Jim: this is the strangest life I¡¯ve ever known. The city crawled near midnight. Dave looked up at the purple sky and the reddish horizon; it was like God¡¯s purple paint thinned near the edge of the canvas, and you saw what colors it was made of. The autumn night was bright with light pollution. There are no stars anymore Dave noticed. We stole them, made them slaves of steel trapped in streetlights. We¡¯ve polluted their homeland with smog and false light; now they can never return. And, here I am alive in this world. I am a part of it all. Everything humankind has made is shit. There is one angel man can make: a child. Is that creation ours to claim? Children teach us what we forgot, what we once cherished, and what we now need. It¡¯s like anything though; you have to be willing to look and listen. I wish an angel¡¯d sing to me. Dave laughed hard. Just one at least he thought soberly. If it¡¯s true that sometimes we hate what we can¡¯t have, I think I might see only the worst parts of children soon. I¡¯d be a different person with a son or daughter; that¡¯s the person I want to be, a father. Not better, just different, yet a human still. That was a little lyrical... Maybe I¡¯ll start writing poetry. He hit a few red lights; these signals always broke the spell of pondering, especially on a road with such a high-speed limit. It ripped him out of the forest for a moment, but that always gave him the chance to walk back in with new clarity. The Saxon hero sallied forth into the dark woods, searching for a challenge against his mettle, an answer to his being. These woods between tired and dead were a fact of life, a place through which we all go either with bold hope or meek despair. I¡¯ve never realized it until now, but my whole life I¡¯ve actively defined happiness as a distraction. I am at war with contentment; I swore recklessly it was the enemy because I do not understand it. I am at war with simplicity; there is a whole world to be thought of, and in my endeavor to grasp it all, I campaigned against holding only what I can. I am at odds with existence itself because I realize I¡¯m flawed. But, to see flaw is to know perfection to some degree. There is goodness. There is purpose. I am just too dumb to see. Perhaps, the only way to see where goodness lies is to journey through the darkness of life. I cannot just ¡®know¡¯ what is good; that¡¯s a bit like buying a cake and saying I know how it was made. I know more about how it was made if I go and do it myself, if I tire my wrist with whisking, if I dirty my fingers picking out eggshells because I suck at cracking eggs, and if I watch the icing melt because the cake was still too hot when I spread it on. I should pick up baking or cooking in general. I should just do something for someone. That¡¯s a good place to start. Maybe that¡¯s my way on stage; maybe I won¡¯t see that exit sign from the stage. I¡¯m not the only person who¡¯s said this. I wonder if it worked for anyone else. ¡°I think the only people who really enjoy theatre are the ones creating it,¡± said Dave. ¡°I¡¯ve never been to a show that I¡¯ve actually enjoyed more than one I was in.¡± ¡°You enjoyed Dark of the Moon more than Phantom?¡± asked Elizabeth. ¡°Yeah; playing Preacher Haggler gave me headaches, but Andrew Lloyd Webber made my nose bleed.¡± ¡°Oh, come on! The seats weren¡¯t that bad.¡± ¡°Tell that to the sherpa they sent with us.¡± ¡°You know sitting up high at an opera used to be reserved for rich people.¡± This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. ¡°That¡¯s because rich people used to be stupid.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be hateful!¡± Dave laughed in that way bitter people do when they ridicule something that has nothing to do with themselves. He confused cynicism with cleverness or wit, but Elizabeth wasn¡¯t fooled and her sassy glare proved that. Unfortunately, she didn¡¯t see it for what it really was. She didn¡¯t know what he went through in a day, as he could only imagine and infer her journey of hours. No amount of talking really fixes that; there aren¡¯t enough minutes for a day to be lived twice. ¡°I¡¯m thinking I¡¯ll pick up poetry,¡± said Dave. ¡°Cool! I¡¯m happy for you,¡± said Elizabeth with genuine cheer. This didn¡¯t mean anything to Dave. I don¡¯t need affirmation; I need encouragement to keep going. He turned around and continued stirring the boiling pasta shells. It¡¯s kind of enjoyable to watch the water boil. The people not watching their pots are really missing out. Of course, I could have been doing something more productive like the dishes or sweeping the floor. But, I¡¯ll draw some wisdom from this and we¡¯ll call that productive; everything takes time. I didn¡¯t just decide that the pot should boil water; I decided that I should fill a pot with water, turn on the eye, and hope for the water to boil while I stand here and tend to it. I am like a pot of water. The living room, the dog, Dave, and Elizabeth; this night was the same but different between the gray walls and the chewing pup. Dave stared at a blank page on his screen. From whence comes poetry? he thought, then immediately typed that up. It had taken half an hour, but he had some words now, and they made some semblance of verse. Thoughts on a page. Thoughts on a page. He had something and nothing all at once; that¡¯s sometimes how it goes with verses. He wasn¡¯t too critical of it though: it¡¯s not like it matters; no one reads poetry anymore. This mentality was as liberating as it could have been negative. I versify for no man but Dave. He hammered on the backspace. ¡°What are you writing about?¡± asked Elizabeth. ¡°Oh¡­ just some poems.¡± ¡°Awwe! Are they for me?¡± ¡°Uh, yeah! Of course they¡¯re for you.¡± Dave versifies for one woman, maybe. ¡°That¡¯s so sweet! Let me take a look.¡± ¡°Absolutely,¡± said Dave without looking up from his work. ¡°When I¡¯m done.¡± ¡°Okay.¡± There was some silence between Elizabeth scrolling on her phone and Dave staring at his words. He broke it with quiet tapping. ¡°Dad called again today,¡± she said. ¡°Oh yeah?¡± said Dave. There she goes, breaking my concentration again. ¡°Yeah¡­ just wanted to see if we could do something this weekend. I told him I have work. I work every weekend.¡± ¡°Oh, okay.¡± What makes freeform poetry still poetry? ¡°He asked me why we always work on weekends. I told him that¡¯s our schedule.¡± I mean, what are the rules if there are no rules? ¡°He said maybe we¡¯ll have lunch next Tuesday.¡± ¡°I hope he pulls through on that.¡± He always seems like his heart is trying to be in the right place. What prevents him from following through? Why can we mean so well yet make so little of it? ¡°He¡¯s planning to fly the kids out after Christmas.¡± ¡°That¡¯s good.¡± He can¡¯t pay for that. It¡¯s $1,000 for two tickets. ¡°I just wish I could see them for Thanksgiving.¡± ¡°Well, maybe we can fly out there and visit next year.¡± She budgets like her Dad. It¡¯ll only happen because we have smaller expenses to keep track of. ¡°Yeah¡­ I guess.¡± I don¡¯t know how to help. Should I hide money for the trip? He looked at his wife with empathy. Growing up seems to mean there¡¯s someone for everyone that they don¡¯t get to see on Christmas. ¡°Why don¡¯t we just watch Frasier?¡± he said. He looked at her, his heart beating on the thought of her misery. He slammed his distraction shut for the moment so they could share one together. Dave rapped and tapped away at the keyboard next to a sleeping wife. There was no steady cadence to his craft, just an up and down of thoughts and words, an up and down of pitters and patters under the glow of an old laptop. He wrote what came to him, what asked to be written: Introducing the City - The City There are no longer stars Alive in the night, The portents of God Overthrown by industrial light. Worship the assembly; It is Our birth, our new God. Suckle at the factory¡¯s nipple. Remember the womb to which we return; Hate it. Prepare to tear her to pieces. Your mother never loved you, She will not cry at your funeral; Spend death beneath her concrete gates. In the cities of cold and meaningless cinders Live the decrepit and dying Who used to remember What the stars were like Before we killed them. Still, I watch her dance among them. Ghosts of their former selves. The people cannot come to pass the violence; It consumes them while they recite monologues of peace. It¡¯s hidden under ¡®soft, lamenting hands¡¯ That play steward to cold, ¡®happy¡¯ eyes. Once, they burned¡­ now cinders. I now see¡­ A city of eyes I now see¡­ The happy eyes are lonely lies. Torn and worn The leather hands Of the People tell the truth, But the mouth masks it in shrouds Of false clouds of ruth; It¡¯s really all mechanical nonsense. Chapter 13 ~ November 8th Dave made time to see Billy again. They sat outside as they had before; this time it was a little colder. The two men looked tired in a way coffee couldn¡¯t help. ¡°So, what are your plans for Thanksgiving?¡± asked Dave. ¡°Work. You?¡± ¡°Hey! Same thing! It¡¯s like we¡¯ll be celebrating the holiday together, right?¡± ¡°Yeah, kind of. I just don¡¯t see why anyone leaves the house on Thanksgiving. Why is any business open?¡± ¡°Well, the hospitals still need to run, so some folks do have to work. I don¡¯t get why businesses are open though; I can¡¯t figure out why anyone would be bothered enough to visit one. It¡¯s never made much sense to me. Last year was the first time I ever left the house on Black Friday, and the only reason I did so was because I had work. If I could help it, I¡¯d never do it again,¡± said Dave. ¡°Whenever I have an optimistic thought as to the state of humanity, I always remember Black Friday, and then the idea that the majority of people are anything other than stupid goes right out the window.¡± ¡°Yep. And, we are a part of that stupidity monster. None of us is perfect; may as well embrace it, am I right?¡± ¡°I guess. You mean you don¡¯t think you should try and do anything to make the world a more hospitable place?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think there¡¯s anything I can do,¡± said Dave. ¡°Nothing¡¯s presented itself yet.¡± ¡°Well, you¡¯re married; you can always raise your kids right.¡± ¡°Yeah, there is that¡­¡± Dave looked down at his coffee, suddenly feeling a little more sleepy. ¡°Poor parenting is the biggest problem in the world,¡± said Billy. ¡°We¡¯re a nation of idiots raised by idiots, and we¡¯re raising idiots. It¡¯s awful. It¡¯s like, come on people, tell your kids not to be jerks.¡± ¡°Well, I don¡¯t think it¡¯s that easy. I think idiocy is a symptom. Our schools have failed, our churches have failed, our artists have failed; no wonder our parents couldn¡¯t teach us how to be compassionate. No one remembers how. We praise it and celebrate it, but at the end of the day, we don¡¯t know it, all because we don¡¯t teach it. What did school teach us about treating people right? ¡®If you¡¯re going to be a dick, do so from a large group when authority isn¡¯t looking.¡¯ If you¡¯re going to squash radical free will, make sure you have an army behind you. Justice is defined by those with power, and numbers are power in a democracy just like money is power in a plutocracy. Our lives have been made to consist of a constant worship of conflict, but I have to believe there¡¯s something more. I have to believe peace exists. I¡¯m having trouble finding it here.¡± ¡°Wow. You¡¯ve thought about this.¡± ¡°I think about a lot of things. I don¡¯t do anything though.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°Pessimism. When every fight is a losing battle, why fight at all. I am dominated by irrational Nihilism.¡± Because I don¡¯t have control. Because I am alone. Because I don¡¯t know where I am. I can¡¯t find my way out from the forest. ¡°You need Jesus!¡± says the preacher. ¡°You don¡¯t need anything!¡± says the atheist. ¡°You need to bulk!¡± says the gym rat. ¡°You need to work more!¡± says the entrepreneur. Why? What difference will any of this make, God? At the end of the day, this is Your game, not mine. I can¡¯t comprehend why I¡¯m playing. Did You bury my purpose in my heart or my future? Is purpose equivalent to worth? What is the value of life? I have to learn. I have to learn. There¡¯s just so much caught in the smoke. Eyes burning. Can¡¯t describe what I¡¯m seeing. I don¡¯t know what ¡®faith¡¯ means. I guess it means ¡®just keep going.¡¯ What happens next, God? ¡°You in there?¡± asked Billy. ¡°Yeah¡­¡± said Dave. ¡°I was just lost in thought.¡± Billy had left; Dave sat alone now, resenting the idea of being at the store on his day off. He looked outside at the gray, late autumn sky. Drooping brown leaves shivered on branches. The trees went their natural course without question, fulfilling purpose with no will other than that patterned in their cells. They were driven to live and driven to die by the very shape of their construct, be this structure design or happenstance. Dave looked down at his cup. All it feels like I can do is ask questions. All the ¡®answers¡¯ I¡¯ve found seem more like ways to ignore the problem. There¡¯s a small part of me that can¡¯t stand the idea that I¡¯m being beaten. There¡¯s a larger part of me that knows I can¡¯t win. What happens next? Building and progress seem to be the only options I have left, but I¡¯m afraid of their futility. Everything just feels futile, and that can¡¯t possibly be true. I should be chasing dreams, but why on earth should I have dreams in the first place? This feeling of futility does not disprove the existence of meaning; it only obscures it like smog on a landscape. Every day, I see one clear choice: do I keep sitting in the audience, watching the stage, or do I get up and walk out that door to the right? Sometimes those red letters taunt me; sometimes they beckon. Sometimes they comfort me; I always know I have the chance to leave if I need to, but I¡¯m committed to knowing what happens next. Where will the actors go? What did the playwright have in mind? One would think that the stage is the place to be, but even the actors don¡¯t have much control over what¡¯s going on; they follow the instructions of the director, for better or for worse, and he¡¯s following the instructions of a playwright. The playwright could be dead. These players all promote one thing at least: the show must go on. We must see what happens next. What happens next: this is life; life is this. Every day, there is a choice between this show and the door, life and death. This is the first choice I make: will I live or will I die. Either way, I¡¯m blind to what they mean. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Dave¡¯s feet were clammy. He had shuffled through his head for hours now, occasionally looking up to watch his co-workers hustling like ants. They were working hard together for a common cause, and that cause certainly wasn¡¯t paltry wages or meager tips; no, if anyone of us slacks off it just leaves more weight for the rest of the team. We work together to make each other¡¯s lives more bearable. We are lightening the burden of being on stage, making the show more captivating, several dancers jet¨¦-ing and chass¨¦-ing between each other in spectacle. We forget for the moment that the door exists. We don¡¯t talk about it, at least. Are we distracted by compassion or compelled by it? When I¡¯m distracted with compassion, compassion becomes compulsory. Still, it feels and seems like I¡¯m just entertaining myself. I¡¯ll imagine it this way: to what ends do these two roads lead? Those who choose the extremes of death are serial killers or suiciders. As for the first option, I don¡¯t think I like the idea of killing things, much less people. I mean, killing an animal for sustenance serves a purpose. Killing animals for population control serves a purpose. Killing people in cold blood for the rush, catharsis, and feeling of dominance is nothing more than saying ¡®my moment of thrills is worth more than each and every moment of your life.¡¯ I don¡¯t think myself so grand. I don¡¯t think of others as so paltry. Of course, if it were true that eating animals were unnecessary for human sustenance, then we would have thinned predator populations in vain protection of our animals we have no purpose in keeping. We would be eating to say ¡®my moment of flavor is worth more than each and every moment of this animal''s life.¡¯ If this is the case, then we kill mean animals to justify killing nice animals to justify killing ourselves slowly. But, that¡¯s only if meat is unhealthy. There is a callous irony to the killer; he or she endures the stage by embodying the door. This must be one factor adding to their profuse utilization in drama. I¡¯ve always felt unwell with such an aspect of our culture. Anyway... So, the other choice is suicide. I must say, I¡¯m glad I have some freedom with which to follow this path; it wouldn¡¯t be fair if I had no control over my involvement in this experience. I appreciate the option to leave at any time, but I don¡¯t think escaping the theatre is the answer. I am often lured forward by the idea of learning what happens next, and while I can¡¯t see a reason why I should follow the lure, I also can¡¯t see a reason why I should abandon it entirely. Not yet at least. I think the philosophers accept this apparent absence of reason as a factual quality of life, and I don¡¯t blame them. They build their worldviews with the materials they have, but the inability to find something is not equivalent to a lack of existence on its part. Just because I don¡¯t know why I¡¯m rolling the boulder up the hill doesn¡¯t mean there isn¡¯t a reason. Just because Camus doesn¡¯t know why I leave the house doesn¡¯t mean there isn¡¯t a reason, he just does a better job accepting that which he doesn¡¯t understand. Of course, I¡¯m not saying I¡¯m smarter than the esteemed thinkers, but I don¡¯t think their esteem completely invalidates my perception. We¡¯re all just trying to understand. If the killer and the suicider exemplify death, who exemplifies life? The martyr? The parent? The devout? The nonbeliever? The old man? The college kid? The homeless person? The workaholic? The thespian? The writer? The painter? The martial artist? The poet? The teacher? The traveler? The lover? Perhaps, the attraction of death, death¡¯s comfort, stems from its apparent simplicity when compared to its contrary: life, action, willfulness, etc. Everything I¡¯ve tried so far has coupled itself with failure. Schooling brought me nothing but debt. Sales brought me little more than just barely getting by, and look at all the problems I made for people who changed their service, something I had no control over other than convincing them to do so. Running a business cost me someone I thought of as a dear friend; Cliff will never speak to me again. What have I accomplished by trying to be alive? Is there nothing I can do to cease this pattern? Are failure and destruction life¡¯s exemplars? I don¡¯t want to destroy anything else. Dave got up, put on his coat, and took a deep breath. This feeling is only getting worse he thought. He started to feel like he was swimming. No. Sinking. The world went sable; he searched for the comfort of the exit sign. Even its light had gone dark in the theatre. A gun burst into the vision of his mind. I should shoot myself it hissed with the flicker and speed of thought. Everything around him was there and absent all at once as the anxious flurry in his head consumed his total focus. He stumbled out of the store in a stupor at some loss for awareness of his actions. The only tangible things were Dave, the ground he pounded with heavy feet, and the car that would get him out of here. It would get him somewhere at least. A wound now ripped across his mind, soaking every thought with red anguish and black grief. The wound ripped back open at every quiet moment. Silence¡¯s respite was gone, obliterated by the gun¡¯s explosive hiss and whisper. I should shoot myself I should end it I should kill myself I should die I should die. The stage was gone. The lights were out. An audience was nowhere to be found. Dave stumbled through the black aisles of the theatre. He tripped past empty seats and stumbled up and down unlit stairs of varying shape and size. The hard angle bashed against his shins. His fingers ran frantically across smooth walls looking for a light switch or railing or anything. Behind him, the sign flared on. He felt its red light gently sear the back of his neck. He refused to acknowledge it, refused to accept it is the only way forward. Why do I let feelings rule my existence? I have more freedom than the effective entirety of humanity from dawn to present, but my will is dying, fading into a choking numbness. Why am I not grateful? I am a despicable, selfish piece of consciousness. He was late. He was early. Dave walked like a zombie. Get over yourself he thought. Quit feeling so ungrateful. He did what was required, nothing more. Lethargy wore him like a glove. He was empty from that point on. Why? Why is life so special. Happiness is vanity. Everything is vanity. The wound festered, making the world a blur. His stomach sloshed and turned lightly. He wanted to be sick; a dry heave would be real, something worth feeling sorry for. He called his current affliction the product of a selfish imagination. Keep going he said, but he still couldn¡¯t tell himself why. He shuffled about more from a sense of perpetuity than anything. What¡¯s kept me here to begin with? Habit. Customs. Curiosity. What will keep me here now? I have nothing to give. There is nothing I can do for anyone. I can¡¯t even help myself. The gun shoved itself in his mouth. Is that my hand? asked Dave. Squeeze, don¡¯t pull. He handed a drink out the window. Not yet. He put the money in the register. Some day. He handed the woman her change. Maybe¡­ when things get bad enough. He gasped and sputtered; his lungs were the only two things taking him seriously. I wish I could just be undone, unmade. I feel so selfish. I loathe my existence. I loathe my thanklessness. He took the next order. He handed out the next drink. He took the next order. He handed out the next drink. The clock counted. Engines hummed. The steam wand hissed, and the ovens beeped. Dave resigned himself to just keep going; it was the only way he knew how to quit. Chapter 14 ~ November 24th Today was gray like every other. Everything was a bit more dead on the road than usual. Dave didn¡¯t see a single car around him; his twenty to thirty-minute drive turned into a twelve-minute one. Maybe there had been one or two cars; he really couldn¡¯t remember. He was just on his way, and everything was just going by. Did I forget my glasses? No. I¡¯m wearing them. Oh! That light was red. Crap. I didn¡¯t notice it. What is today? Oh, right it¡¯s Thursday. Thanksgiving. Why the hell am I going to work? Why the hell do I do anything? He¡¯d put on glasses because he didn¡¯t feel like putting in contacts. He wore a black shirt because he didn¡¯t feel like wearing a clean one. He sported thin patches of whiskers because he didn¡¯t feel like shaving. He went to work because his name was on the schedule. The depth to the questions was gone. Was I late for work yesterday? No¡­ I don¡¯t think I had work yesterday. Well, it was Wednesday; I should have had work yesterday. I did. What happened? No, that was a dream. Dreamt I was late. Dreamt I was fired. Wish I was fired; then I¡¯d have a real reason to feel sorry for myself. His mind was sluggish like a tired man at the end of a long hike, his thoughts slow and short, in rhythm with the time between shambling footsteps. Tap¡­ Tap¡­ Should stop feelin¡¯ so bad. Shouldn¡¯t bother bein¡¯ upset: no point. Shouldn¡¯t bother. I hate myself. There¡¯s that g u n . I hate who I am. I hate what I¡¯m doing. Why? Why bother hating anything at all? Gunfire: POW! Just e n d it. Hate it so much, make it stop. Why go on? Why bother? How is today different? S a m e job. Same garbage job. Same garbage person. What difference does it make if I¡¯m happy? It¡¯s all the same. Same but different. Is that all life is? Be happy? Be happy. Why live? Who cares? Happiness isn¡¯t worth suffering. Not worth anything. I need a d r i n k . Gunfire. I should shoot myself. Why bother? Waste of time. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get over yourself. Suck it up. Go on. I¡¯ll get a drink after work. He pulled into the sparse parking lot: time for work and time for a smile. His feet were clammy. His hair was greasy. He still had syrups on his arms from the day before. I¡¯m disgusting. Filthy mess. Embarrassing. I need a drink. He smiled as best as he could. His head fell low. His body was heavy. He gave the usual ¡¯hello¡¯s and ¡¯how are you?¡¯s. Riley put him at the window; the brisk air made him feel a little. It was better than stuffy heat everywhere else behind the store line. He was still sweating under his arms. Forgot deodorant. Disgusting person. Oh well. Who cares? Should shoot myself. He started off trying to be cheerful for the sake of Thanksgiving. Business was still constant, still belittling; he gave up after the first hour. They just kept coming. They just kept buying. ¡®Thank you for being here!¡¯ they¡¯d say. They might have meant it, but who cares just flashed them a disingenuous smile. ¡°This is ridiculous. Why are y¡¯all even open on Thanksgiving?¡± a man asked. ¡°Because, you¡¯re here, sir,¡± said Dave. The man looked down sheepishly, embarrassed by his own outrage. I hate this place. I hate these people. Maybe my life doesn¡¯t feel valuable because I¡¯m so hateful. Don¡¯t know. Who cares? What¡¯s the change? ¡°Here¡¯s your twelve cents.¡± Just keep going. Just get this over with. Four more hours. The end of the line is coming. You can do it. I should shoot myself. I need a drink. I wish I could give up. Why can¡¯t I? Not in control. Don¡¯t own myself. Just a crop in the field. Just a plant. I¡¯m not useful. They don¡¯t need me. Then why¡¯m I here? Need the money. Why? Just die. Don¡¯t need anything when you¡¯re dead. ¡°This isn¡¯t right.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t a person who cares,¡± said Dave in his head as he shut the window and turned around. That¡¯s how he imagined life right now. He took the item and asked for the mistake to be fixed. He didn¡¯t smile. He didn¡¯t say a word. He just wanted to be alone. There are all these people, and they¡¯re just in the way. ¡°My sandwich? Where¡¯s my sandwich?¡± ¡°It¡¯s right here. Be patient.¡± They come and go. Hi, how are you? Here¡¯s your change. Happy Thanksgiving? Yeah, right. Quit being nice. Just accept you¡¯re an ass. If you were thankful, you wouldn¡¯t start shopping tonight. You wouldn¡¯t shop tomorrow. To hell with tomorrow. To hell with you. To hell with everything. I¡¯m already here. Come join me. Why bother? Who cares? ¡°How much is the person¡¯s behind me?¡± No. The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°Can I pay for it?¡± No. ¡°Tell them, ¡¯happy Thanksgiving!¡± That¡¯s cool. What have they done for you lately? What about tipping the wage slaves? We made your food. We made your drinks. We were here for you on Thanksgiving. Go to hell. I hate you. I hate this job. I hate these people. ¡°They paid for your order.¡± ¡°Oh! That was nice!¡± No it wasn¡¯t. ¡°Can I pay for the person behind me?¡± No. ¡°Cool! Happy Thanksgiving!¡± Get the hell out of my drive-through. Go home. Go see your family. What good are you? You useless person. Go to hell. Get away from me. Why do I hate you so much? Why can¡¯t I control myself? Who cares? Why bother? Just a bunch of useless questions. Just a bunch of uselessness. ¡°Hey, it¡¯ll be twenty-five seventy-five.¡± ¡°How much?¡± ¡°Oh. Right. The person in front of you paid for your order.¡± ¡°Oh, wow!¡± ¡°Yeah, so you¡¯re good to go.¡± ¡°Awesome! Thank you so much. I can¡¯t believe they did that.¡± ¡°Yep. Here you go. Seeya.¡± Well, thank God you¡¯re a miser; pay it forwards are the worst. Glad that chain is over. Waste of time; makes life harder. That much more to keep track of. Take the order, place the order, check the order at the window, and is it right? No. I wonder how many times I¡¯ve accidentally made someone pay for someone else. ¡°Yeah, we¡¯re going shopping tonight!¡± That¡¯s nice. More stuff. ¡°Gotta get in on those good deals. Has it gotten crazy here yet?¡± I don¡¯t know. Look behind you. ¡°It¡¯ll definitely get crazy here later tonight.¡± Yeah, one¡¯s about to be leaving, but you¡¯re just making room for more. There will be more. They just keep coming. On and on it goes. It¡¯s cold. Go home. Go away. Just three more hours. I can do this. Keep going. Keep going. I shouldn¡¯t hate them. I just do; can¡¯t help it. I should shoot myself. ¡°Is it too late to add a water?¡± Yes. ¡°And can I get a cheese danish?¡± No. ¡°Oh! And a kid¡¯s hot chocolate? She changed her mind!¡± Screw you. ¡°Thank you so much! I appreciate it! Happy Thanksgiving!¡± You don¡¯t mean that. Go away. Why are you here? If I was gonna shoot myself, I¡¯d shoot you first. I wouldn¡¯t; don¡¯t have the heart. I just hate what you¡¯re doing right now. I hate that I¡¯m here. I hate myself. I need a drink. I hate drinking. ¡°This isn¡¯t sweet enough. Can you make it sweeter?¡± Can you get any fatter? ¡°Are you going to stir it?¡± ¡°I guess. I didn¡¯t see why you couldn¡¯t.¡± ¡°This still isn¡¯t sweet.¡± It¡¯s coffee. It¡¯s not supposed to be sweet. ¡°Can I get another straw?¡± Whatever. ¡°She¡¯s still waiting on her drink.¡± ¡°Yes, she sure is.¡± ¡°Well, when will it be ready?¡± When you shut up. ¡°I¡¯ll let you know. In fact, I¡¯ll actually hand it to you, and then you can leave with it, maybe go home, maybe spend some time with your family.¡± ¡°This isn¡¯t light ice! I ordered light ice!¡± screamed the passenger in the vehicle. Go ahead. Floor it out of my drive-through. That was light ice. You should have ordered no ice. You should¡¯ve made it yourself, lady. You shouldn¡¯t have gotten out of bed today you worthless piece of shit. Why did I bother? Why did I get out of bed? We¡¯re both worthless. We¡¯re both vile people. We¡¯ll never be anything more. We are filthy. We are broken. I should shoot myself. I wish I was dead. His feet were damp with cold sweat. His hair knotted with little flecks of syrup. He cleaned syrup speckles off his glasses. Aware of the stink from his sweaty pits, he kept his arms down as much as possible. His back hurt, so he bent over to stretch. It popped. His eyes were glass with a cold deadness laying still behind them. His jaw was slightly taught; it begged to bare a hateful snarl. Keep going. Why bother? ¡°Hey, Lola.¡± ¡°Hey, baby.¡± ¡°How was Cairo?¡± ¡°Oh, it was good. Can you load the money onto the card and pay for it with the other card?¡± ¡°You got it.¡± ¡°I got to see my son.¡± ¡°Right, how was that?¡± ¡°It was good! You know he¡¯s thinking about moving out here.¡± ¡°Oh, nice.¡± ¡°Yeah, he¡¯s gonna move to America.¡± ¡°That¡¯s really cool.¡± ¡°He wants to be with his momma. They always come home, you know.¡± ¡°That¡¯s great. Here¡¯s your drink.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll see what happens though. He¡¯s probably a liar. His daddy was a liar.¡± ¡°Well, I guess you¡¯re right. I guess we¡¯ll see what happens. Did we make your drink right?¡± ¡°Yeah, it¡¯s good. I¡¯ll see you later, baby.¡± ¡°Okay. Have a good one, Lola.¡± ¡°Bye-bye, baby. Happy Thanksgiving!¡± She drove off. The next car pulled up. Dave greeted them, took their card, and processed the order. He handed them their food. He handed them back their card. He said goodbye, and another car pulled up. He went on with a smile like a shadow and eyes like a fog. No one cared, or if they did, they didn¡¯t say a word. He was just another beaten-down soul too dumb to get ahead. He was just another person that should have finished school. He was just another worker in another drive-through. He wasn¡¯t Dave, he was just the guy taking too long to hand out the food and drinks. It was his fault he was here. It was dark outside. The sky hit that usual purple, red, hazy color that it gets in cold months, the one that reflects city lights back down so you don¡¯t miss the sun as much. It keeps everything the same. Each person outside could see her breath falling out of her face as they chattered and prattled until the drive-through was empty. Dave looked at the quality percent on the clock near the drive-through. It was a solid red thirty-five percent. He looked at the time, and it told him in red letters what he really wanted to know; it was time to go home. He waited patiently for Riley to say something. He wiped out a fridge to pass the next couple of minutes looking busy. It didn¡¯t matter to him or anyone how inane the activity was; they only expected him to be busy, not productive. Wiping out the fridge was peaceful. It was simple. He got to do it at his own pace. It was hard to screw up. I¡¯m just tired of everything here; I want to go home and see my wife. I just want to lay my head in her lap and maybe fall asleep. I¡¯m just tired of everything¡­ ¡°Alright Dave, get outta here,¡± said Riley. ¡°Cool¡± ¡°Have a good evening. We¡¯ll see you tomorrow!¡± ¡°Yeah, thanks.¡± Whatever. ¡°Happy Thanksgiving!¡± He walked out the door with head hanging low. His hands were crammed in his coat pockets. Foggy breaths rolled up over his head. He didn¡¯t notice the car coming out of the drive-through, not at first. They quickly pumped the breaks. Guess I¡¯m just lucky they saw me he thought. I wish they hadn¡¯t. I wish they¡¯d just kept going. Keep going. I wish I was dead. I just want to go home. Chapter 15 ~ November 24th A drive always feels longer when you don¡¯t want to make it, when you just want to already be where you¡¯re going. The asphalt stretched out in ways he¡¯d never noticed before even though the road was as familiar as his own skin. He was lost in that familiarity, lost in his own skin. The walls of the world towered over his head in a labyrinthine tangle. He fought to keep his head up and his eyes open. What if I just let go of the wheel? What if I just slam on the gas and let go? It occurred to Dave that this would resolve nothing; I probably wouldn¡¯t die. It¡¯s just a Prius. I¡¯d have a thousand phone calls to make and even more to answer. It would just make more noise in a life begging for less. I just want peace and quiet. I just want silence. He pulled up to the apartment. He turned off the car and sat for a second; he enjoyed a deep breath of cold air, taking in the crispness, letting it hit the inside of his lungs like an ice bath hits the skin; this was nothing more than another nuance. He was still abandoning the love of little things, still coming to terms with the weight of their insignificance. He rubbed his face vigorously as if scrubbing his identity away. I want nothing to do with myself. I want nothing to do with anyone. Dave got out and shut the door. He leaned back against the car for a moment of support. It felt like he had run home. I can¡¯t escape this. I can barely stand. I can barely breathe. What¡¯s the point of this? I go on because I¡¯ve always gone on. Everyone before me has always gone on. We ceaselessly march in unquestioned circles. We keep on playing, keep on saying the lines when we don¡¯t know what they mean. We¡¯re high schoolers with Shakespeare; we just say what we see with no understanding. We just do what we can. We are what we are. I don¡¯t want this. Slowly he trod forward to the apartment door. He fumbled with his keys; he was finally at the end of a long journey through the labyrinth. He poked at the doorknob, looking for the lock. He slid his key in and turned it, then pushed the door in slowly and felt a small sense of relief. It was warm inside. Elizabeth was sitting on the couch watching an episode of something. She¡¯d been off work for almost an hour. Dave looked at her and smiled. The ice was melting from behind his eyes. ¡°Hi,¡± she said. ¡°You¡¯re late.¡± ¡°No, I got off work at eleven-thirty.¡± ¡°I thought you said you were getting off at eleven.¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Well, let¡¯s go get food.¡± ¡°I really don¡¯t want to go out.¡± ¡°Well, we don¡¯t have anything to eat here.¡± ¡°Yes, we do.¡± ¡°No, we don¡¯t.¡± ¡°Sure we do. I just bought groceries, I thought,¡± said Dave. He walked into the kitchen, looked in the pantry, then looked in the fridge, then went back to the pantry. He saw various cans of various things, some noodles but no pasta sauce, some instant potatoes, and odds and ends for baking. ¡°Okay¡­¡± he sighed. ¡°I guess you¡¯re right. I guess we¡¯ll go out.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t have to,¡± she lied. ¡°No, it¡¯s fine. We¡¯ll go. I just hate going through drive-throughs.¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine. We can stay home.¡± ¡°No, I don¡¯t feel like cooking. Let¡¯s go. Let¡¯s just go!¡± snapped Dave. He snarled like a dog, tense and hateful. He couldn¡¯t look her in the eyes now; he was as ashamed of his behavior as he was of the pain which sparked it. ¡°Hey! What¡¯s wrong with you?¡± she accused. ¡°Nothing. I¡¯m fine.¡± ¡°No, something¡¯s wrong. Talk to me!¡± I¡¯m not talking to you You¡¯re attacking me Back off! Get away from me! I just want to be alone! Go away! Go away! Go the hell away! ¡°I said I¡¯m fine.¡± He stood by the door waiting for her to get up. She stared him down, her face an echo of her words. I don¡¯t want to be here. Stop forcing my hand; I¡¯m tired. I just want to stop. I just want this to be over. I just want to go to sleep. I wish I was dead. ¡°Please, come sit down,¡± said Elizabeth. She tried being kind. ¡°Fine,¡± said Dave. He huffed over to the couch. He couldn¡¯t look at her. ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡°I want you to talk to me.¡± ¡°What? What do you want me to say?¡± ¡°Talk to me. Why are you so upset?¡± ¡°Because you won¡¯t leave me alone.¡± ¡°Alright! Fine! Just be upset. Do you like being upset? Is this what you want? You just want to be mean and angry all the time? Do you like being this way?¡± Stop it. Stop attacking me. Get away! he thought, again like a wild dog. He could barely keep the words caged in his mind; he wanted to inflict pain on her for what she was doing, and he wanted to inflict a lot of it. She was wrong. She needed to leave him alone. She needed to let him speak in his own time. She needed to wait until morning. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. These were all things he could¡¯ve said, but he knew they would¡¯ve done nothing. He realized he was still trapped in the labyrinth; he had no idea where to go. He wasn¡¯t home. He sat with a scowl painted on his tired, hateful face. ¡°Are you going to talk to me or not?¡± ¡°I¡¯m going to tell you to leave me alone. I don¡¯t have anything to say to you! I just want to be left alone!¡± ¡°No. Talk to me. What¡¯s wrong?¡± ¡°I said ¡®nothing.¡¯ I¡¯m fine. Now, let¡¯s go get food.¡± ¡°I¡¯m not leaving the house with you, not while you¡¯re acting like this. You need to sit here and talk to me.¡± Goddamn! She sounds like a broken record. ¡°I hate my job! Is that what you want to hear? I hate dealing with idiots all day. I hate being proven wrong again and again; I hate being shown repeatedly that the world is cruel and hopeless. I hate not being appreciated. I hate coming home to a filthy mess. I hate myself. I hate my life. I hate being alive! What the fuck is this all for? It¡¯s all just a violent show of shit and consumption! ¡°They tell me life is important,¡± he continued, calming down for a breath. ¡°But if it is, then why does it suck so much! Everyone just goes on and on without thinking, and they take and take everything they can. That¡¯s all it feels like life is: people taking for themselves.¡± ¡°Well, what about providing for your family? What¡¯s wrong with people doing that?¡± ¡°What family? I don¡¯t see any kids! I don¡¯t see one damn child! I have given nothing to the charade of existence; nothing begets nothing! ¡°Then be something!¡± she yelled. ¡°Get over yourself; quit feeling so sorry for yourself! All your problems are in your head; you said it yourself.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t get these damn thoughts the fuck out! I¡¯m just fucking callin¡¯em as I see ¡¯em: Everyone is their own damn god, and we¡¯re all pretty fucking shitty at it. I¡¯m sick of their divine commandments. There¡¯s nothing good about anything that anyone¡¯s doing. There¡¯s no reason to get out of bed. There¡¯s no reason to keep breathing. There¡¯s no goddamn reason to fucking be alive. Nothing matters. Nothing changes anything. Nothing makes any difference. We¡¯re all just stuck in fucking Hell! ¡°I don¡¯t know why I keep going,¡± he said. ¡°We¡¯ll always have trouble covering rent. We can¡¯t have a baby, and even if we could, we couldn¡¯t afford one. I have no talents. I have no worth. I¡¯m just the audience to a trainwreck, and when I¡¯m dead, no matter what I do, everything will end up the same damned way. I have no say in the matter! Is that what you wanted me to say? Is that what you wanted me to fucking tell you? Fuck off!¡± He hadn¡¯t struck her, but he may as well have. He hadn¡¯t flipped the table, but he may as well have done that too. His words erupted from his mouth with seething violence. His eyes burst with a furious storm. He looked like an animal poised to kill, towering over his wife. He knew he was wrong, but he didn¡¯t know what was right. He didn¡¯t know which way to turn. Elizabeth looked back at him, her eyes full of tears, something else that was wrong. Those eyes shouldn¡¯t look like that. He forgot tears like that existed. She looked as violent as Dave, but she refrained herself; she knew getting her husband to talk would eventually be a victory for the both of them. That¡¯s all she wanted: for both of them to win. ¡°Don¡¯t yell at me,¡± she said. ¡°You wanted me to talk! You wanted me to say something! I just gave you what you wanted, damn it!¡± He was gone already, so he just kept going. ¡°No. Stop yelling. If you really feel that way, find another job.¡± ¡°I did that! I tried that this summer, and you know what, I sucked at it. You don¡¯t remember when we just barely made ends meet because I couldn¡¯t make sales? You don¡¯t remember the two hour drives home where I tore myself apart because I was empty-handed because I was failing my team, failing my wife, and failing myself. No! Of course you don¡¯t remember because you weren¡¯t there! You weren¡¯t there for those moments! I drove home alone, carrying that weight on my own shoulders. Where were you when I called you just for someone to talk to? Huh? Where were you? Too busy feeling sorry for no good reason, that¡¯s where.¡± ¡°Maybe you could have sold something if you had some self-confidence!¡± ¡°How could I have that? I was alone! I¡¯m still alone! You still don¡¯t understand.¡± ¡°Go back to school! Do something! Do something with yourself.¡± ¡°Why? What difference will that make?¡± ¡°It will make you happier, so I don¡¯t have to deal with you being miserable.¡± ¡°Is that all I am to you? Some miserable burden? Gee, great to know my wife loves me.¡± ¡°I do love you! That¡¯s why I need you to do something with yourself. Grow up. Get over yourself.¡± She was right, but not at the right time. Sometimes we lose the ability to support ourselves; we begin falling in like a poorly pitched tent or an old, rotten house. At such times, compassion is the only rodding that will keep us up, the only thread to keep us together. Compassion can make molded floorboards dry and new with time and effort. Elizabeth knew what Dave should do, but she didn¡¯t know what he needed. Still, he knew she wasn¡¯t wrong. ¡°I¡¯m done with this conversation. Can we just go?¡± ¡°No. You need to talk to me. You need to figure out what you¡¯re going to do with yourself.¡± Silence. A moment passed. ¡°Maybe I should stop wishing I was dead and start wishing I was alive instead.¡± Maybe I should listen to myself and just end it. That¡¯d be something. Elizabeth didn¡¯t hear these words like she should have. She kept driving the nail. ¡°There you go. That¡¯s a start. You just need to decide what you want and go for it.¡± His sincerity was lost on her like a lecture is lost on a sleepy student. ¡°You weren¡¯t born to pay bills and die.¡± Why is what I want so important? He saw himself on stage, standing there like a dumb, sad creature with greasy hair and a black peacoat. His wife was sitting on the couch. A blue light isolated him from everything else. He couldn¡¯t tell what was happening on the rest of the stage; it happened so fast. It all seemed lost in the darkness; the only lights he saw were the white ones on his wife and the blue one on himself. Stage Dave looked up and out into the audience. He looked at one person, sitting eating popcorn. There was another playing on her phone. The same blue light singled out a Dave in the audience. Audience Dave looked around, a bit startled, then locked eyes with the sad version of himself standing there alone. The actor¡¯s eyes said, ¡®what do we do next?¡¯ They both looked over to the red exit sign. They looked back at each other. Audience Dave shrugged. ¡°Hey,¡± came a whisper from his right. His glance shot over and met two eyes haunted by a sullen brow. A funeral haircut lay atop a skeleton¡¯s head veiled with a thin human mask. A dark, peppered mustache held the face together like a wingnut. Eugene O¡¯Neill stared at Dave. ¡°Stick to the script. Just keep going; it¡¯s about to get good.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± said the plump man to Dave¡¯s left. ¡°Keep going.¡± Alfred Hitchcock gave him that long-faced look that ran down his nose, his bottom lip sticking slightly out. ¡°You must make it at least to Christmas.¡± With the writer and director having said their pieces, audience Dave looked back to the fellow on stage. The actor nodded and turned to his wife. ¡°I¡¯m sorry I lost my temper. It¡¯s been hard lately. Can we just get something to eat?¡± Chapter 16 ~ November 25th They calmed down. They apologized. Their arms wrapped tightly around each other meant everything it needed to. With his eyes shut, Dave remembered Botticelli¡¯s handsome fellows from The Mystical Nativity, reaching down from heaven, their own arms wrapped around fools like himself amidst little devils romping and hiding amongst the feet of men. As Botticelli illustrates it, the divine come to comfort the broken, the matters of their lives scattered about their feet. She is a piece of the heavens laid upon my life. No; to say anyone is one of Botticelli¡¯s divinities is an injustice to that person; we¡¯re both just searching for angels to hold us. Dave went into the kitchen to find something to make to eat; he wouldn¡¯t leave the house again on Thanksgiving. The notion of leaving the house on Black Friday was also off the table. I should be with my family he thought as he stared into a pantry filled with odd cans. They need me. He looked at the white shelves in the fridge. I wish I could be there. I don¡¯t want to work tomorrow; I¡¯ll just have to suck it up. He forgot what he was doing and went into the living room where Elizabeth was almost done picking up. ¡°Have you heard from your Dad?¡± asked Dave. ¡°No.¡± ¡°Have you tried calling him?¡± ¡°No. Why bother? He¡¯ll just tell me he¡¯s busy.¡± ¡°Oh¡­ I¡¯m sorry.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t be sorry. It¡¯s not your fault.¡± ¡°I can still feel bad for you, can¡¯t I?¡± ¡°Yeah, I guess¡­¡± Trying to make her feel better about her family is like putting duct tape on a burst pipe. Duct tape¡¯s all I¡¯ve got though. I wish I knew how to do more. I¡¯ve caused so much trouble for her tonight. I¡¯m so sorry. I wish I knew how to show it. Dave stirred a pot of bowtie pasta. Farfalle¡­ such a good word. Farfalle pasta will always be my favorite. Can¡¯t think of a reason why. It just will be. I wish life were as simple and good as eating pasta. I guess it kind of is. Steam rose from the crest of the bubbling water. Dave stood alone in the kitchen. ¡°Wife!¡± he howled with a tone only a spouse could find endearing. ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°I love you,¡± he said. What else can I tell her? How else can I comfort her? Just keep cooking. Stop worrying about every little thing. It¡¯s all just farfalle, man. Just farfalle. He reached in the freezer, pulled out a brown paper sack, and began opening up the old breakfast sandwiches he¡¯d taken home from work some time ago, removing the sausage and the cheese from them. Camus stared up at him quietly, his little tail dancing back and forth, his eyes bright with anticipation. He licked his chops with all the wisdom of a dog. Dave smiled at the dog and tossed him one of the egg patties. Camus munched and chewed now with the manners of a mutt, looking up for a grateful moment, then back down to keep chewing comfortably. Dave turned back to the pot of noodles. His thoughts turned back to the woman cleaning the living room, the one who always forgave and always forgot the worst parts of his humanity. God; she¡¯s a good reason to keep going, but I need more. I need a deeper understanding. Where can I look? You know, I should pray more. There¡¯s value and comfort in reminding myself I¡¯m not the most important thing in the world. There¡¯s a fruitful meditation in just saying thanks for the little things. Sometimes though, it feels as though the same thoughts which bring comfort are the same ones that feel so damning. Maybe, thoughts aren¡¯t the answer. Yeah, maybe thinking isn¡¯t really the heart of wisdom, after all, there¡¯s more to being a person than the surface of my psyche. I don¡¯t know, man; I wish I were an authority. I wish I could speak with conviction. I wish I were a Mozart. Just live and see, man. Learn to work and wait. The pot boiled over. Dave blew on it, his gentle gust pressing back the violent froth like the gust of heaven taming the flames of hell. He turned down the eye. He closed his eyes and leaned back a little. He was tired. He wavered back and forth and considered how that felt. Everything was dark and mildly gone, like the moment before sleep. Keep going. Let¡¯s see what happens. Learn to work and wait. Dave poured the farfalle into the strainer precariously balanced somehow between two sinks full of dishes. He realized he should have loaded the dishwasher while the noodles were boiling. Oh well. He shook the strainer a bit to get the last bits of water out that he could. Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. They didn¡¯t have any pasta sauce, but they did have sausage patties and slices of cheddar cheese from pre-made breakfast sandwiches. There was a bag of ¡®Mexican¡¯ shredded cheese sitting in the fridge. He mixed these together in a faded red pot with a dollar store plastic spoon that bent under the weight of the pasta. The dog stared, this time with foolish anticipation, which differs little from doggy wisdom. The noodles clung to each other in the sticky mess, little strings of gold lacing between them. My brain feels like this pot; it¡¯s just this big mess of wonderful things that I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m doing with. I like these things, but don¡¯t expect anyone else to. Don¡¯t see why anyone else would. It¡¯s just a mess of odds and ends. It needs some tomatoes¡­ He procured the last two bowls from the cabinet. Good thing these are clean. He scooped out an unhealthy but filling serving into each bowl and exited the kitchen. They ate. They laughed. They watched Frasier and Brooklyn Nine-Nine, and they sank into the bog of a hazy evening. Dave looked at the paintings hanging on the walls. Those landscapes were joyful hours spent with his wife. They were snapshots of scenes that had taken place on stage, in the living room. To him they were meadows of joy and tenderness, cloudy frustrations cast off from the heart, and cliffs measuring the elusive depth of memories. They were just set pieces to anyone who hadn¡¯t seen the previous act; the thought approached Dave like a hooded man on a dark street. Because they only mean something to us, do they objectively mean nothing at all? He ran from the hooded man. Reality wanted to swallow, smother, and strangle him. He looked to the black walls of the theatre: I¡¯m afraid. Is this all there is? I¡¯ve got to get out of here! Elizabeth factored into his decision to stay in that dark theatre, but she, like him, was just another member of the audience or another small actor on a large stage, and even these set pieces couldn¡¯t prove to him otherwise. I still can¡¯t figure why I¡¯m in the theatre to begin with. It was long past dark outside. The wonderful, crisp chill of late autumn seeped into the duplex. Elizabeth complained, but Dave relished the cool comfort. He sleepily dismissed her whining. Camus loudly chewed on a kine shin bone, smacking and crunching. Dave called him into the kitchen and closed the gate for the night. Camus reached up to the doggy gate with his front paws, his dark eyes staring longingly at his master. Dave grabbed the shin bone and handed it to the dog, who graciously grabbed it with his mouth, then turned and went to lay down. The couple climbed the dim stairs to their bedroom, nearly submerged now in that hazy bog, the swampy Thanksgiving evening that had turned to the wee hours of Black Friday. But, for all his exhaustion, Dave couldn¡¯t sleep. Elizabeth went out like a candle, snuffed by the night. A smoky snore slipped from her face. Dave got up and went to the shower; he forgot he needed to do that. His hair was still greasy and filled with little knots of fructose. Even more syrups and sauces speckled his arms now. His armpits reeked now like two dead animals. He was gross all-over and knew it. He hoped a flash between hot and cold water might make him feel a little more sleepy. He¡¯d read that somewhere; a hot and cold shower can put a man to sleep like rocking a baby in a crib. He remembered how he wavered back and forth over the boiling water and realized he was doing it again under the spout of warm water. He stepped out of the shower feeling a little fresher and a lot damper. Dave scrubbed his hair as dry as it might get; he sighed when he noticed four of his hairs wrapped in the towel fibers. It might be going slowly, but that doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s not going. Wish I could renew my lease. Oh well, I don¡¯t look like Alain de Botton yet. Dave brushed his teeth, spat, and rinsed the blood and toothpaste down the sink. I should floss more. He stepped out into the cold hallway then into the bedroom. He laid himself down, still a little damp. Dave looked up into the darkness, a black ceiling looming overhead. If I smoked I¡¯d have a cigarette, he thought. I feel like I just need to think. I just need to figure this out. I need to come up with a reason to get out of bed tomorrow. Maybe I¡¯m just spoiled. Maybe I¡¯m just soft and ungrateful. I feel better than I did earlier. I feel better than I did yesterday. I hope I don¡¯t feel worse tomorrow. What time is? It¡¯s 4am. You¡¯d think it¡¯d be darker outside. It never gets as dark as I imagine it should. The sun is already coming up, slowly. Just because it¡¯s slow doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s not happening. I hope I don¡¯t feel worse today. Well, if I can¡¯t sleep, I may as well write: Gleamed from the Dancer ~ The Dancer What are you trying to say? What are you trying to say? Don¡¯t say it. Mean it. Rhymes in schemes, Breaks, and meter. Alliteration is my favored occupation. What do you see when you see me? I¡¯m imagery. I mean: symbolism. What are you trying to say? What are the words trying to say? Can they tell us anything? Mute slaves or wild dancers? Turn the page to see. I glow faintly in the night, snuffed in the earth and chased by wolves that wish to know me. They see me, but seeing isn¡¯t all there is. Perception goes deep into the brain. They want the lightning to see in the dark of the night to see through the tangles beyond their tribal village. We left the village long ago, and built the City in the tangles of the dark land beyond hope and reason. You must go, wise warrior, outside the City limits to seek what will be a chance to live again. Return to the Garden, my noble friend. Chapter 17 ~ November 25th Dave felt worse today. I have no sense of purpose. God; I feel like dust. Am I dust? Well, even dust serves some purpose I think, whether it realizes it or not. I suppose I should just go about my day hoping I¡¯m the catalyst I want to be. That just doesn¡¯t sound very¡­ good. He felt like he¡¯d spent Thanksgiving running a 5k; his legs were sore and heavy, stiff and reluctant. Did I go running? No, I didn¡¯t go running. I don¡¯t think I did. His arms wanted to go back to bed too, but he shambled forth with bitter acceptance of his new status as one of the living dead. This living dead needed a rinse in hot water. That was last week. I went running last week. He continued to move forward with his morning because three minutes ago he was moving forward with his morning. I¡¯ve got things to do he pretended. He knew there was nothing forcing him to go to work. He could just stay home, but a deeper part of him questioned any reasoning for that even. There¡¯s no reason to stay home; there¡¯s no reason to go to work. Neither decision is significant in the grand scheme of things; they¡¯re just the same and different. He made the mistake of sitting down in the shower, feeding into the malaise. I need to rest. I¡¯ll just rest my eyes. I¡¯m just so tired. It feels good to rest when you¡¯re tired. I should rest forever. Can¡¯t; water¡¯s getting cold. Gotta wake up. Cold shower will wake me up. He turned the water even colder, took a few deep breaths underneath, felt the warm rinse out of his hair, then shut the water off, hopped out, and shuffled over to the sink. He dried his hair with the damp towel hanging on the wrack. Did I need a shower? I did that last night, didn¡¯t I? Yeah¡­ I did. This morning¡¯s shower was to help wake me up. That¡¯s right. It gave me more time to get my brain moving. The cold air should jump-start my head. He brushed his teeth and rinsed the blood down the sink again. I should floss more. I should go to the dentist. I should get insurance. I should get a better job. Can¡¯t today; going to work today. Gotta go get dressed. No point in a dentist anyway; they¡¯ll just tell me to floss. Cheaper to just tell myself that. He couldn¡¯t find his keys. He couldn¡¯t find his shoes. He found his apron, but he still couldn¡¯t find his keys. There¡¯s one shoe. Where¡¯s the other? He looked down at the time; it was getting late. He looked a little faster. He rushed a little more. Where were his keys? Where are my keys? ¡°Why can¡¯t I find anything!¡± Dave shouted. He ran through the apartment like a madman now. He tossed about clothes and cushions leaving unfolded laundry lying under pillows. He grabbed his hair with the thought of ripping it out, only stopping because it hurt a little. It doesn¡¯t need my help getting lost, he thought flippantly. He found his shoe. He found his keys. Dave ran out the door, already leaving his sanity behind him. Today will be a good day. I¡¯m tired of bad days; we¡¯re going to have a good one. He drove quickly. He thought he might end up being a little late; he forgot what time he was scheduled. I just have to get there. Just getting there is good enough for me. White Lightning rolled down the city streets. The sun was in his eyes. The air was crisp but warm for the end of autumn. Dave looked out into the audience, stage lights blinding him. What am I supposed to do now? Eugene O¡¯Neill gave him a nod and a shaky thumbs up from the audience. He pulled into work in what turned out to be just on time. He was the three-thirty to close. Fortune favored him with an easy parking spot. He went in, clocked in, and asked where he would be sent to work. He was tasked with stocking and cleaning and attacked it with intensity. I am going to do the absolute best job I can possibly do. I am going to scrub the floors in half the time. I am going to change all the trashes as soon as they need it. I am going to keep absolutely everything stocked. Keep moving. Keep going. He put on a headset and turned it down low; he wanted to tune out the obnoxious prattle of ordering so he could focus on what was important. He ran the cycle better than he ever had. He refilled the ice, stocked the lids and cups, grabbed milks, warmed food, rinsed pitchers, and changed trashes. He had no time to clean under Black Friday¡¯s swell of consumers, but he let the whirl and fury of business stoke a fire to fight back and live. This is good; I¡¯m doing good. I like this. If I have to play this game, I may as well try to enjoy it. May as well do my best. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Everything ran out at the same time; if pitchers needed rinsing, the ice bin was also empty. When a syrup needed to be replaced milk was also out of stock. When the trash started overflowing, pitchers needed a rinse again. He kept it all going, juggling the bare minimum so no one had to wait for anything. He gritted his teeth and smiled like a running back marching the ball downfield five yards at a time. The hours went on; Dave had roared like a bonfire, and now the hot coals only flickered. He blew on them, stoking what he could. He considered this a win: if I¡¯m going to be exhausted, it¡¯s because I¡¯m trying my best, playing to win. If I¡¯ll be tired either way, if I¡¯ll lose either way, I may as well win my own game. The line in the lobby still reached out the door and the drive-through prattle never ceased. The wage warriors brandished all their steel against the restaurant reavers on this, the darkest day of the year. Steam spires towered behind their battle lines; spoons and pitchers clanked like plate armor. Milk spilled like blood, and the syrups sprayed like spittle from the mouth of a war cry. Dave looked out amongst the troll-folk with their hodgepodge of pajama pants and Gucci bags, department store hoodies and designer jeans. They sported Splat dyed hair faded to vomitous green and cheap tattoos, homages to a child¡¯s magic marker branding necks and limbs in pied and faded vanity. Septums hung with rings like snot, turning faces into gothic knockers, less handsome for the absence of artistic taste. ¡°Dave, you¡¯re going to go to drive-through to take over for Tom¡¯s lunch,¡± said Riley. Damn it all! thought Dave. I thought I was going to get out of that today. Well, maybe it will just be for the half-hour. ¡°You got it, boss!¡± said Dave cheerfully. He turned his headset up and started taking orders as he marched over to his cell in the corner of the store. ¡°Go ahead and assign,¡± said Riley. ¡°Send Jess on her lunch.¡± Damn it¡­ I¡¯m going to be stuck here for the rest of the night. ¡°You got it!¡± His coals grew cold no matter how he blew. Dave loosed pleasantries like arrows from a battlement, not aimed but only loosed upon the horde of ravagers. It¡¯s a crazy, violent world out there, Dave thought. He looked to the stage. There stood nobly Dave the actor with a broadsword in one hand and buckler in the other. A black gambeson mocked his work apron. The troll-folk charged and whirled about him. He valiantly held the garrison, his steel sword clashing against theirs with a wild hero¡¯s parries, sparks flashing from the dance of scimitars and the arming sword. Get back! Get back! Begone! he shouted from the stage, not in desperation but in triumph. ¡°Give us your soul! We want your soul!¡± cried terrible women from the troll throng. ¡°You are weak! You are pathetic!¡± cried the terrible men. You¡¯ll take nothing, and I¡¯ll give nothing! I¡¯ll hold this ground. I¡¯ll hold it to my death! ¡°But why? What makes this ground so hallowed, Dave?¡± Because it¡¯s the only thing I¡¯ve got. I just have the ground I¡¯m standing on, the life I¡¯m living, and the struggles I¡¯m fighting. I don¡¯t know what else there is; I just have to take existence for what it is, love it or hate it. ¡°I have to fight. By tooth and nail, I have to struggle. I have to claw my way forward. I have to do something.¡± ¡°Oh okay¡­ but what about my food?¡± asked the customer at the window. ¡°It¡¯s right here,¡± said Dave, handing her a bag of two Big¡¯un Burgers. ¡°But why am I here, you know? My wife¡¯s right: I should find another job or make more of this one. I should do something. I should try harder.¡± ¡°Well, good luck with that,¡± she said awkwardly. She sped off as though she couldn¡¯t get out of the drive-through fast enough. If I¡¯m not walking out the door, I should do as much as I can. I can¡¯t take my human experience for granted; it¡¯s the only one God gave me. A spotlight fell on Dave while he stood in the midst of a violent throng. They reached for him, they clawed for him; a wall of grasping hands encircled him. ¡°That¡¯s not good enough, Dave,¡± cried the savage chorus. ¡°You¡¯re not good enough. You¡¯ll never be good enough. You are nothing, Dave.¡± No! Stop! Stop this. I don¡¯t want to think like this; I don¡¯t want to be this! Dave couldn¡¯t fight now; the circle began to swallow him. He tried to climb over the sea of bodies, but the swallow, smother, and strangle was inevitable. He gasped and struggled to look out from the troll-pile. All he could see was the red exit sign staring at him; I just want to leave this place. Chapter 18 ~ November 25th Business at the store slowed from a torrent to a trickle then an awkward drip like a calm evening after a heavy storm. Everyone cleaned with a hurry and hope of going home. The store was empty except for two people sitting separately, each busy on their laptops. Dave, Riley, and Tom were closing once again. ¡°You guys ready for Christmas?¡± asked Dave ¡°Well, it is, in fact, on its way, so there¡¯s that to say about it. I¡¯m actually a little excited to work it this year,¡± said Riley. ¡°I¡¯m hoping the extra money from tips this season can go toward finishing off my car loan or else I¡¯m going to have to find another job.¡± ¡°Dude, I¡¯ve been listening to Christmas music since November first. I¡¯m ready, dude,¡± said Tom. ¡°We¡¯ve all be listening to Christmas music since November first; that¡¯s when they started playing it in the store,¡± said Riley. ¡°I¡¯m so hyped though!¡± said Tom, almost squealing. ¡°I think I¡¯ve asked this before, but I don¡¯t think I got a good answer: why do you two come to work? What motivates you?¡± asked Dave. ¡°You¡¯re always asking that,¡± said Riley. ¡°This is just work, man. You¡¯re making it way too deep.¡± ¡°Well, I just have a lot of trouble rationalizing my sustenance. Why do I continue to exist?¡± ¡°Why do you keep pontificating with such big, dumb words?¡± asked Riley in that sarcastic way only friends and family understand. ¡°You mean you don¡¯t want to be alive?¡± asked Tom. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Should I?¡± asked Dave. He was objective and earnest, but not despairing. ¡°Of course you should,¡± said Tom. ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t you want to be alive?¡± ¡°Does my opinion really matter? Why do we put so much significance in our own volition?¡± asked Dave. ¡°Because, you don¡¯t have anything else,¡± said Riley. ¡°There is nothing more to you than what you want. Why not pursue it?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­ It just feels selfish,¡± said Dave. ¡°Well, killing yourself is a hell of a lot more selfish,¡± said Riley. ¡°So, you¡¯re telling me my only options are between selfish and less selfish?¡± asked Dave. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. ¡°No. Go to soup kitchen. Volunteer at a food pantry. If you won¡¯t do something for yourself, do something for someone else,¡± said Riley. ¡°There is no rhyme or reason; just go do something.¡± ¡°Why though? What value can I create with my existence if value is based on the existence of everyone else? We¡¯re all going to die, so what does anything I do matter?¡± ¡°That¡¯s the thing: it doesn¡¯t matter. There is no meaning, for better or for worse. You can do whatever you want. You can be whoever you want.¡± ¡°Dadgummit Riley: I don¡¯t want to be my own god. I don¡¯t want to define right and wrong; what gives me more authority to do that than anyone else?¡± ¡°It¡¯s your life, dude. That¡¯s what gives you the authority to define what¡¯s right and wrong for you. How are those fridges coming?¡± ¡°They¡¯re good. They¡¯re fine, but what I¡¯m saying is that if I¡¯m the only one in my life who defines things, and I can only define them for myself, then the only value is my own opinion, and I don¡¯t find it all that valuable if I¡¯m the only one to whom it¡¯s supposed to be valuable.¡± ¡°Dude, word economy: you¡¯re talking too much,¡± said Riley. ¡°You don¡¯t think this is worth talking about?¡± asked Dave. ¡°No, not right now. Get the fridges done.¡± ¡°But, I kind of see Dave¡¯s point,¡± said Tom. ¡°I don¡¯t think we can really define the value of life all by ourselves.¡± ¡°Yeah!¡± ¡°That¡¯s why popular opinion determines life¡¯s values.¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°Okay, but for those opinions to occur,¡± began Riley, ¡°you still have to define for yourself what¡¯s right and what¡¯s wrong, and these things are completely circumstantial. No one can tell you how to live your life.¡± ¡°So, the only way I¡¯m going to find fulfillment is by defining what¡¯s fulfilling and going for it?¡± asked Dave. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s exactly what I¡¯m saying.¡± ¡°And, you really believe I have the power to command my own destiny?¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s kind of up to you, dude. Are you going to do what it takes? Are you going to get those fridges clean?¡± ¡°I told you, they¡¯re clean. I might be proud enough to accept that viewpoint if I didn¡¯t believe that so much occurred because of happenstance; sometimes people are just in the right place at the right time.¡± ¡°But, they still have to do the right thing.¡± ¡°But, they¡¯re still not in control. That control is just an illusion.¡± ¡°Feels pretty real to me. Feels pretty real to say that if I don¡¯t go to work, I don¡¯t have a chance of making any money.¡± ¡°So, the goal isn¡¯t to control anything, the goal is just to rig the dice.¡± ¡°Sure, I guess.¡± ¡°Why is that the goal?¡± ¡°You set it, not me.¡± ¡°So, the goal is arbitrary?¡± ¡°Dave, everything is as arbitrary as you make it.¡± ¡°No, it¡¯s not!¡± said Tom. ¡°When I get my degree, I¡¯ll qualify for a better job; I don¡¯t decide whether or not I qualify, it¡¯s objectively decided by others that I qualify.¡± ¡°Okay, but if you don¡¯t apply for better jobs, then getting your degree was completely arbitrary. If you can¡¯t find a better job, then getting your degree was completely arbitrary.¡± ¡°But, he¡¯s not necessarily the reason he can¡¯t find a better job,¡± said Dave. ¡°He could do everything right and still not get hired. He doesn¡¯t have control over that. All he can do are the things he knows will stack the odds. He still has to roll the dice. They still have to hit the backboard. He still doesn¡¯t have control.¡± ¡°Dave, these fridges are not clean.¡± ¡°See what I mean! I did everything I knew to do, but I have no control over your definition of clean.¡± Chapter 19 ~ November 25th The drive-through dinged. ¡°Hi, what can I get for you,¡± said Dave. He sat crisscrossed in front of a fridge, wiping it out with a dirty, wet rag soaked with sanitizer like he did every night. ¡°I¡¯d like a large minty chocolate shake, six pumps of peppermint, extra, extra ice, double blended really thick and smooth with chocolate drizzle on top and not inside the cup, and can you make sure they only use two pumps of the syrup base?¡± ¡°Hi, Lola.¡± ¡°Hey, baby.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll see you at the window,¡± said Dave. Dave started her drink while she pulled around. He set it to blend and went to the window. There was Lola, her hand hanging out the window and cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Dave punched the order in. He opened the drive-through window; the evening¡¯s cold rushed in. ¡°How are you doing Lola?¡± ¡°I¡¯m fine, baby. How are you?¡± she said softly. ¡°I¡¯m good. I just have this problem in my head.¡± ¡°Yeah, I got a few of those. What¡¯s yours?¡± ¡°Well, I just can¡¯t figure out what exactly makes life so valuable.¡± ¡°Oh, that¡¯s easy. I can answer that one for you.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°I said, ¡®it¡¯s easy.¡¯ You know, I died once.¡± ¡°No, I didn¡¯t. What happened?¡± ¡°What do you mean ¡®what happened?¡¯ I said I died once. That was it.¡± ¡°Right, but how did it happen? What happened while you were dead?¡± ¡°Oh, I met God.¡± ¡°Really?¡± ¡°Oh yeah! I was climbing a mountain in Florida. It was real cold. My face was all chapped.¡± There are mountains in Florida? ¡°Well, as I was getting close to the top, the sun got in my eyes. I thought gosh, that sun is really bright, and I shielded my eyes with my hand like this, you know, and then I saw this shadow on the other side of my fingers. So, I took my hand down to see what it was, and there he was. He was looking at me with these real scary, dark eyes. He had a handsome mustache and kind of looked like a handsome ghost. He started saying something, went on and on. I think he was asking me questions, but I couldn¡¯t hear a word he said.¡± Eugene O¡¯Neill? thought Dave. ¡°He asked me if I enjoyed the ride up, and I said ¡¯what ride? I¡¯ve been hiking for hours.¡± ¡°And, you said this was in Florida?¡± ¡°Oh yeah, baby.¡± ¡°Wow,¡± said Dave with just enough enthusiasm to egg the conversation on. ¡°Anyway, that¡¯s about all I remember before my brother found me.¡± ¡°Wait, you said you were in the hospital: found you?¡± ¡°Yeah, he found me in the hospital, and I was alive again at that point. That¡¯s all I remember. It was real weird. I swore I was done datin¡¯ the Shaman after that.¡± ¡°The Shaman?¡± ¡°Yep. See, it all happened because I was datin¡¯ this guy that liked to practice with witchcraft.¡± ¡°Oh yeah?¡± said Dave. He¡¯d lost his original interest at this point, finding her insights weightless, but the conversation took a curious turn, so he bit the hook and let himself get reeled back in. ¡°Yeah, that stuff is scary. I don¡¯t care what you believe in; that stuff will eat you alive and spit you out. We was in the house one evening, and the table started shaking, just shaking for no reason. I said, ¡®We gotta get outta here, baby!¡¯ Then the lights went out, and we just moved into a motel after that. I wasn¡¯t gonna have anything to do with no demons, so I broke up with him right after that happened and went to live near my family in Florida. He said, ¡¯makes sense to me.¡± If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°Then you ended up in the hospital?¡± ¡°That was little later. He ended up movin¡¯ down to Florida with me. We was on again, off again. Then we was drinking late one night, out on the Everglades. I had a few too many of these and those, and that¡¯s all I remember. I was climbing that mountain, talking to God, and then I woke up in the hospital with my brother looking at me.¡± ¡°Oh, okay. Well, it was nice hearing from you. I¡¯ve got to get back to work. You have a good evening, Lola. Happy Black Friday or whatever.¡± ¡°Yeah, you too, baby. I¡¯ll seeya.¡± Dave closed the window and turned around. He took a deep breath and lingered on what just happened. Why was Eugene O¡¯Neill on a mountain top in Florida? I guess I just believe the truth is more ephemeral than everyone else does, thought Dave. The road stretched in front of him, void of anyone doing anything. I can¡¯t just accept things anymore; I don¡¯t have any faith in my own understanding, and I can¡¯t tell if this is a shortcoming or an advancement. I just don¡¯t have the evidence to say. It¡¯s a shame I only have one life; I think I could do a lot more if I had more perspectives to choose from. I haven¡¯t been to church in a while; I wonder what a preacher would say to me. I don¡¯t think he¡¯d say much; preachers are talking to the largest part of their audience. I think I¡¯m an outlier. Maybe we¡¯re all outliers from a certain angle, a certain point of view. I just can¡¯t figure this out; why is the world getting out of bed tomorrow? What part do I play in eternity? Is reason the answer, or am I just supposed to feel like getting out of bed? Why do some people feel it and some people don¡¯t, and why do they all have different rational conclusions? There has to be absolute rightness, and all I want to do is chase it. What do you think, God? ¡°You¡¯re home!¡± said Elizabeth. ¡°Yeah, finally.¡± ¡°How was work?¡± ¡°Eh, it was work.¡± Dave shuffled in. Elizabeth was in her usual after work spot on the couch. Something stood out though; a special scent caught Dave¡¯s attention. There was a box of pizza and some wings on the coffee table. I think I¡¯ll figure out what¡¯s absolutely right tomorrow. Tonight, I¡¯m just going to eat. ¡°You ordered pizza,¡± said Dave with an honest smile. His heart fluttered with the words. ¡°Thank you.¡± ¡°I just felt like we needed something nice,¡± she said back to him. ¡°Can you go get some plates?¡± He hated the idea of ordering pizza; the pizza was so overpriced, and he and Elizabeth made so little. Dave hated the idea of forcing other people to make his food; he couldn¡¯t pay them what they deserved. He loved the idea of his wife wanting to do something special for the both of them, even if it was as simple as having someone make them an overpriced pizza. He loved her because she did what he couldn¡¯t; she got up everyday and claimed the world. She never asked for much, but she always worked for more. They put a movie on while they ate. It made the night quiet and comfortable. Dave¡¯s eyes fixated on the screen with childlike occupation. His mind wandered the astral country claimed by people with armchairs; he invaded the armchair realm of thought from his couch. I really enjoy this. I really enjoy my wife doing kind things for me. I really enjoy her just being nearby after a long day. I enjoy appreciating a good piece of art from our living room. I enjoy being warm at night, lying on cushions instead of the hard ground. This was the life of a king in times passed. This was a life everyone sought, dreamed of, and longed for, and it means squat to me. I wonder if I¡¯m just ungrateful. It sounds like I¡¯m ungrateful. He dozed off a bit. Elizabeth tapped him gently. ¡°Hey, it¡¯s bedtime.¡± ¡°Yeah? Okay. I¡¯ll be upstairs in a second,¡± he said, rubbing sleep from his eyes. She slogged off upstairs. Dave sat for a second, then realized something; I forgot the dog! He slipped over to the back door and stepped out into the cold and dark without bothering to turn on the light. There was Camus, yanking at his lead, hopping and begging to be brought out of the chilly night. Dave unclipped him, and the little dog shot inside the house. He performed his routine of running around the living room in a circle, trouncing on the furniture. I¡¯ve got to do something about that. I hate that he does that. One of these days he¡¯ll get mud all over everything. Dave snapped and clicked at the dog. He got Camus to calm down, to lie on the couch and spent some time with the dog before going upstairs. You are such an admirable creature; you bare me no malice, even after I cruelly leave you out in the cold. With Camus curled up next to him, Dave pulled out his laptop and began that pitter-pattering dance of fingers and words. He had added another poem to his document: The Wolf Speaks on the Dancer ~ The Wolf There¡¯s this girl; She¡¯s so, so sweet. Makes my tongue explode E¡¯erytime we meet. Makes me scream Like a dog in heat! Lightning ribbons Round her feet! Now she cry! Now she cry! & wave the ribbons in the sky! Blue ribbons- She move like Blue ribbons- She groove like She-- She know what she do Yeah, she know how to do. She live on the edge Of a razor¡¯s world. Not cut by the blade, She watch it unfurl. She split the razor With a single twirl. She get slow, and she get slow¡­ Now I see Where she go. T h u n d e r cracks with every step As lightning ribbons Around her feet round her feet. I don¡¯t know what kind of child I Tend to be; lightning now is All I see. Blue ribbons howl Blue ribbons howl Yellow fingers, sick with stains, I need more nicotine in my veins. The ribbon color lingers in the air; Tells the story ¡¯bout the killer, How he step out of his lair. Reach! Reach! Reach for the lightning! Reckon the tale is frightening. The Wolf cannot understand the Dancer. She spins through his head Never giving her answer. Screech Dancer Screech The tale about the bum romance Between the Wolf and the night: Enter next Into a trance. This is stupid, thought Dave. But, I guess I don¡¯t hate it. It¡¯s really just for me. He put the dog in the kitchen and tossed him the rawhide he¡¯d been chewing on. Dave went up the stairs, starting another night¡¯s journey to a realm of anxious dreams. Chapter 20 ~ December 14th The troll-folk surrounded Dave, biting at him with iron blades, gnashing their teeth behind hideous pierced lips under slave-ringed noses, tearing at him with painted and bedazzled claws; the warrior chopped and slashed with a steel flurry, guarding himself behind a round alder shield. He bashed and broke the hideous visages of the throng with his shield, marring the trolls with shattered noses, flowing blood, and busted lips. They¡¯re going to kill me. They¡¯re going to kill me. I¡¯ll kill them first. The scene faded to black by slumber¡¯s enigma. He stepped out on the other side of that darkness still venturing through the unknown place of dreams. Dave looked up to the top of a cliff. Billy stood at the precipice. The wind whipped at his silhouette standing dark against the full moon. Dave¡¯s brain fluttered and raged; Billy. I have to save him. He¡¯s going to jump. How do I get up there? Billy laid down on his stomach, reaching over the edge for someone. There¡¯s nothing I can do. There¡¯s nothing Billy can do. Whoever that is, we¡¯re both too far away. A cloud ran across the moon. Everything went dark. Dave was lost. A panic took hold of him; he searched through the darkness, frantic with fear of something vague and lost in the dreamy tumult. Where are they? he thought, tossing the litter of life around in his apartment. The stage was brightly lit, but the abstract clutter of cushions and clothes hid something important. I can¡¯t find them! Where are they? They¡¯ve got to be here somewhere¡­ Suddenly, the shadow of a person came into the room holding a beer. Is Cliff my roommate now? That¡¯s not Cliff. Who is that? I don¡¯t know who that is. Why do I have a roommate? I¡¯m married. It must be Cliff. ¡°Where are they? I can¡¯t find them?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°You know what! My bibles! Where are my bibles!¡± I have three of them. ¡°Oh, I pawned those. I needed money for rent,¡± said the roommate before he gulped from his can. ¡°What!¡± ¡°Chillout,¡± said Elizabeth. Where did she come from? ¡°He just pawned them; we can probably go get them back,¡± she finished. ¡°There will be only one. There¡¯s only one at the pawnshop. I need them. Where are they? I need all three of them¡­¡± Dave fell to his knees. He howled with sadness. Sobbed with madness. He ran his hands through his hair and pulled. It came loose like a shaggy dog¡¯s coat in spring. He stared at the large clumps in his palms and watched thin wisps sift through his fingers. They landed in the bathroom sink. Dave looked into the mirror; his hair was gone down the middle except for a thin layer of dull tuft gray with sickness, not with age. He pulled out his shears and went to work on what was left. I just have to accept this; I just have to accept everything. This is life now. The thin wisps fell into the sink, rinsed away by furious faucet water. His head looked clean now; he didn¡¯t look any healthier. Once again, the world faded to black. Sleep became peaceful; only for an uncounted moment. The black world shattered; caf¨¦ chatter resounded inside Dave¡¯s head. He stood at the handoff plane; two men, dressed professionally, were yelling at him, berating him, and pointing at their orders. Dave couldn¡¯t make out a word. They just kept pointing and yelling at him through his fish tank. He just stood there, trying to think on his feet. He tried to calm them down. He tried to tell them he¡¯d fix it, that it wasn¡¯t a big deal. They couldn¡¯t hear him either. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ¡°Well? What are you going to do about this?¡± Dave finally heard one of the men say. Dave opened his mouth to speak; an alarm broke the scene. The caf¨¦¡¯s roaring chatter faded. The long dream and all its anxiety curled back into the dark enigmatic world of sleep. ¡°Ha! I¡¯m not gonna do anything,¡± said Dave. ¡°Not my problem anymore; it¡¯s time for me to wake up!¡± He reached over for his phone on the nightstand. It was 10:00 A.M. He started making a concerted effort to get up at the same time every day; maybe it¡¯ll make a difference. He was glad to be freed from the anxiety of that dream, but then he realized he was just going to go face it for real in a few hours. He ignored that thought. Dave went into the bathroom to pee, brush his teeth, and floss. His mouth bled less since he started flossing twice a day. Imagine that, he thought. The dog whimpered downstairs: Camus had to pee as well. Dave lumbered down the steps, still in his underwear. He grabbed a blanket and wrapped it around himself. He picked up the dog, unlocked the back door, and stepped out into the frost. The ground was frozen solid, a sign of autumn¡¯s dying. It would be winter in one week. After hooking the dog up, Dave went back in and sat on the couch. He pulled out his computer and scrolled through Reddit, reading this and that, not looking for anything in particular now but a state of wakefulness. He clicked over to Youtube to see what he could find, his mind too groggy to focus on anything worth reading. He could watch something edifying much more easily. But, what am I learning for? What will this do for me? I should think about doing something with my poems. I could make a book of them, just for the heck of it, just to see what happens. Dave cyber-wandered for the next two hours, too sleepy to actually act on his industrious whims. His wife was upstairs performing a similar ritual of solitude. You know, we should do this together, next to each other. We should spend more time together; this would be an easy way to do that. No, I don¡¯t want to hear her crap and she doesn¡¯t want to hear mine. I can¡¯t stand the Buzzfeed chatter. It¡¯s so shallow; why does she bother with it? Why do I bother with Wisecrack and Crash Course and School of Life? Learning is supposed to make you a better person, but I haven¡¯t seen it yet. Oh well. Guess I¡¯ll just keep trying. Just stick to it. I don¡¯t know everything yet; when I know everything, I¡¯ll allow myself to have a more serious opinion. I should do something nice for her. I think I¡¯ll make smoothies. He went into the kitchen and pulled out some bags of frozen fruit and the jug of whole milk. He tossed blueberries and strawberries into the blender. He could hear Elizabeth getting into the shower: good! She¡¯ll be surprised when she gets out. He ran the blender and went into the living room to watch old Lindybeige videos. The blender whirred its angry blades, mashing and murdering the frozen produce. He heard the bathroom door open. ¡°Wife!¡± ¡°Yes?¡± ¡°I made you a smoothie!¡± ¡°Oh, thanks! I¡¯ll come get it in a second.¡± The morning went on uneventfully. Dave eventually left the apartment, eventually heading to work. Feels like I¡¯m just pushing the boulder up the hill again. Keep pushing, I guess; I¡¯ll find a way to change things. Well, that¡¯s only if there¡¯s such a thing as change, if there¡¯s more to life than hills and boulders. Just keep smiling, Sisyphus. The meteor of memory struck Dave next. ¡°Oh my God!¡± he exclaimed as he pulled up to the red light. ¡°My bibles. That dream.¡± It¡¯s a strange rush when such a strong emotion comes back so vividly, and it¡¯s even stranger when it comes in such a different sense. The anxiety was now a psychic shadow to be grasped at by weak eyes unfamiliar with its brief, ephemeral flicker. What the heck did that mean? There was a roommate¡­ or were there two? Beer. I wasn¡¯t drinking. My bibles: who pawned them? That feels like an obvious concern about my faith, but I can¡¯t tell if it might mean anything else. Am I afraid of losing my faith, myself, to my day to day life? I don¡¯t know man¡­ I need to sit down on this one. What else was there? There has to have been more; I slept for eight hours¡­ I think. I¡¯m sure there was more. It¡¯ll come back to me; if it¡¯s important, it¡¯ll come back to me. Dreams are such curious events. They sometimes feel like God¡¯s last words to humanity. Chapter 21 ~ December 14th Dave exited the highway per usual but consciously chose the left lane of the exit: I hope someone¡¯s waiting here today. A man stood on the side of the road with a cardboard sign that read, ¡®Homeless n hungry Anything helps God Bless!¡¯ The man¡¯s face told a less hopeful tale than his creased sign. His bright purple jacket was deceptively nice, brand new even: he probably got that from a church or a help center. Someone out there¡¯s doing some good. Dave stopped at the light. He reached down to the ashtray, filled with life clutter as opposed to cigarette refuse. He fiddled until he found the one-dollar bills he was looking for, stuck in a furled and folded wad after an unfortunate run through the wash. Dave peeled the bills apart, counting out four of them. His window slid down, a smooth electronic roll. He reached his arm out. The sad man walked up, looking Dave in the eye. ¡°Thank you. God bless you,¡± said the man. He sounded like someone trying to convince a stranger to forgive him, and in some ways, maybe he was. We don¡¯t know the story: I don¡¯t know who you are. I don¡¯t know what you¡¯ve gone through, but I do know that if I was in your shoes, I¡¯d want people to treat me with kindness. I want people to treat me with kindness now, as I am. I wonder how much of what we both want we¡¯re going to get. ¡°Don¡¯t mention it. Keep on keepin¡¯ on, friend,¡± said Dave as he gave the man the money and a smile. I wish I had more, but I¡¯m not far from the bottom myself, friend. I¡¯m not as noble as the widow in the temple. I¡¯m just doin¡¯ what I was told: ¡®give to those who beg from you.¡¯ I¡¯m doing something I want to do. The light turned green. Dave gave a thumbs up and another smile to the sad man as he drove off to the place he hated most. If that guy can do it, I can do it.
Dave went inside the store. His gait was gallant, flowing with confidence; he was ready to seize the world in his own two hands. He clocked in, tied his apron, and asked for directions. ¡°Hello! How are you today?¡± asked Riley. ¡°I¡¯m great! Where do you need me, boss?¡± ¡°Umm, give me a second. Have you tried the new drink yet?¡± ¡°No. When did we get a new drink? And why so close to Christmas?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. That¡¯s above my pay grade.¡± ¡°Gee whiz. Corporate doesn¡¯t make any sense at all sometimes. What¡¯s it called?¡± ¡°Caramelized Butterscotch Steamer.¡± ¡°What does that even mean? It just sounds like sugar with more sugar.¡± ¡°Yeah, pretty much. It has seventy-nine grams of sugar in a medium.¡± ¡°Good Lord! How can anyone in their right stomach that? This is the strangest life I¡¯ve ever known, man.¡± ¡°You¡¯re telling me. Why don¡¯t you take over at window. Send whoever¡¯s over there home.¡± ¡°You got it, chief!¡± He went over to the little hole, assigned a cash drawer, and kept the line moving. Forty-five customers exchanged pleasantries with him in his first half-hour. Three customers said absolutely nothing to the cheerful man with sustenance in hand. Today, Dave wasn¡¯t a warrior. He wasn¡¯t slaying trolls. He was a guy that loved something, maybe his job or maybe just the air he was breathing. He was a man determined to share joy in a smile and a greeting. He was a brave child of Lir, searching for home, searching for answers, searching for their father through the Stream of the Long Hound. There is goodness. There is rightness. There is kindness. I am and will be a river of these things. I will not be dammed. Unfortunately, Children of Lir is not a happy tale. ¡°Hey! How are y¡¯all?¡± cheered Dave to strangers like an old friend. ¡°We¡¯re good! How are you?¡± they cheered back. ¡°I am living the dream, man!¡± ¡°In this cold?¡± ¡°Awe, it¡¯s not so bad. They¡¯ve got me working hard, so I¡¯m almost sweating. The cold air is kind of nice. Did y¡¯all get all of your Christmas shopping done?¡± ¡°No. We¡¯re Jehovah¡¯s Witnesses.¡± ¡°Oh. Cool.¡± Dave wasn¡¯t sure what to say. Silence kind of took the stage for a second as he nodded his head at the man. ¡°Bah! I¡¯m just kidding! Yeah, we¡¯re still doing a few things last minute.¡± ¡°Gaha! That¡¯s funny. You had me! Well, here¡¯s your stuff. Good luck with the last of your gifts. It can get crazy out there!¡± ¡°You¡¯re telling me! Merry Christmas!¡± ¡°Yeah, Merry Christmas and stuff! Have a good one!¡± The conversation was not spectacular by any means; it was mundane but cheerful banter, a calm and forgettable essence of life. Those moments flew by; before he knew it, Dave had been working for two and a half hours. ¡°Go on your ten,¡± said Riley. ¡°Sweet!¡± replied Dave as he hustled off to the back. ¡°Sorry it¡¯s late.¡± ¡°Not a problem, my man.¡± When he got to the back office, Dave pulled his phone out habitually. There wasn¡¯t anything he wanted to read or any game timer he needed to check; he was as used to staring at the little screen as he was to breathing. He sent a text to his wife. ¡¯I love you!¡± it said, then he put down the distraction box and took a deep breath. What kind of poem am I writing next? I¡¯m still just not sure what I¡¯m doing with myself¡­ I¡¯m not sure I have Odin¡¯s gift or his excrement. Oh well, don¡¯t think about it. Keep going. Chin up. Time¡¯s up: Dave went back out to the window and spoke to Riley. ¡°Where do you want me, boss?¡± ¡°Hi! You¡¯re taking back over here,¡± she cheered back to him. ¡°Good luck. I don¡¯t know how you¡¯re staying so upbeat today.¡± ¡°Awe man, it¡¯s easy. You just have to try. Don¡¯t let your dreams be dreams!¡± ¡°Alright. You¡¯ve got it then!¡± she said smiling breathlessly. Too bad I don¡¯t have any dreams. Even if I did, I wouldn¡¯t know where to start trying to grab them. It¡¯s the task of a wizard and spellweaver to make dreams real; I¡¯m just a dumb piece of the factory. I wouldn¡¯t know what to say even if I could. Maybe, I should think more about listening, less about speaking. Maybe that¡¯s essentially the difference between Odin¡¯s Gift and his excrement, for Odin was wise, and the wise listen. The day went on. The whole team labored together, heroes of the winter season facing down the endless horde of consumers. Eventually, someone would have to go home; Dave would find himself both taking orders and passing them out once more. This was everyone¡¯s favorite position for him cover. It¡¯s the only thing here I¡¯m actually good at, he¡¯d think to himself. And today, I¡¯m going to be as useful as I can possibly be. For now, he was still just working the window. ¡°Hello! How are you?¡± ¡°I¡¯m doing great! How are you?¡± asked a middle-aged woman. ¡°I¡¯m living the dream! It¡¯ll be eleven-fifty.¡± ¡°Alright, keep the change.¡± You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. ¡°Thanks! We appreciate it. Gotta pay rent somehow.¡± ¡°You guys are busy today, aren¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Yeah! Typical Saturday.¡± ¡°You mean it¡¯s always like this?¡± ¡°Yep, pretty much! Of course, it¡¯s especially busy because of the season, but it¡¯s still not much different from any other Saturday in the year.¡± ¡°Wow,¡± said the woman, barely interested. She stared ahead, looking out to the road. Dave wondered for a second what she was thinking about, but his mind pulled to organizing her order. ¡°What¡¯s that girl doing over there?¡± asked the woman. Dave looked out the window to his left. At the corner of the store, he saw what looked like a college student. Her jeans were tattered in style and her hair was long and dark; that¡¯s all Dave caught before she slipped back around the corner. She must be cold with those holes in her pants. ¡°I dunno. I imagine she¡¯s trying to smoke over there, but that can¡¯t be right; I don¡¯t see any smoke.¡± ¡°She looks like she might be waiting for a ride. I think she¡¯s waiting for someone in the drive-through to pick her up.¡± ¡°That makes sense. Here you go, ma¡¯am. You all have a wonderful day! Stay warm.¡± ¡°Merry Christmas!¡± ¡°Merry Christmas and stuff!¡± She pulled away. Another car started pulling up; Dave took a moment to notice the world outside the window. It was almost winter; everything was dead. The sky was a calm gray. To his left, a siren sounded in the streets. There was a lot going on today; Dave was still happy to be a part of it. ¡°Hey! How are you?¡± ¡°I¡¯m good. How much did you say it was?¡± she asked. ¡°It is thirteen-sixty-two. Here¡¯s your drink. Have you gotten all of your shopping done?¡± ¡°Mostly. We¡¯re just covering odds and ends today.¡± ¡°I hear you. You¡¯re doing better than a lot of people.¡± ¡°Yeah, the key is to plan ahead.¡± ¡°Absolutely. And, I would also say to not stress about it. It¡¯s supposed to be fun.¡± ¡°Oh yeah! It¡¯s one of the best things in the world to see the kids¡¯ faces light up on Christmas morning.¡± ¡°Man, I can¡¯t wait for that,¡± said Dave. ¡°Oh, here it is! Your second drink.¡± ¡°Thanks.¡± ¡°You all have a good evening. We¡¯ll see you!¡± ¡°Merry Christmas.¡± ¡°Merry Christmas and stuff!¡± She handed two dollars to Dave. ¡°Here, put that in your jar.¡± ¡°Oh! Thank you! We appreciate it.¡± She pulled away. A minivan pulled up. Dave greeted the driver as cheerfully as ever. ¡°Hi! How are you?¡± ¡°I¡¯m good. You?¡± ¡°I¡¯m doing real well! It¡¯ll be twenty-three-forty-five.¡± She handed him her card. He put it in the chip reader, and she went back to looking at her phone. He stood there waiting for the transaction to process. I hate these things. Swiping was always so much faster. Oh well. Apparently this is safer. ¡°Oh my gosh!¡± said the driver of the minivan. Dave turned around. ¡°She just stole your tip jar!¡± ¡°What?¡± said Dave like the coming out of busted bike tube. It was gone. She was gone, the girl with tattered jeans walking around the corner of the store. He wanted to chase her, but there was no one to chase. There was no reaction he could give that would make any sense other than to say, ¡°Well¡­¡± it is what it is. Again, it was like a scene on stage, Dave watching powerlessly from the audience. The swans had returned to their home, the spell broke, and they felt the years upon them until they withered and scattered on the wind. This is the ending to Children of Lir, or at least, one way it is told. ¡°...maybe she needs it more than we did,¡± said Dave, trying to make his own ending to the tale. He didn¡¯t believe what he said. ¡°There you go. That¡¯s a positive way to look at it,¡± said the woman in the minivan. Dave hopped on the headset. ¡°Guys¡­ someone just stole our tips.¡± ¡°What?¡± said Riley. ¡°Seriously?¡± said Tom. ¡°Yeah¡­¡± said Dave. And it was my fault. I wasn¡¯t paying close enough attention. ¡°What do we do?¡± said Tom. ¡°There¡¯s nothing we can do,¡± said Riley. What we should do isn¡¯t important. What we should have done is important. ¡°I¡¯m sorry guys¡­¡± ¡°It¡¯s not your fault, Dave,¡± said Tom. ¡°Yeah¡­ I guess you¡¯re right,¡± he sighed in response. The day must go on. There¡¯s nothing I can do about it. ¡°Here¡¯s your order, ma¡¯am. You all have a Merry Christmas and stuff.¡± ¡°Thanks. Merry Christmas.¡± The minivan rolled away. Another one replaced it. Dave went through the motions. ¡°Where¡¯s your tip jar?¡± ¡°Hm? Oh, someone just stole it,¡± said Dave like a wet blanket. ¡°Oh gee, that sucks. Well, maybe they needed it more than y¡¯all did.¡± ¡°Yeah, maybe she did.¡± The driver put the money back in her wallet. Dave sighed. She didn¡¯t need it. There¡¯s plenty of places to get things you need, especially around Christmas. She stole it for drugs. I shouldn¡¯t think that way, but I know that¡¯s what happened. She¡¯s spending our tips on her high. ¡°Here you go. Have a good one.¡± There¡¯s no point in being so hateful. ¡°Hi! How are you?¡± But, looking at it hopefully doesn¡¯t help either. ¡°Yeah, someone stole it.¡± I know I should forgive her; there¡¯s nothing else I can do. ¡°Have a good one. We¡¯ll see you.¡± But, it still hurts to know someone got the better of me. My guard was down, and I cost everyone here a few bucks because of it. That sucks. This job sucks. I just want to go home. ¡°Hi! How are you doing?¡± Suck it up. Drive on. ¡°Dave, you¡¯re staying on the window. I want you to start taking orders; Jess is going home. Let me know if you need help, got it?¡± ¡°Yeah, absolutely!¡± To Hell with this¡­ Dave started answering customers at the box, punching in orders and passing them out once they arrived at the window. Time went on, lunch passed, and the sting of being robbed became numb. Everything became numb. Just keep going. Just get through the day. Tomorrow always has the chance of being better. A smile of sorts stuck to Dave¡¯s face, but it lacked the heroic charm it had earlier in the day. His voice lacked the warm and jovial timbre that had carried him thus far. Standing on the precipice of hope, he looked out unto the world and thought about jumping. He was standing on the edge of the stage. He looked down and out into the audience; they were a lot farther away than a typical crowd. They were hard to see. They weren¡¯t even there; everything was black. The red sign stared from the back of the theatre. No¡­ Not yet. I can¡¯t accept your invitation. Not yet, at least. I have to walk out one day; I¡¯ll save that for last. If the playwright said to wait until Christmas, I have to respect the script. The sign twinkled as though it understood. A boo erupted from the audience as Dave turned his back on it. The headset dinged. Dave snapped to and began taking the order. ¡°I need one caramel butterscotch.¡± ¡°Alright, what size?¡± ¡°Large.¡± ¡°Awesome! One large caramelized butterscotch steamer, what else for you?¡± ¡°No, I don¡¯t want it iced. I want it hot.¡± ¡°Right. One large caramelized butterscotch steamer, can I get anything else for you?¡± ¡°I DON¡¯T WANT IT ICED! I just want a caramel-butterscotch whatever!¡± she shouted, followed by an obscenity under her breath. ¡°Right. One large ¡®caramliZZZed¡¯ butterscotch,¡± said Dave with obnoxious exaggeration he felt sure would get the point across. He was done giving in on things. ¡°Whatever. It better not be iced.¡± Dave¡¯s finger lingered over the iced button. His face was twisted like a pretzel. If she thinks I¡¯m an idiot, I may as well be an idiot. I¡¯m gonna do it. I¡¯m gonna do it. I¡¯m gonna be an idiot. He sent the order through. Dave continued his pattern of ¡¯hi, how are you?¡¯s at the window and ¡¯hi, what can I get for you?¡¯s out the box until ¡®caramel iced butterscotch¡¯ drew close. ¡°I don¡¯t think she wants this iced,¡± said Tom. ¡°Just make it iced,¡± said Dave through locked teeth. ¡°But¡­ okay,¡± said Tom. Once her drink was ready, Dave opened the window up once again as a bright flame in a cold and ruthless world, ready to go to a war he¡¯d started. ¡°Hi! How are you doing today?¡± he asked with a voice sweeter than the cold drink in his hand. The grumpy lady remained silent, but her dagger-eyes spoke volumes on her discontent. ¡°It¡¯ll be six dollars and thirty cents,¡± said Dave as he took her card. ¡°That was supposed to be hot!¡± she spat viciously. ¡°Oh! It was? I guess I didn¡¯t hear you right. Shucks! You know how these headsets can be. Let me get it remade for you; it¡¯ll just take a second.¡± The line was backed all the way up. There was no chance of anyone pulling up; no new orders to take. Everyone was going to just have to wait; this had become personal, and Dave felt pretty petty. ¡°I told you she didn¡¯t want it iced,¡± said Tom. ¡°Oh, I know. I¡¯ll remake it myself,¡± said Dave. He went over to an empty machine and started steaming milk. He pumped the sauce into the cup and stood there waiting for the milk to finish. A wry smile ran across his face with anticipation for his next move in the petty game of Sorry. He took his time pouring and swirling the milk so that the sauce wouldn¡¯t get stuck at the bottom. It really doesn¡¯t matter, he thought. She¡¯s not gonna drink this. I just want to take the time to do my job right, even when I¡¯m doing it wrong. Dave came back to the window with the hot drink in hand. ¡°Here you go, ma¡¯am,¡± he started saying as his hand went out the window. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about that mis-Oh no!¡± The drink slipped from his hand and hit the ground upside down. ¡°Whoops!¡± he said, locking eyes with her and tilting his head to the side, completely sincere in all the wrong ways. ¡°Man, I am so sorry about that. It looks like I¡¯m just a big putz today! Let me go remake that for you.¡± Tom giggled behind Dave. The woman seethed, but Dave didn¡¯t give her a chance to speak before he shut the window in her face and turned around. He went back over to the empty machine and repeated making the drink, just as casually. His body rattled with the ignition of fighting instincts. This time, he swirled the cup just enough for show. It really doesn¡¯t matter. She won¡¯t question it. He came back to the window and passed the drink out with her card. ¡°Here you are! I¡¯m sorry for that mistake on your order. Is there anything else I can get for you?¡± She held up a middle finger on an arm indignantly stretched out the car window. A cigarette hung from that hand, leaving smoke rolling into the window. ¡°I¡¯m sorry ma¡¯am, but I¡¯ll have to ask you to put that out. You can¡¯t smoke anywhere within twenty-five feet of our building,¡± said Dave, waving his hand in front of his nose. ¡°Suck a dick!¡± she yelled before she sped off. Dave stood where she left him, a dumb look on his face. ¡°I was really hoping she would notice that was just steamed milk before she took off,¡± said Dave over his shoulder. Tom burst into a laugh that rolled into a ceaseless giggle so he could keep working. ¡°What¡¯s the holdup at the window?¡± asked Riley over headset. ¡°Nothing now. This woman was just being a problem, but Dave took care of it,¡± replied Tom. He shut his headset off and kept giggling. ¡°Alright well, I¡¯m gonna come take orders for you while you get caught up.¡± ¡°Yeah, I wonder who stole her tip money,¡± said Dave as he and Tom lost it to laughter. Chapter 22 ~ December 14th It finally slowed down. They had to get as much cleaning done as possible before the next rush. Dave was wiping out a milk fridge. He was always wiping out a milk fridge. He was tired and hungry for something that wasn¡¯t fast, something that wasn¡¯t easy. He still couldn¡¯t stop thinking about the person he let steal their tips, their livelihood; how could I let someone do that. I let my team down. All I can say is ¡®oh well, it is what it is.¡¯ I don¡¯t want to say that though; it doesn¡¯t do any good. I want to say something that will do somebody some good. ¡°You know, when people ask if our tip jar has ever been stolen, I always just say ¡®no¡¯ like I¡¯m surprised the world is a decent place or something,¡± said Dave over the headset. ¡°It hadn¡¯t been stolen in the entire time that I¡¯ve been here,¡± said Riley. ¡°My point was, from now on I¡¯m going to say that people have tried to steal it, but we apprehended them and called the police.¡± ¡°You know what that sounds like?¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Fake news.¡± ¡°Okay, but what¡¯s your point?¡± ¡°If that had ever happened, it would have made it on the 4 o¡¯clock news. No one will believe it.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t think word would get around and that it would deter people?¡± ¡°I think what¡¯s done is done, and you can¡¯t do anything about it. Don¡¯t beat yourself up, man.¡± ¡°Objectively, I can¡¯t see any reason that you aren¡¯t right.¡± ¡°That¡¯s because I am right.¡± ¡°Well emotionally, I can¡¯t help but disagree.¡± ¡°Well emotionally, how¡¯s that working out for you, Dave?¡± ¡°It¡¯s not.¡± ¡°Then stop doing it. Get over it.¡± ¡°C¡¯mon Riley, you know that¡¯s easier said than done.¡± ¡°Okay, but are you trying to get over it, or are you just letting it bother you?¡± ¡°I guess I¡¯m just letting it bother me. I just want to feel useful, I guess. I want to be the hero in the story, the guy who saves the day and makes everything right. I had a chance to do that, and I failed.¡± ¡°You want another chance to be the hero?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°Stop wiping that counter over and over again. Do something useful. Clean the fridges or something.¡± ¡°Yeah, no, that¡¯s actually what I was doing. I just got distracted for a second.¡± ¡°Uh uh. I noticed.¡± ¡°I was just saying, if I made stealing our tip jar sound less enticing, maybe it wouldn¡¯t happen again.¡± ¡°You can try, but will you ever really know if it makes a difference?¡± ¡°No, but I imagine it would.¡± ¡°Then the tip jar will definitely be safer in your imagination, my dude.¡± Dave was stuck in the merry go round on an empty playground . Riley was right. He knew Riley was right, he knew he should get off the creaking ride, but he was trapped in its spin: I should have. I could have. I wish I would have. He was carrying a rock no one asked him to pick up, and he didn¡¯t know how or where to set it down; it was glued on his arms and back, and even if it wasn¡¯t, if he set it down here it would just roll back down the hill. Boulders always go downhill. This isn¡¯t my boulder. This boulder is just a distraction. ¡°Alright, I¡¯ll let it go,¡± he finally said. ¡°We¡¯ll talk about something else. How are things in your world?¡± ¡°Ummm¡­ They¡¯re good. They¡¯re good I guess,¡± said Riley. ¡°Well, they don¡¯t sound that good.¡± ¡°To be honest, I¡¯m just frustrated. I don¡¯t understand.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t understand what?¡± asked Dave. Gee, she sounds like me. The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. ¡°How I can work forty hours a week and still can¡¯t afford to get the heat fixed in my car.¡± ¡°Yeah¡­ That sucks.¡± ¡°Yeah, it does suck.¡± ¡°Maybe you need a second job.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I¡¯m thinking; I just don¡¯t see how I can work any harder.¡± ¡°Yeah, forty hours a week is a lot to put into work like this.¡± ¡°I¡¯m considering the Cantina down the road.¡± ¡°Another food service job?¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s kind of all I¡¯m good for, dude.¡± ¡°Okay, but why Cantina Drive specifically?¡± ¡°Well, I eat a lot of food from there and employees get half off at all times. It¡¯s better than anything we have to offer from here.¡± ¡°Yeah, the food here really sucks after a while. Every time someone spends seven dollars on a sandwich, it whittles my faith in humanity.¡± ¡°Right.¡± ¡°One sandwich plus tax is worth what I make in an hour. An hour of my life is worth a sandwich to this company.¡± ¡°Right.¡± ¡°I have no idea how this place makes so much money. You know how when we make a mistake and call it out for free? No one ever takes it. No one ever wants it.¡± ¡°Right!¡± ¡°No one ever wants anything here for free, but everyone¡¯s happy to pay a few minutes or an hour of their life for this crap.¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t make any sense.¡± ¡°Not at all. I wouldn¡¯t pay a single minute, let alone an hour. The only way I can explain it is by believing that only stupid people choose to spend their money here.¡± ¡°I feel like only stupid people choose to work here.¡± ¡°Hey, c¡¯mon! I can at least read; I¡¯m not that stupid,¡± said Dave. ¡°You just have to be an idiot to keep yourself here, doing this job, for these wages.¡± ¡°Okay, then why have you been here for so long?¡± ¡°Because, and I hate to say this, but I kind of like my job. I like giving people a smile and trying to make their day a little better. I like working together as a team. I like making drinks, talking about coffee, and being trusted with money. I just wish I worked for a company that cared about me as much as they asked me to care about my job.¡± ¡°Have you thought about opening up your own store?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to do that.¡± ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°There¡¯s a lot of work and risk involved with that, not to mention the difficulty with finding a loan.¡± ¡°Yeah, but you¡¯d have more control over your life; isn¡¯t that what you want?¡± ¡°No, control has nothing to do with it, man. I want the company I work for to show me that an hour of my life is worth more than eleven dollars. I want to go home from work and turn the heat on in my apartment because I offer a service that can afford me that simple luxury.¡± ¡°So, money. Money is the problem; you¡¯re saying you don¡¯t get paid enough.¡± ¡°Yeah, kind of. That¡¯s part of it. It¡¯s really like I¡¯m working for a place that doesn¡¯t make me want to work for it. Not being able to pay my bills when something comes up is just part of that. Like I said, I want to work for a company that cares about me as much as it asks me to care about my job.¡± ¡°I dig, man.¡± ¡°I¡¯m saying too much, though.¡± ¡°No. You¡¯re only saying what you need to say,¡± said Dave. ¡°Don¡¯t censor yourself because you¡¯re ¡®in charge.¡¯ They don¡¯t pay you enough for that.¡± I remember why I left at the beginning of the summer. You do everything you can, you bust your tail trying to make things work, trying to get ahead, and then the refrigerator breaks. Then your wife gets sick. Then there¡¯s no point in you working so hard; life always seems to outwork you. There¡¯s nothing I can tell her; I haven¡¯t gotten past this stage myself. What¡¯s something I always wanted to hear? ¡°You do a great job here. You deserve more,¡± said Dave. ¡°Thanks.¡± ¡°Go get it.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°Go get your ¡¯more.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not that easy, Dave.¡± ¡°Just because it¡¯s not easy doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s not possible.¡± ¡°Just because it¡¯s possible doesn¡¯t mean it¡¯s practical.¡± ¡°Fair point, but-¡± ¡°What are you working on?¡± ¡°Honestly, nothing. I¡¯m just fed up with today. What needs to be done?¡± ¡°Have we done the bathrooms?¡± ¡°No. I¡¯m on it.¡± He grabbed a rag, a bottle of restroom cleaner, and a mop and headed to the bathrooms. I can¡¯t solve her problems or the problems of any of my friends for that matter. I can¡¯t solve my wife¡¯s problems; I¡¯m not even sure if I can solve my own problems, but I can face them. He sprayed restroom cleaner all over the sink. I can face them. I can¡¯t wait for answers; I can¡¯t wait for anything to just come to me. Things have to be found; things have to be built. Work has to be done. I have to go on stage. I can¡¯t do this under a dogma of death. He wiped down the sink and began spraying the tile walls. I think, for once the idea of wanting to live feels significant. I can only find truth through life, buried deep in its cycle like an ore waiting to be found, waiting to be forged in the hands of a master. Truth glitters on my eye more than gold and starlight, yet it is infinitely more ephemeral. He ran the mop across the floor, wiping up the cleaner he¡¯d sprayed down. To discount truth, to say I can know nothing of it, is to deny myself the gift of my own experience. To say truth is simple is to say that life is unnecessary, that all the intricacies and nuance of birth, death, growth, conflict, and struggle can be learned in an evening. If some billion brief existences have not achieved everything there is, then how and why could I, just another individual, ever discern a mastery of being. Feasts are eaten by many, sitting around the table with compassion for each other. Without the compassion, the food just gets cold and grody. If we all bring nothing more than- ¡°How are those bathrooms coming along?¡± ¡°They¡¯re coming. I¡¯m going,¡± said Dave. He realized he¡¯d wiped up all the cleaner he¡¯d sprayed down. He was just running a dirty mop across a clean floor now. He sprayed the outside of the toilet and grabbed a rag. -the despair of our hunger, then what would we have together? Nothing. Death. He finished wiping up the bathrooms and sprayed the hall outside them. One day, I¡¯ll know what it looks like when you go out the door, but I want to know everything the show has to offer first. As much as I can know. Dave looked up to the empty set. An actor came out from stage left, running a mop across the floor. He looked down at the mop in his own hands, his circular wipes slowing to a stop. I¡¯m just mopping. I¡¯m just wiping down these floors. This is life, and I¡¯m okay with it. I kinda love this simple moment. The actor on stage began to whistle, hum, and sing interchangeably. Dave recognized The Doors. ¡°Yes, the river knows!¡± he joined in, too eager to share company in his work. Believe me. On and on it goes. He looked over to the Exit. Yeah, I¡¯ll have to walk through those doors one day¡­ but not yet. I¡¯ve got something I want to try first. I want to try bringing something to the table. Chapter 23 ~ December 14th ¡°You know, it feels like it¡¯s been a while since we¡¯ve talked to each other about more than how our workday went,¡± said Dave. Elizabeth sat in the kitchen with him while he cooked; she was exhausted physically and emotionally. She stared at the boiling pot that Dave was stirring, watched the steam roll up when he turned around, looked at him briefly, then returned half of her attention to the phone in her hand.¡°What do you mean?¡± We eat a lot of pasta. ¡°We weren¡¯t born to pay bills and die, right?¡± ¡°Right.¡± Hey, he listens to me. ¡°I want to talk about more than how hard it is to pay bills while we die.¡± ¡°I love you, Dave, but that¡¯s a little heavy for right after work.¡± Camus stood beside Elizabeth¡¯s chair, a pleasant look on his face while she scratched the top of his head, still scrolling through the feed on her phone with her hand that wasn¡¯t free. Heh, that¡¯s funny. Hm, that¡¯s interesting. Huh? I wonder what that means for the state things. I wonder if dad will message me back. Ooh! I¡¯ve got a good comment for this post; nah, there¡¯s no point in sharing whispered her mind like television static shushing softly in the background. Dave reached in the fridge and grabbed an apple ale. He extended it out to his wife, holding it by the tip of the neck. She looked up from the feed with half-awake eyes going back and forth between him and the drink. ¡°We weren¡¯t born to pay bills and die, right?¡± She grabbed the bottle. Dave twisted off the top before he let go; he turned back to the fridge, reached in, and grabbed one for himself. Elizabeth watched him take a long swig. ¡°I want to remember who you really are,¡± he said looking down at the bottle in his hand. ¡°I don¡¯t ever want to forget the woman I married. You¡¯re more than someone who just goes to work every day. You¡¯re the person who decided to tolerate all the problems and complications I bring to your life, and for that, you deserve all the respect and adoration I can give you.¡± ¡°You make me sound like I¡¯m an angel or something,¡± said Elizabeth. ¡°Well, we try to be,¡± said Dave. ¡°None of us are any good at it, but we all still try to play the part. I wonder if that¡¯s just what happens when a culture marries solipsism with the death throes of theism.¡± ¡°You sound so pretentious right now,¡± laughed Elizabeth. Sometimes I wonder, Dave, do you even know what you¡¯re talking about? ¡°Hey,¡± said Dave like a good cop on a bad police force, his voice growling and his eyes squinted. ¡°At least I sound like something in this world full of noise. At least you can hear me at all. Now, I know what you¡¯re thinking: ¡®Does he take himself seriously, or is it just one big joke to him?¡¯ To tell you the truth, I forgot myself in all this excitement.¡± ¡°You forgot yourself?¡± ¡°Yes. I myself forgot whether or not I just take myself seriously.¡± Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions. ¡°Oh yeah?¡± ¡°Yeah, you¡¯ve got to ask yourself one question: ¡®do I feel lucky?¡¯ Well, do you, punk?¡± Elizabeth giggled with Dave. Compassion oils many of life¡¯s joints, none so much as the trigger that controls laughter. It is hard to laugh with, alongside, a man you despise, yet his friend may roar and slap the table. A spouse can easily create hysteria where the world sits in deadpan. A friendship without inside jokes is like an old bike left to the weather. Dave¡¯s wife, his best friend, constantly laughed with him, at him, and to him. She laughed because of him. No one else thinks I¡¯m funny. No one else needs to; she¡¯s the only one I need to. Fools do their best work when they come and get to know us. He stared her down with squinty eyes, pointing his apple ale at her like a .44 magnum. She squinted back, holding her bottle to her face, pointing at Dave, just as ready to fire. ¡°Well, which am I?¡± he asked, keeping the voice. ¡°Dirty Harry or Leslie Nielsen? Clint Eastwood or Frank Drebin?¡± ¡°That¡¯s not fair; they both took themselves seriously! That¡¯s why Naked Gun is funny.¡± ¡°Man¡¯s got to know his limitations. Some people just don¡¯t have a sense of humor.¡± ¡°I thought you wanted to talk.¡± ¡°This is talking. How is this not talking? I¡¯m saying words; you¡¯re saying words. We¡¯re talking!¡± said Dave playfully, his voice getting a little high now. ¡°Alright, Seinfeld! Are we talkers? Are we talking? Is this what we¡¯re doing with our lives?¡± The stove hissed as a froth boiled over the edges of the pot. Dave remembered he was cooking. He took the boiling pot over to the sink. ¡°Have you talked to your dad lately?¡± he asked as he poured the noodles down into the colander and the steam up into his face. ¡°No.¡± Why would you bring that up? ¡°Why not?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. I just haven¡¯t heard back from him. He kept saying he wanted to see me before Christmas. He said he wanted to sit down and talk before Thanksgiving. I didn¡¯t see him before Thanksgiving. I don¡¯t think I¡¯ll see him before Christmas.¡± What do you want me to tell you? The guy¡¯s made a lot of mistakes. That¡¯s all I¡¯ve come to expect. He¡¯s crushed my hopes again and again, and I¡¯m done. I have to be. Is that what you want me to say? I don¡¯t know how to say it; thoughts and feelings aren¡¯t the same as words. I don¡¯t know how to say I wish he¡¯d call, but I¡¯m not surprised, although I¡¯m still hurt. I don¡¯t know how to fix it. Is it even something I can fix? No, but I still care. I still hurt. ¡°That sucks,¡± said Dave with utmost sincerity. ¡°You know when you¡¯re a kid and you have a recital or a play or a show?¡± ¡°Yeah¡­¡± Best just to forget about it. ¡°Sometimes, it means a lot when you look out into the crowd and see your parents¡¯ faces.¡± ¡°Yeah, and sometimes it means a lot more when you don¡¯t see them, when you can¡¯t find them, when they¡¯re not there. Different but more.¡± ¡°You¡¯re right. Not seeing their faces can make you anxious. Even seeing their faces can make you anxious. But either way, they can¡¯t help you perform. You¡¯re not going to score any extra points because they were cheering. You¡¯ll probably forget about them when you start your monologue. That doesn¡¯t mean they get to leave the theatre.¡± ¡°No, it doesn¡¯t.¡± Where are you going with this? ¡°It doesn¡¯t mean they aren¡¯t part of the experience because they can¡¯t feed you your lines, or remind you not to skip that note; for some reason, it¡¯s just really important that they see what¡¯s happening. It means the world that they cared enough to sit there at all. It¡¯s a shame we can¡¯t appreciate that patience when it¡¯s here. It¡¯s a shame it sucks so much when it¡¯s gone.¡± Elizabeth stared out at nothing. Dave, you¡¯re trying to help, but I don¡¯t need a wise man to tell me what to think. I¡¯m not looking for that. I just need someone to listen. I don¡¯t see why you don¡¯t get that¡­ I don¡¯t get that. Why don¡¯t I get that? Why do we never just listen? ¡°Hey,¡± he said. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I was rambling. I want to listen to you talk about it, not the other way around.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have to apologize. I¡¯m just glad you¡¯re here.¡± Chapter 24 ~ December 15th The staccato keyboard patter sang past two a.m. A fire was burning in Dave¡¯s head, begging to be stoked and fed, so by screen light in the dead of night, he poured his molten thoughts into a white cast. Once cast and cooled for a moment, he set the bronze stanzas to the grindstone. Now honed as finely as could the hand of an apprentice, Dave laid his eyes upon his gentle cascade of verse and rhyme: Trances ~ The Wolf Is it strange that we are here In this place, Being alive, trying our damnedest to survive? Charge forward Full of fear. We have these holes in our faces, These grand and gaping places We use to coerce with screams and whispers, Always saying, ¡°please, don¡¯t kill me.¡± We take liquid and pour it inside Or else, We fear, We cannot survive. And from these holes We spit emotions, Things called words and phrases That try to tell us What this place is Where we the strange make such a commotion. We are the living dead, And we march upon the holy. We are what we have created: The vile that cannot be sated. And, we will thrive as we pretend to survive¡­ ¡­ in this world where¡­ ¡­ n o t h i n g is alive. He say: The Universe, built in a week; Man, Built in a day. Spirit enters the body: The Spirit of Man. It screams life. It screams motion. It screams the beginning of time, Flowing to the cosmic song and rhyme. Wake up you people! Open to the call of the Spirit. The call of the Wild? Can the animal dance? Can the animal dance? D o e s the animal Know the dance? Shaman wind across the plains: The world is dancing, Trapped in chains. Beneath the desert sun It rains, Washing away weary stains. What¡¯s wrong with you people? Wake up! Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website. The time to move is now: Pick the beat, Step to the eternal march. Play the part, play the part: Remember now The sacred art? She do¡­ I am the Wolf Shaman Wild and uncommon. :Normality::Illusory: You live in Delusory. Every morning you awaken Unconscious. Wake up! Wake up! How can you people be so dead? Have you heard a word He said? Have you seen a thing he do? ( t h e k i l l e r ) She¡¯s red, she¡¯s red And dance like she dance death away One man needs not one more drink; Lightning splashes upon her feet. Her beauty never been discreet. Hair sway like the leaves of autumn. He take another drink, and take another drink; She pushed one man¡¯s senses To his brink. She push all our senses¡­ ...to the brink. ( s h e l i f e ) & ( s h e t h e c i t y ) Get ready. Get ready. Here comes The revolution To hell with Resolution. In the streets! In the streets! Lions roam The savage streets. She dance. She dance. Sing the song of the crow. Ravens flutter: end the show. There¡¯s nothing that you Really know. Why live? Why die? The Everything¡¯s another lie. This was just a world of perceptions. ( t h e y , t h e p e o p l e ) I am the Wolf Shaman¡­ So wild, uncommon. Now I¡¯m sad that this world is over, One lost rover doubled over. ____ I made this; I like it. I can¡¯t say that about any of the other art I consume. This is mine. This is what life has to offer me; the chance to create and appreciate, and that is the chance to love. Love. My wife, my coworkers¡­ even the customers. I¡¯m tired but in a good way. I can¡¯t wait to go to sleep. I can¡¯t wait to wake up tomorrow. What opportunities wait for Dave tomorrow? Some of the same, but there will be new things. What do I get to give? How¡­ how do I¡­ Dave¡¯s eyes fell shut, another layer of darkness in the dead of night. His thoughts ran on unconsciously, leaving him with total unawareness of when sleep fell upon him. Sleep had hit him hard like a beater knocking the dust out of a rug. Sunlight reached her long fingers out from behind the curtain, poking at eyes gently shut. Dave took a deep conscious breath as observed the coming of wakefulness. What chances do I get today? He stood up and stretched, accepting with glee that his morning was upon him. He turned around and looked at his wife. I get another chance to be in love with her, and I¡¯d be shortsighted to think that was the end and not just the start. Dave was on his way up, unmindful of looking back down. The world seemed bright, sweet, and succulent to behold, but this isn¡¯t to say that he had become completely satisfied. With his feet propped up on the coffee table, he lay back on the couch in his underwear. He scooped salsa from a bowl and crammed chips in his mouth. His mind stood in the field some hundred yards outside the forest of ¡®why bother?¡¯, observing its depths with wonder. I still need to know. I still can¡¯t explain what gives life objective value over death, but¡­ I think I can kind of feel it. For the first time in a long while, God, I¡¯m thankful you created me, whether I asked for it or not. Still, I want to try to rationalize this. Everyone has ¡®the truth.¡¯ Everyone can¡¯t wait to tell you their ¡®good news¡¯ or ¡®bad news.¡¯ Some are more valuable than others, but there is no coherent consensus. Is there? What are the commonalities? Looking for shared viewpoints is one place to start. There¡¯s a lot to sift through; it¡¯ll take me a lifetime. Better get- Oh shoot! I need to get to work! Dave hopped up and put on an old shirt and an old pair of pants. He ran upstairs to the bedroom. He ran downstairs to the living room. He stepped quietly into the kitchen where his wife was at work. ¡°Sir, I understand you¡¯re upset about this, and I¡¯d like to help you with your problem, but we need to proceed in a more professional manner so that I can help you resolve this issue,¡± she said to her headset. She went quiet for a moment; Dave knew this meant the customer on the line was yelling and judged from her earlier statement that he was yelling obscenities. ¡°Sir, I don¡¯t exactly feel comfortable giving out my personal information to you, but if there¡¯s a problem with the way I¡¯m handling things for you, I will gladly give you my employee number and you can file a complaint.¡± Dave rolled his eyes. She¡¯s a saint. What kind of jerk bullies customer service? She turned around in her chair and rolled her eyes at Dave, then made a silent face frustration, holding her hands up as if to throttle someone. He found his keys, put shoes on his feet, and kissed his wife on the head while she was still taking the same call. ¡°I¡¯m leaving. I love you. Bye!¡± he said in one quiet breath. ¡°Wait! Come here,¡± she said, puckering her lips for a kiss. Dave realized the call was on mute. He bent over to give a real goodbye. ¡°I¡¯ll see you tonight,¡± he said, not wanting the chat to end. ¡°Of course. I love you too! Have a good day,¡± she said smiling. She held up a quick finger and turned back to her computer. ¡°Sir, if you¡¯re not going to be more professional about this and let me assist you, I¡¯m going to have to transfer you to the offensive line.¡± Dave turned to the door. What kind of person is she talking to (other than awful)? Any kind of person, I guess. We¡¯re all just a few steps away from having our worst day. Sometimes, you grow up learning how to dig holes. I guess, you just get to a point where digging is all you know. That¡¯d mean a lot more if it came from a ditch digger. He rushed through the living room and out the door. While it was still December and not quite winter, the afternoon air almost made it feel like a cold spring day. Dave was working later today than he was used to, something with which he had no qualms. Something stopped his rush to the grind. Damn. He took that rare deep breath done to make a moment immortal in the mind. You want to think you¡¯ve seen it all, that there¡¯s only so much that life can offer, and then the sky hits you with this. Even the ugly parts of ¡®sustenance¡¯ find redemption when the light runs through them in a certain way. Smog stretched thin across a cotton candy sea. Look at the reef of paupers, Kings compared to slaves in the Past. I¡¯m the only person that gets to see this. I¡¯m the only person here, in love with what¡¯s been set before me. His stomach shivered from the throb of his heart, his chest briefly quaking. His eyes became damp with little tears as though the boil in his mind began to sweat against the chill, crisp air. Sure, other folks can see the sky, but I¡¯m the only one looking at this landscape from right here in the middle of the community, a landscape of duplexes. It¡¯s as though this scene was made for me and no one else, a moment to remember that I can¡¯t help but forget, something more precious than anything I can give myself. It¡¯s as though sometimes you just luck out and have an experience more beautiful than all the same old, something you can¡¯t compare the rest of your life, completely arbitrary in the grand schemes of history and progress, but undeniably valuable if for no other reason than that its likeness to an artist¡¯s canvas but produced in a place of randomness. Art imitates life; don¡¯t forget to enjoy the real thing. Commonality: sunsets are beautiful. Chapter 25 ~ December 15th ¡°Hey!¡± said Dave to the man standing at the corner under the overpass. ¡°You want a smoke?¡± ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°I just picked up a pack at the gas station. You want a couple?¡± ¡°Thank you, sir. God bless you.¡± ¡°Yeah, man. Keep on keepin¡¯ on. I¡¯m sorry I don¡¯t have more for you, but I hope that helps,¡± said Dave. As soon as the last word came out of his mouth, he realized this guy probably didn¡¯t have a light. Dave didn¡¯t have one either. Well, shoot. Nothing¡¯s perfect, I guess, he thought as he drove off. I got him halfway there; he¡¯ll have to find the smoke himself. Dave got out of the car. He stretched, took a breath, and looked at the sky from his new location. His new angle. It had turned blue again, growing dull with twilight; it was still beautiful, but it wasn¡¯t picturesque in the way he saw it before his drive started. I¡¯ll never have that moment again, but I hope I get something else like it, he thought, trying to forget where he was going, holding onto the place he came from. Every once and awhile we need to go into dark places to do battle against those things which would threaten what we hold dear. He sallied forth from the peaceful cathedral he¡¯d been privileged to visit, looking toward the door that led into the bowels of darkness. Dave looked up through the door¡¯s glass pane at the exit sign. I go through this door five times a week and five times a week I come back out. Today, I do it again. If I want something else, I can go find something else, but right now this is where I am. This door is damnation. This door is salvation. It leads to Heaven, and it leads to Hell. It¡¯s nothing to fear. It¡¯s nothing to resent. It is not my friend or cohort. It is not an enemy. Right now, it is what it is. Que sera, sera. C¡¯est la guerre. With chin up and shoulders back, he stepped through the door. A cacophony of singing muppets harassed his ears. I hate this playlist. ¡°FIVE-- GOLDEN-- RINGS--,¡± they screeched in the semblance of underworld denizens, haranguing all with the horrors of Christmas time. If there is indeed a war on Christmas, I think I¡¯d like to be in the shock troops. The Yule season had never hurt Dave. It was the disciples and fanatics worshipping the gods of devouring that Dave feared and resented. They can live however they want; I just wish I could retract myself from it. Their fanaticism flows from their love though; I can try to respect that. I can respect that Christmas is hard. It¡¯s hard for a lot of people... ¡°Excuse me. Pardon me. Excuse me,¡± said Dave politely as he muddled past people on his way to the back. The line reached to the door with people standing and waiting to pay for overpriced milk, sugar, and food substitutes. This was an example of spending time together around the holidays. I just wish they understood what I understand. They don¡¯t know how for granted they¡¯re taking family time. There was the quiet roar of white noise unique to a busy caf¨¦. People chattered in line. Blenders whirred while gnashing ice. An oven beeped. A timer beeped. The cash safe sang louder than both of them. Steam wands screamed then hissed in milk beneath the call of orders called to the crowd. Steel spoons tapped steel pitchers, and both tapped steel countertops like the rattle of swords and plates. Dave tapped on the keyboard in the back office, clocking in. He started putting on his apron while walking out to the floor. Just seeing all these people made him wish he was in bed asleep, but there also struck in his head a sense of urgency like the swinging pendulum of a cuckoo clock. They need my help out there. ¡°Are you on?¡± asked Riley. ¡°Absolutely. Where do you need me, boss?¡± ¡°Take over gathering and support, and flex to drive-through orders if Jess needs help.¡± ¡°Righto! I¡¯m on it, doggone it.¡± He sighed relief with a smile. I don¡¯t have to be stuck in the corner. I¡¯m free from that cell for a moment, he thought as he put a headset over one ear. ¡°Hello, this is Dave, and I¡¯ll be your gatherer and support this evening. Is there anything anyone needs immediately? Ice? Milk?¡± No one had the time or breath to respond. Jess began taking another order. Dave noticed she had a small line of drink orders ready to go out and made the decision to take the next customer at the box. He noticed there were two food items needing to be fetched. The ice was low on one of the bars, and a gross number of pitchers needed to be rinsed. He started with the croissant. He heard Jess finish taking the order. ¡°I¡¯ve got the next one for you,¡± he said as he put the pastry in the oven. He went to the ice machine with quick feet and filled the bucket halfway. By the time he turned around, the oven went off with the pastry. He grabbed it with the tongs and tossed in the paper sack. His sense of urgency was on fire. The box dinged. ¡°Hello! What can I get for you?¡± he asked as he tossed the croissant over into the corner where the orders were lined up. He dumped the bucket of ice in the bin, leaving it less than half-full. ¡°I need uh¡­ I need one uh¡­ Do you have mint mochas?¡± sputtered the woman in response. She sounded old. Dave would have felt a little sorry for her if he had the time; he rinsed out three pitchers, readied to head back to the ice machine to put the bucket back. ¡°We sure do. What size would you like?¡± he asked. ¡°I want... I want a big one. What size is a big one?¡± ¡°You can say small, medium, or large,¡± he said cheerfully. ¡°So, you want a large?¡± ¡°Yeah. How many ounces is that?¡± ¡°Twenty.¡± Q&A¡¯s like this were the reason the line was moving slowly. Orders can be prepped, but if the person handing them out is stuck answering questions, they can¡¯t be handed out. Dave looked in the refrigerators under the ovens for the sandwich he needed to warm. He found the last two hiding in the back and grabbed one. ¡°I want the one smaller than that. How many ounces is that?¡± ¡°Medium is sixteen ounces. What else can I get for you?¡± asked Dave as he put back the pitchers he had rinsed and grabbed more to do the same with. He noticed a trash can needed changing. ¡°Yeah, I want the medium one. Uh, what kind of pastries do you have?¡± ¡°Oh, we have all kinds of pastries. What kind are you looking for? Something chocolatey? Fruity?¡± You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author. ¡°I want something chocolatey. Do you have anything chocolatey?¡± Dave rinsed out the milk pitchers and looked under the cabinet for the trash bags when Tom asked for milk over the headset. ¡°I¡¯m on it,¡± said Dave. ¡°We have chocolate croissants, chocolate cake, brownies, chocolate chip cookies¡­¡± he said trailing off. He put down the pitchers, punched in the medium mint mocha on the order, then started changing the trash. ¡°I¡¯ll take a brownie. Does that come heated?¡± she asked slowly. ¡°I¡¯d be happy to heat that up for you,¡± lied Dave carelessly. She was starting to get to him. The oven went off; he had forgotten the sandwich. He left the trash can with no bags in it, charging over to the beeping machine. ¡°Is there anything else I can get for you?¡± ¡°No, I think that¡¯ll be all.¡± ¡°Alright, we¡¯ll see you at the window with your total.¡± ¡°How much did you say that was gonna be? ¡°Uh, I didn¡¯t. Jess will have your total at the window for you.¡± ¡°Oh, okay. Thank you,¡± said the old woman. She sat at the box a little longer for no reason obvious to Dave, then pulled forward in her own time. Dave struggled with getting the sandwich in its bag; the sandwich wanted to flop open and the bag wanted to flop shut. Before he headed to the window, he turned around and grabbed two gallons of milk from the fridges in the back. The headset dinged on his way to the drive-through. ¡°Hello! What can I get for you?¡± ¡°We need a moment, please,¡± said a man. ¡°Absolutely, take your time,¡± said Dave as he delivered the milk, the sandwich, and then turned around to finish that trash can. He got one bag in and realized the dirty pitchers were piling up again. He filled his hands up grabbing six of the clanking metal vessels. ¡°Alright, we¡¯re ready we need two blended vanilla creamies one of those nonfat with no whip cream we need one blended caramel with extra caramel walls on the cup and about an inch of caramel on the bottom of the cup and two chocolate chip cookies.¡± Dave returned to the window with the six freshly rinsed pitchers. ¡°What size would you like these?¡± ¡°Small on the first one; large on the second two.¡± ¡°Okay, so one small blended vanilla cream, one large nonfat blended vanilla cream with no whip, and one large blended caramel with extra caramel drizzle, and two chocolate chip cookies.¡± ¡°Yeah, and I want extra caramel drizzle all over the inside of the cup, and like, a whole lotta caramel at the bottom of the cup.¡± ¡°You got it,¡± said Dave as he hit the one button that said ¡®extra¡¯, then the button that said ¡®caramel drizzle¡¯, and then the button that said ¡®ask me¡¯. ¡°Like, a lotta caramel.¡± ¡° Absolutely. Is that all for ya?¡± asked Dave. I¡¯m not asking if he wants those cookies warmed up. I don¡¯t have time. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s it.¡± ¡°Awesome, your total¡¯s going to be twenty-two-sixty-five, and we¡¯ll see you at the window,¡± said Dave, sending the order through. ¡°Oh, and can I get those cookies warmed up?¡± Damn it! ¡°Absolutely! Anything else?¡± The car pulled forward without answering. Dave rolled his eyes and finished replacing the second trash bag in the garbage can. He went on. The day went on. Everything tossed and turned, day to evening and evening tonight. The one constant was customers. Dave exhausted himself, running back and forth, replenishing things halfway so resources were always just enough to work with and time was just enough to replenish more things. This is a game Dave thought. All I have to do is play. He reset the coffee timer and started brewing more. You know, this sucks right now, but I¡¯m glad I didn¡¯t miss this moment today. This is accomplishment, and I like this feeling. I like it a lot. The last hour before close showed mercy on the part-timers. They set about cleaning the machines, wracks, urns, counters, and fridges, the same thing they did every night. They filled the sinks with dirty dishes and clean water, then emptied them of cleaned dishes and dirty water. This can be really pleasant work when it¡¯s uninterrupted, thought Dave as he watched sanitizer fill one of the sinks. Still, I can¡¯t help it; I don¡¯t want to be here. I¡¯m not doing this because I want to but because I have to. There are better things out in the world, but I don¡¯t know that I believe there¡¯s any chance of me achieving or attaining them. I still haven¡¯t found life¡¯s objective value, its worth; the only thing that has changed is my outlook because that¡¯s the only thing I feel like I have control over. My perception seems like all I have, and I can¡¯t ignore what it says is real. Perhaps- Ding. Dave sighed. Well, they pay me to clean and take orders, not sit deep in thought, he thought in a moment. ¡°Hello! What can I get for you?¡± ¡°I need just a minute,¡± she said with distress that caught Dave off guard. She sounded really worried, like she¡¯d lost something. ¡°You changed your menu up! What¡¯d you go and do that for?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t change it. That was corporate. Blame them,¡± said Dave. He instantly regretted sounding a little shorter than he meant to. ¡°Well, they always do that. They always mess things up. I want a blended vanilla cream.¡± You know what you wanted; why is such a problem that the menu looks different, thought Dave. ¡°Yeah, no problem. We¡¯ll see you at the window.¡± Dave got started making the drink. A little ice, a little milk, a lot of sugar, then you toss it on the blender and let technology do the rest. It¡¯s like we¡¯re the mad monsters Lovecraft wrote about; proto man could never conceive something like this building and the technology that goes into, the thousands of years and lives that led up to it, the ease of obtaining what might be to him a powerful form of sustenance (if it didn¡¯t make him sick). He¡¯d go mad when you started explaining things. Heck, that¡¯s assuming he doesn¡¯t go mad learning about language. That¡¯s also assuming I¡¯m any different from him. I don¡¯t know that I am. Maybe that¡¯s why I feel like life¡¯s so¡­ dense. Smoky. I should watch Encino Man again. We are so rich and so fat and selfish because we perpetually overfeed our basic needs and act like children when it comes to higher needs. What a privilege it is to be a jerk. ¡®Yell at the barista about the menu¡¯ how dare she¡­ Dave took the drink over to the window. We¡¯ve come so far, we even have trouble imagining life as proto-men. I guess it¡¯s ¡®they¡¯; I had nothing to do with progress, no control over it. I just reap the fruit of dead men¡¯s trees, for better or worse. He punched the order in on the computer, then pulled the door open. ¡°Hi, how are you doing?¡± he said cheerfully. There was no response as she held out a chubby arm with her card in hand. Dave looked into a beat-up, beet red, pickup truck, full of junk like most vehicles driven by humans. The bed probably wasn¡¯t much different except that the wind might have the chance to do a little cleaning it didn¡¯t get to do in the cab. Dave looked in the human¡¯s eyes and saw another person trying to make it in a world that kept putting her in a bowl with milk. She¡¯s not much different from me. We¡¯re all just hungry people, trying to keep from being eaten alive. The woman¡¯s face was more worn out than the truck; she looked like she¡¯d spent her whole life worrying and wasn¡¯t done yet. This and her steadfast silence told Dave more than pleasantries could ever hope to reveal; she¡¯s spent life in the bed of a truck letting wind scatter pieces behind her all across the open road. She¡¯s not all here anymore. I wish I had the authority to tell her it¡¯s all gonna be okay, but that¡¯s not what being a human means; I don¡¯t get to just make things okay, and I don¡¯t think I get to know why they aren¡¯t that way in the first place. We¡¯re all just a little scattered, I guess: no reason to kick around the trash. He handed her the drink and tossed her a ¡®have a good evening¡¯ with a smile before she drove off into the evening and on with her lonely highway litter life. He still didn¡¯t know what to make of the moment, what to learn from it; the exchange stood out to him like the sunset had earlier that day, but it impelled him to do more than admire. This moment means something. Alotta something. His brain had been soaking in diesel all evening and this poor, unhealthy woman was like a match stick set on fire. ¡°You know,¡± he said over the headset. ¡°Sometimes, I think I hate trash. When you see it everywhere, always in your way, always making things a little less pleasant, you think it¡¯s a real problem. You wish you could just make it go away. You wish trash just didn¡¯t exist. I don¡¯t hate trash. I just hate seeing it on the side of the road.¡± ¡°What?¡± asked Jess. ¡°Someone put the trash on the side of the road, and it¡¯ll stay there being swept about unless someone comes and picks it up. Why am I standing here criticizing it? What does that make me? I don¡¯t know. I¡¯m just thinking about people. Our customers, you know?¡± ¡°Yeah, that last lady sounded like a bitch. Why was she so distraught over the menu? She knew what she wanted. Why was it such a big deal?¡± ¡°Umm, I think she was a little autistic or something,¡± said Dave. I know Jess¡¯s trying to be empathetic, but that¡¯s not where I¡¯m at right now. ¡°Oh¡­ I guess that makes more sense,¡± said Jess. ¡°People have just been like that all day, and I know not every one of them is autistic.¡± ¡°Yeah, you are absolutely right. I just feel sorry for them.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. I guess it¡¯s because if my life sucked enough that it made me treat people like crap, I¡¯d want people to feel sorry for me.¡± ¡°No way! Those people don¡¯t deserve sympathy. I¡¯m not sorry one bit.¡± ¡°I wonder if they ever think that about us.¡± Chapter 26 ~ December 12th Autumn¡¯s dying breaths rushed across the concrete world with cold clarity. The bleak sky lingered over the arboreal worship of death that flourished in the gray city. The new faith of the old trees delivered its brown promise to the grass beneath the trees¡¯ pale and sunless shadows. Winter encroached upon the city in quiet certainty like death creeping into old bones. Dave and Billy sat in the burger joint near Dave¡¯s store. They had been talking for a couple of hours, two friends not wanting anything from each other except for a few words worth hearing. Christmas music hissed out of the restaurant¡¯s speakers like static, the white noise of the season. ¡°Man, I love cheeseburgers,¡± said Dave. ¡°Yeah, cheeseburgers are great.¡± ¡°It¡¯s like I¡¯m eating a piece of Americana. It¡¯s like taking a bite out of suburbia or a ¡®fillin¡¯ station.¡± ¡°I never thought about it like that. I just think they taste good. Good and fat!¡± ¡°You ever thought about all the industry behind this greasy, ground steak on a bun?¡± ¡°Dave, you know me, I know you; you know I haven¡¯t. I¡¯m an admirer, not a researcher.¡± ¡°The history of the fast-food industry and its influence on American culture and economy is amazing enough by itself.¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± said Billy before stuffing his sandwich in his mouth. A thought visibly rolled side to side in his head as he chewed up his bite so he could get to where he could speak. ¡°And that¡¯s not even mentioning the domestication of the cow,¡± continued Dave. ¡°You know, if it had such a huge impact on American culture, you¡¯d think they¡¯d teach something about it in school. I don¡¯t see why the development of businesses is any less important than the results of an election. They seem to go hand in hand these days.¡± ¡°They¡¯ve always gone hand in hand. Business is the poor but creative man¡¯s politics. Politics are the dull but wealthy man¡¯s business.¡± ¡°Haha, I like that. You should Facebook that,¡± said Billy. ¡°It¡¯s not that clever. Anyone can criticize politicians. The clever part is figuring out how to get paid to do it.¡± ¡°Be one. Or be a journalist. Same job, really. Neither of them really gets anything done.¡± ¡°Hehe, yeah,¡± said Dave. His brain was out chasing his thoughts. ¡°I went to school for thirteen years. I even did two years of college. Fifteen years of schooling and I have no idea how the world works. You¡¯d think that fifteen years of studying for forty hours a week would¡¯ve made me a master or adept of something.¡± ¡°Well, I can tell you one thing about the world: you don¡¯t get ownership of anything; it¡¯s all on lease, and you¡¯re paying for it with your sanity.¡± ¡°Then I feel like a poor, poor man, Billy. I don¡¯t know how much I have left to give.¡± ¡°Maybe you should go back to school; see if finishing your degree changes anything up for you.¡± ¡°What did you learn in school?¡± ¡°I learned how to buy weed,¡± said Billy. ¡°That¡¯s my point. You weren¡¯t taught anything by your teachers you could actually use. I never look back to high school and say, ¡¯wow! I¡¯m glad I know what sine and cosine mean! You weren¡¯t taught how to motivate yourself, how to be thankful, or even how to navigate through the job market. We weren¡¯t taught how to give to the world. We were just taught how to wait until the clock said three. If they were grooming us to be wage slaves, they at least could have taught us how to roll silverware or sweep floors.¡± ¡°Do you still know what sine and cosine mean?¡± ¡°No, but to be fair I wasn¡¯t a diligent math student. I never did any of the work, so that one¡¯s my fault. Bad example, I guess.¡± ¡°Nah, I get what you¡¯re sayin¡¯. They told us to be more than we were, but they didn¡¯t tell us how. That buck just got passed along.¡± This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°Exactly, man. I just feel like we live in this collection of viewpoints bent on selling sadness like sliced bread,¡± said Dave with a mouth full of burger. ¡°I think you¡¯re right, but I don¡¯t get why we¡¯re sitting here buying it like it¡¯s on sale.¡± ¡°Yeah, I don¡¯t get it either,¡± said Dave. He looked out a faraway window into the grayscaled world. This is America: we were bred and born to be suckers for a sale. ¡°You know what else I don¡¯t get? My ironic guilt from eating meat.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± asked Billy before stuffing chili fries in his mouth. Cheese strung itself from the fork to the basket. ¡°I kind of sympathize with the pig.¡± ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Have you ever seen those semis on the interstate loaded with animals?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°I remember being stuck in traffic next to one last summer. It smelled pretty ripe, and my air conditioning was out; I had to grin and bear it with the windows down, sweat soaking my back and running down my face. The thing I remember most was the pigs, screaming pink pigs sticking their snouts out through the air holes in the back of the semi. They were terrified. I don¡¯t think they knew where they were going; they were just scared, and they had no choice but to keep going forward. They had to keep going in someone else¡¯s direction. They had no choice¡­¡± ¡°That¡¯s real, man.¡± ¡°Yeah. I sympathize with the pig.¡± ¡°I have a similar feeling about bugs.¡± ¡°What kind of bugs?¡± ¡°Any kind that¡¯s small and likes to crawl on you but doesn¡¯t make you itch.¡± ¡°Oh yeah?¡± ¡°Yeah. We complain about how Life¡¯s not fair, but Life¡¯s really not fair to bugs. You ever instinctively swat a tickly on your arm or the back of your neck?¡± ¡°I mean, I try not to. The little guys usually don¡¯t mean any harm.¡± ¡°Exactly! But there you might go, accidentally smashing the happy little buggy, taking him away from all his friends and family because he wandered over the hill of your knee or your neck or your shoulder.¡± ¡°Wow, that¡¯s kinda how I see it.¡± ¡°Yeah, that bug doesn¡¯t know the rules. They don¡¯t have bug school where he can learn not to climb on giants. He probably doesn¡¯t even know what a tickle feels like; he has a carapace instead of skin.¡± ¡°Did you learn that one in school?¡± ¡°Maybe, but it¡¯s nothing that hasn¡¯t been on the nature channel. Anyway, we wrote the rules, and he just has to live by them. Doesn¡¯t get to choose.¡± ¡°Doesn¡¯t even know there¡¯s a choice not to make.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t even know what to make of it,¡± laughed Billy. ¡°It¡¯s just a bug. Maybe I¡¯m just a bug.¡± ¡°Just a bunch of ants flying through space. Same circle every year.¡± ¡°Yep.¡± They sat under the silent weight of the conversation. Dave looked out the window again; Well America, I¡¯ve got nothin¡¯ left to spend. Nothin¡¯ left to spend; I guess I¡¯m buyin¡¯ on credit now. Do I even have a choice, or am I stuck saying someone else¡¯s lines? I¡¯m not the wright of this life. ¡°I feel tired, Billy.¡± ¡°I understand how that goes,¡± said Billy. ¡°These past two months have been rough.¡± ¡°You feel like you¡¯re going crazy, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°Yeah¡­ poor with sanity. It feels selfish hearing myself say it. I think I¡¯ve been fluttering up and down somewhere between normalcy and a nervous breakdown.¡± ¡°Do you know why?¡± ¡°No. Sometimes, I don¡¯t think there¡¯s anything wrong. Sometimes, I think I¡¯m wrong; it¡¯s all just in my head, I¡¯m imagining it. Sometimes, I try to blame it on the past. Maybe it really is the past¡¯s fault. This is kind of a hard season for me.¡± ¡°It¡¯s hard for a lot of people,¡± said Billy. ¡°Yeah. Yeah, I have to remember that I¡¯m not the only person who¡¯s lost a loved one.¡± ¡°The world becomes a different place when you die, and it doesn¡¯t even know it.¡± ¡°Parts of it know. Parts of it will always know, and that¡¯s a part of the tragedy. I don¡¯t know why life is valuable, but I can¡¯t argue that it isn¡¯t. Not after what I¡¯ve been through.¡± ¡°Speaking objectively, human beings are the most unique things in the universe. That we know of, at least.¡± ¡°Speaking objectively, that might not mean much.¡± ¡°No, it might not,¡± said Billy. ¡°But, not much is much more than nothing.¡± ¡°I guess we should just take what we can get, shouldn¡¯t we? Hubris declares something either way. The humble approach is to accept that we are what we are: important in perspective.¡± They sat and let time walk by a little. I want to go and sleep. I don¡¯t know how I feel about waking up. Dave didn¡¯t feel sorry for himself; if anything, it was his wife he felt sorry for. Rather, he didn¡¯t feel much of anything at all. There was an emptiness inside him, and his body was folding into it. ¡°How are you holding up, Billy? I worry about you.¡± ¡°Ah, don¡¯t. There¡¯s no point in it.¡± ¡°How¡¯s work going for you?¡± ¡°Still at Drive ¡¯n Burger.¡± ¡°Still at your grandparents¡¯?¡± ¡°Yeah, I can¡¯t afford to be on my own yet, but I¡¯m getting there. I got a job at a halfway house. I only get to work there on Saturday night, but I love it.¡± ¡°Really? That¡¯s good! What¡¯s so great about it?¡± ¡°I really just get paid to hang out and be there for people. It¡¯s easy money. It¡¯s fulfilling. I¡¯m still looking for something more reliable, but I can¡¯t complain about what I¡¯ve got.¡± ¡°That¡¯s good to hear. I¡¯m happy for you, man,¡± said Dave, trying to find something to feel. I said what I mean, but I didn¡¯t mean what I said. I¡¯m not happy at all. I respect you, Billy. You¡¯ve been through some kind of hell and have come out fighting on the other side. You¡¯re carrying other people through the flames while you¡¯re at it. You¡¯re something I wish I was. You¡¯re something I don¡¯t understand why I¡¯m not. I¡¯m not jealous. I¡¯m confused. I don¡¯t know why I can¡¯t make myself a hero; it¡¯s like I don¡¯t have anything worth saving, but that¡¯s not true at all¡­ that¡¯s not true at all. ¡°I think I need to get home,¡± said Dave. ¡°I think I need to get to bed.¡± ¡°Alright, dude. You look tired.¡± ¡°Yeah, I am tired.¡± ¡°Get some rest, man.¡± Chapter 27 ~ December 16th Here I am again. I spend most of my waking hours here. ¡®What do you do for a living?¡¯ I serve sugar to fat people. I make obese humans bigger. I make sick people sicker. I make sad people sadder. It pays the bills. His face looked like a crumpled ball of paper thrown into the wind. Nobody cared. Dave went in the back and clocked in. He stepped out of the office, tied his apron, and looked to his right to see Riley pulling sandwiches. The store kept feedstock in the freezers and ¡®pulled¡¯ it to the fridges to thaw the day before they would need more. Every day, they needed more. More, more, more, thought Dave. ¡°What¡¯s up, man?¡± he asked with a tired and quiet voice. ¡°Well, the ice machine is broken, we¡¯re out of white chocolate, we¡¯re running out of large flat lids, we¡¯re out of a bunch of pastries, one of the espresso machines is broken, and our order got split between the other stores in town, so we¡¯re not getting one until next week,¡± she said. ¡°Bummer,¡± said Dave like he didn¡¯t care, like it didn¡¯t matter. Why does everything here go to shit all the damn time? he thought with contrary cynical outrage. These petty things kept clawing at him, slicing away his sanity. By now, he was too tired to show outrage. Letting it all bother me is a waste of time. When I take a crap, I flush it down the toilet and walk away. This place is just another crap. Whether or not Dave cared was irrelevant. Caring, in fact, was futile; his job was still synthesized from the same chemicals, and he still had to drink that poison. Now, there was just a little more to sip on. ¡°Where¡¯m I at today?¡± ¡°Go ahead and hop on bar. Send Jess on her ten.¡± ¡°Cool.¡± Thank you, God; I don¡¯t have to take orders. If the steam wand was working well, it took about fifteen seconds to steam sixteen ounces of milk. Dave figured it was taking at least twenty-five seconds, which is about how long it should take to pull a shot of espresso. His first shot took fourteen seconds and sat getting cold while he waited for the milk to finish getting hot. The shot ¡®died.¡¯ A dead shot happened ten seconds after it was pulled if no milk or water was added to it, and there were two kinds of people in the world; those who believed and those who didn¡¯t. The believers could taste the difference. The non-believers could not. Customer opinion was irrelevant; they had never said anything. At one point, Dave researched the topic, but he never found anything concerning this magical decomposing of coffee. None of his supervisors or the ¡°coffee masters¡± he worked with could explain it to him. He thought he could taste a difference, but he also thought critically that his imagination might have played a role here. The one piece of evidence he discovered was that some caf¨¦s venerated the quality of ¡®hot¡¯ above all other qualities because hot coffee is difficult to taste. Bad coffee, poorly made coffee is better when you can¡¯t taste it. Serving it exceptionally hot was sweeping the foul taste under the rug. If it went cold and tasted bad, then it was your fault for not drinking it sooner. Dave came to the conclusion that the problem of dead shots was only a factor if the espresso became colder than the milk or water you were adding; everyone knows you can¡¯t reheat coffee. It caramelizes on a micro level or something. Then, it tastes burnt or sour. He stopped concerning himself with the matter when he realized no one complained. Nonetheless, dead shots had been a belief practiced by many, including those who were paid more than Dave. His trainers had told him to re-pull the espresso if it ever sat for more than ten seconds. He¡¯d watched people pull new shots because they¡¯d let theirs sit for more than ten seconds, usually waiting on milk or because they forgot about them while they were off making other drinks. This myth was intended to increase speed, but in practice Dave only saw it add another twenty seconds to an order. There was no reason shots should sit if you were following a the proper routine. That said, no one could agree on the order of proper routine. It¡¯s funny how lies backfire. It¡¯s funny how a businessman who has never made a latt¨¦ thinks he can improve efficiency with falsity; he thinks it¡¯s better lie than trust a wage worker. He thinks I¡¯m dumb enough to believe it. He thinks I¡¯m dumb enough to care. It isn¡¯t difficult to steam milk; the machine Dave used had a thermometer that stopped automatically at one hundred and fifty-five degrees. You just had to aerate it for two or three seconds, otherwise it would scream. You wanted the milk to whisper. You wanted it to whisper for twelve seconds after you aerated it. It took Dave five to ten seconds to aerate with this steam wand, and this was the machine they said worked. While the milk steamed and the shots pulled, Dave had fifteen or twenty seconds to start the next drink. He ran over to the cold bar, pumped the instant coffee they used for blended drinks into the clear cup, poured whole milk to the bottom line of said cup, and poured those contents into a blender pitcher. If they¡¯re so concerned with speed, put the measurements on the sides of the pitcher, not the cup. He added a medium scoop of ice and left the pitcher on the counter, heading back to the hot bar. Some people advised to start the blending before you went back to your first drink; some people said going back first was faster. None of these people had taken a stopwatch to the matter. Dave reasoned that it all depended on which order each drink was on. He reasoned that your ultimate goal was to keep the line moving, so if an entire order needed to be finished to make the car at the window move, then you focused your efforts on the entirety of that order. He also reasoned that it didn¡¯t really matter; either way, the drinks would get made, the cars would move, they would be back again tomorrow, and he would still only make eight dollars an hour and his coworkers would still bicker over how to do things. Fat gets fatter. Dumb gets dumber. Rich gets richer. Poor gets¡­ No. Dave body grew tense but flowed with a quick fury. I refuse the victimhood. I¡¯m doing this to myself; I am in part a consequence of my own actions. He developed a line of completed drinks to his right. I don¡¯t care enough to stop. That has to change. Just grab hold of something. Grab hold, and cling to life. Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. Dave looked at the line of cups to his left as he poured steamed milk. Today, I will be a machine. He flipped a whipped cream bottle over in his hand, dispensing it neatly while he reached for a lid. I will produce. That is my purpose. His arms moved faster, looking for something to grab hold of and cling to. He turned to the screen behind him. The timer was red. Dave was at forty-seven percent. I¡¯m putting that above eighty. He kept his new pace and kept it steady, his face strained with focus like an athlete about to break loose. He silently hummed ¡°Anvil of Crom,¡± drums pounding in his head beneath the resound of trumpets. ¡°We just had a callout,¡± said Tom before opening the window to hand out a drink. ¡°You know what that means?¡± ¡°No one to cover our lunches.¡± ¡°Yep.¡± We¡¯ll have almost two hours of two people on the floor. ¡°Looks like we¡¯re leaving late tonight. This is gonna suck,¡± said Tom. ¡°No one will care what time we leave or what time we got here. They won¡¯t care what our times looked like. No. All that will matter is that today, three stood against many. Either way, we still get paid.¡± To Hell with this place. To Hell with these customers. To Hell with this business model. Dave kept his mouth shut the next few minutes; it was easier to work faster if you weren¡¯t busy talking. There was a meditation in the fury; his mind was clear, focused only on his violent speed. A nasty world stayed locked behind an iron jaw, taut with contempt. The words were lost and formless; his hate took form in steaming, pumping, scooping, and blending. He poured and splashed from one drink to another. His body became a violent scream. I hate this place. I hate what I let it make me. C¡¯est la vie: bullshit. I¡¯m not the hero; I¡¯m the demon. They tell me my kind is the worst, the gangrene of society? Well, let them be right. They tell me I¡¯m only here because I don¡¯t work hard enough? Let them be wrong. Let Hell have me when it wants me, but God, let me bite and claw my way there, he thought, sliding a drink to the window like loosing a single arrow into a crowd. He was supposed to be just another archer on the ramparts; he was the only archer on the ramparts. Tom fought back the ladders and Riley held the gate. Today, with slow fury and hidden contempt, three stood against many in a broken keep with broken supply lines. It was midnight. The store closed at ten-thirty, and Dave just started pulling out of the parking lot. It had taken an hour and a half to close; the three workers had been swallowed by the holiday swarm. What a wild stupid world. He went home and wrote about it. Writhe ~ The Wolf The snake ( t h e y , t h e p e o p l e ) she wrapped around her. Wrapped around the City in a violent stranglehold. With life the City writhed, parading the revolution, the death of the great and innocent. Terror began to rain over the city. Wash it clean with a bath of blood and fire. The baptism of the new ruler or the old one. Whichever. Regimes are like dogmas, caught in the winds of time. Yeah. The City writhed. The python of people snapped the bones of buildings within their grasp. They came from doors and windows and houses and stores. They came to kill in the name of the leader. They shuffled and waddled and hoped they could throttle the man in the big house, for he was the bringer of madness. ( d e a t h ) They worshipped him once on their screens. Now, he was the nightmare at the end of the dream. Madly, when you wake from the dream nothing has happened. The dream has no will of its own, but the nightmare always comes at the end. The end of the line, it ends with a scream of mad fear like the rabid dog. The people came like rabid dogs. The people came to kill. The people kept on coming. They sought to make the Dancer queen, but nowhere could they find her. He was already mad ( t h e k i l l e r ) long before the throng awoke. I saw him; walked out of the padded room where his thoughts had all been strewn like old shirts, stale with sweat, lined white with its salt. Damp and moldy, never dry. For sometime, anytime, the lifetime of a god, he¡¯d been in that room. The one which was many. Many rooms at once. He marched along with the serpent, Got danger in he eyes. H e e y e s a i n ¡¯ t h i s he says a i n ¡¯ t n o t h i n ¡¯ h i s . I know better. I¡¯ve heard his kind before, heard their cries railing for the genocide of being, needing a new world born in their ideal. But, the dream has no will of its own. He got death, and he got danger. He don¡¯t take; he give. He just give what he got. They can¡¯t pass it up. The snake The animal wrapped around her. ( t h e c i t y ) ¡ªIt can dance. It dance with him. Snake drinks deep of his dangerous poison. He share it all. He tell it all. They worship then they take a sip. Whose blood is whose? We bleed sad, long, hard, and weep. I saw him walk on out the padded house, and into the world. Into the City. Occurrence ~ The Killer Strange¡­ I am not this body; I am in this body. My face is a mask; I live past the mask. My eyes are holes; In the mask are holes. The holes are my eyes, and they see the lies. Strange¡­ S h a d o w s on the wall Dance up and d o w n the hall. We are the BRICKS! A morgue made of BRICKS! Each other we kill. Everyone we kill. Put them in the tomb; We are in the tomb. Strange¡­ No more fun for anyone. Load the gun. Cannot run. Chamber spun. The bullet bites the back of the head. Now all of the children are dead. ____ I wonder if anyone will ever read these things. Wonder if they¡¯ll say it was worth it, he thought as he laid back, taking in the dark of night. His wife was out cold next to him. The same street light glowed outside the window, behind the cheap blackout curtain. I¡¯m just ready to go to sleep. Chapter 28 ~ December 17th ¡°Good morning,¡± croaked Elizabeth. ¡°What time is it?¡± groaned Dave. ¡°Oh crap! It¡¯s one o¡¯clock!¡± said Elizabeth. ¡°Shit!¡± shouted Dave, leaping out of bed. He threw on some clothes. He rushed about frantically looking for his shoes, his keys, his phone, then his keys again. He ran out the door quickly. His phone started to buzz. He knew who it was. He ignored it. He drove as quickly as he could through traffic as thick as molasses. He cursed himself. He cursed the day. He cursed his job and everyone on the streets. Dave¡¯s phone lit up with a text, ¡®Are you coming to work?¡¯ He was supposed to be there at half past noon. His day began in a catastrophe of emotions. I¡¯m late again. I¡¯m always late. Why? Why? Why? I hate it when I do this. I hate myself. I hate my job. Traffic came to stop. There has to be a reason I¡¯m late. It hiccuped forward. Why did I do this? What¡¯s going on with me? I¡¯m just so sad. I¡¯m always sad. I miss her. I just miss her. I miss my sister. Tears ran down Dave¡¯s face and dripped onto his pants legs. You need to suck it up. You need to get over it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Suck it up. There wasn¡¯t much he could do but keep driving. He had to get to work. He had to go on with his day. ¡°I don¡¯t have a sister anymore.¡± That morning still itched and throbbed in his brain like a faded scar; he¡¯d never forget it. He¡¯d never forget the sound of his parents sobbing in each other¡¯s arms. The house had been busy with people, all there to share their condolences. Dave avoided the small crowd; he was never sure how large it had been. He had wanted everyone to leave; he remembered hiding upstairs with his little brother and Elizabeth. She had been busy taking calls on his phone, intercepting concerned acquaintances. Everyone had to say they were sorry, and Dave had to wonder if they were compassionate or selfish. In the end, he was grateful for those who had been there, even if he had lashed out at them or thought about doing so. Grief made the world seem a dark and terrible place. There had been two overwhelming desires in Dave: the first had been a longing to be alone, left untouched by condolers and mourners. The second had been a sense a duty to be with his family. Deep down, he wanted to know what was going through the minds of his mom and dad. How did they cope with this? He¡¯d learned a number of things from them growing up, but they¡¯d never had the chance to teach him how to deal with the sudden, irreversible pain of having your heart ripped out and your head dashed against tragedy¡¯s asphalt. He couldn¡¯t be himself around these people who had only come to be there for him, his brother, his mom, and his dad. These people were flies buzzing around and licking at a wound on hot summer¡¯s day. They were Botticelli¡¯s angels, divine arms wrapped around the grieving, mortal husband and wife. He couldn¡¯t be himself around his family; to Dave, even the people he had known his entire life sometimes resembled strangers. He had never shared with them his long, persistent periods of existential dread, and so how could they really know who he was if they had never bothered to ask why he locked himself away so often. He remembered the uncounted hours after he¡¯d come home late from school when he¡¯d shut his door to the world and light, lingering alone in darkness. He wished he could return to that room. That room was the closest Dave had ever come to the exit sign in the corner of his brain. Dave couldn¡¯t have beared himself had he been alone. He had never loved his self-loathing nature or his uncontrolled anxieties over the mystery of purpose. These were shameful things. They were entirely imaginary problems rendered by Dave¡¯s own thoughts; Dave found no righteousness, justice, or power in announcing them. Grief was now the same. Grief was shame. He walked out near the railing above the living room. He didn¡¯t dare lean down, but looked from afar; he had to keep some distance had from the flies. ¡°Facebook¡¯s blowing up with pictures of her...¡± Dave¡¯s Dad barely finished that sentence, choking on words and tears and reality he was trying to swallow. The angels around him sniffled in empathy. This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there. Dave cried today like he had two years ago. Was it two years ago? This had been the third Thanksgiving his family had spent without his sister and would be the third Christmas. Dave had to work. Once more, grief and shame were bedfellows. Traffic hit a red light. I deserve this hell. Dave wiped his eyes and descended further into madness. I should just run my car off the road. I don¡¯t understand this game. I shouldn¡¯t be playing it; someone else can take my spot. Get me out of this theatre. Get me out of this show. He noticed the light turn green. Traffic stayed still. The lights on stage turned red. I¡¯m just sad. I miss her. The car in front of him crept forward. He started to follow but hit the breaks with a lurch. I¡¯m an hour late. I¡¯m barely halfway there. Fuck this. He pounded the steering wheel with a short, furious howl. The car in front of him crept forward again. This isn¡¯t me. I don¡¯t do this. I¡¯m better than this. I¡¯m just pretending. Through blurry eyes, Dave saw himself on stage in the red light. The actor flailed back, wailing dramatically then strutting about with appalling sobs. He donned a red nose, a bright orange wig, and big floppy shoes. The actor thrashed forward in misery; his head popped back up, covered in a tramp-style paint. This is just an excuse for being a piece of shit. Get over yourself. You¡¯re not really sad. You don¡¯t really miss her. ¡®Yes, on my way!¡¯ he texted back. Traffic began moving again. The clown on stage puttered about wildly with steering wheel in hand, sobbing with surreal zeal. No. No, I¡¯m actually sad. I¡¯ve been sad for months. I do miss her. 18 years. No, 19 years. We knew each other for 19 years. I wish I could remember something. I wish I could pick out a fond memory. I just can¡¯t. I can¡¯t remember anything; I¡¯m too damn sad. ¡°What¡¯s happening on stage, Eugene?¡± whispered Dave from within the audience. ¡°Why does he keep flailing about up there? Can¡¯t he just get over himself?¡± ¡°Be quiet and watch,¡± said Eugene after a quick swig from a flask. His eyes were wide and haunting in the dark. ¡°And no, he can¡¯t. Can you just brush the pain off of a scraped knee?¡± ¡°But, he¡¯s dressed like a clown!¡± ¡°Who isn¡¯t?¡± ¡°Well, he needs to look up! He needs to keep his eyes on the road,¡± said Dave. ¡°You¡¯re being very rude,¡± said Hitchcock with his slow English drawl, each word coming out like the arm of a sloth reaching for a branch. ¡°He¡¯s going to crash, isn¡¯t he? You¡¯re the director; what¡¯s happening next?¡± ¡°Why don¡¯t you keep on watching, and try to enjoy the show,¡± said Hitchcock with a bygone matter-of-factness. ¡°And, let¡¯s hope the police don¡¯t get involved.¡± Dave stared at the stage with wide eyes. The actor ran about. I can¡¯t do this! thought Dave from the audience seat. I can¡¯t watch this! His eyes darted to the exit sign. I have to get out of here! Dave struggled and began to sweat. His eyes ran across the stage; Elizabeth was standing in the background. Her hands were on her hips. She rolled her eyes at her husband the clown. Dave sat up straight. She thinks I¡¯m pathetic. She¡¯s sick of me acting like that. She just doesn¡¯t understand. Behind Elizabeth, he noticed someone quietly curled up on their side. He strained his and recognized his wife¡¯s face. It was soaked with tears. Behind the curled up woman was a curtain with the silhouette of a man. The angry Elizabeth stomped over. She ripped the curtain down to reveal nothing was behind it. She beckoned for the curled up woman to collect herself. The woman on the floor shook her head like a child refusing to move before a whooping. The audience laughed as the back and forth went on. Finally, Elizabeth grabbed the fetal woman and began to slowly drag her off the stage like an old, heavy piece of luggage. The audience roared with laughter, but Dave didn¡¯t see what they did. He saw a proud woman dragging her own weight off the stage, dragging a broken version of herself. The two Elizabeths were as much one person as they were two people. They were the complex facets of being human, and while one was right, the other wasn¡¯t wrong. While one might be wrong, the other isn¡¯t always right. He saw the facade, and he saw the remainder, what was left after the brave face was worn out. I need to be nicer to her. Dave pulled into the parking lot, finally. He was over an hour and fifteen minutes late; he didn¡¯t care anymore. He just sat there and sobbed. He wiped his eyes with his shirt and tried to get control of his breathing. Today has to start before it can end. He walked to the front door sniffling and wiping his eyes. People stared at him. Strangers wondered why he was crying, but what was he going to do, tell them? His co-workers didn¡¯t seem to care. No one actually seemed to care; they just seemed to be curious. He went in the back clocked in. He walked out and was told to go on front bar. He got to work immediately. You can¡¯t stop. You can feel as badly as you want, but you¡¯re going to keep on keeping on. It is what it is. C¡¯est le guerre. No one tried to talk to him while he stood there making drinks. That was probably for the best; he needed to forget himself. He needed to steam milk, count pumps, and pull shots. The world was going on, and so he had to find a way to do so as well. His shitty job was definitely an option. Chapter 29 ~ December 17th Tears of a City ~ The City The world was lost in the jungle. The steel and stone trees made them all look like fleas feasting on a mangy mongrel; this world¡¯s a swollen bitch, and they were the pests that caused the terrible, festering itch beneath her filthy, sagging breasts. They¡¯re not here anymore. You¡¯re all gone. This story was written after your time. He made many of you blink from existence. ( t h e k i l l e r ) They gave birth to me at some point or other. I watched them give birth to themselves, or at least what they became: a brief moment of c o n s c i o u s n e s s that resulted in a lack thereof. I watched as what was left, after he carved his mark, ran into my gutters where I drank the blood of my builders¡¯ children, and as I drank, I cried with the patter of rain and wail of sirens. I prayed, perhaps the weeping cleans me, deeply, Of that which has Possessed my Being, perverting my forgotten purpose: Why did the builders make me? ____ Dave was on his lunch, sitting in his car and enjoying the passing of time. His life today had given him a catharsis greater than any art could make him imitate; Dave didn¡¯t feel so heavy anymore, freed from the chains bound to his face and neck. He didn¡¯t feel elated, merely grounded and real, something that had eluded him for quite some time. He gave a digested explanation as to why his face was stained with tears and why he was late: ¡°I¡¯ve just had a bad day.¡± He served to gain nothing from sharing anymore. Catharsis had done what it could. He missed his sister. She wasn¡¯t coming back. Que sera, sera. I¡¯ve been through bad. I¡¯ve been through worse. I don¡¯t have to concern myself with just my own misunderstanding of things. My wife has been going through something for a long time; she works harder than me, and she gets more done than me. I think she does. I¡¯ll imagine she does because the point is she works hard, and I can work harder. This way of looking at things is useful to me. I can¡¯t wait to get home and see her. Dave¡¯s time was up. He had to go back out to work. He was excited to keep the evening moving; he wanted to get as far away as he could from his mistakes and misery. He wanted opportunities to redeem himself. He sought the value brought with virtue. It made him feel stronger, wiser, healthier, happier-- just better, in this moment at least. If I¡¯m going to be in the show, I¡¯m going to play the part better than anyone ever has. He went back out onto the floor. ¡°I¡¯m back!¡± he said over the headset, his fresh mood coating his voice sweet with honey. For better or for worse, he lived like he always had: like if nothing had happened. ¡°Welcome back,¡± said Riley just as sweetly. ¡°You¡¯re going to be on the front now. Does that work?¡± This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Sounds great, boss!¡± Dave went to the front register and assigned. The bottom cash drawer popped out around his knees; it never made sense to Dave how someone could overlook the impracticality of this setup, but today it didn¡¯t bother him. He had assigned later in the evening, so he expected to see only a handful of customers. Most of his time was going to be spent with his hands soaking in dish soap and sanitizer water, and he was in a good place with this. He tossed dishes from one sink to another with a certain levity, whistling the refrain from ¡°Yes, the River Knows.¡± What a blessing it is to have a job, even a miserable one. It¡¯s something. I¡¯ll hold on while I can in this crazy world where I¡¯m a king and a slave all at once, all in a moment. This fast-food factory is life and death, and I¡¯m grateful to prosper with one and learn from the other. ¡°Wow, okay! That guy was a jerk,¡± said Jess over the headset. ¡°What happened?¡± asked Dave, taking the bait. ¡°He just complained about his drink and wouldn¡¯t let me fix it. He said, ¡®it¡¯s always wrong, every time I come here. You¡¯ll just make it wrong again.¡¯ Then he drove off before I could say anything.¡± ¡°What a dick.¡± ¡°I know, right? It¡¯s like, at least tell me what you want so I can do it the way you want. That¡¯s what I¡¯m here for.¡± ¡°Absolutely! You¡¯re a person, not a robot.¡± ¡°Even if I was a robot, you still have to tell me what you want so I could execute the order.¡± ¡°Well yeah, but I mean you can compromise and be reasoned with. It sounds like he didn¡¯t even take the time to do that.¡± ¡°People are absolute jerks to us. Do you know why? It¡¯s because they think they¡¯re customers, and so they think they¡¯re always right.¡± Don¡¯t you think you¡¯re always right? thought Dave with a dash facetiousness, tempted to ask aloud. He decided against it. It could only progress the conversation in an aggressive manner whether he meant it that way or not. ¡°That statement is logically fallible, you know?¡± ¡°What statement?¡± asked Jess. Dave could tell he¡¯d slightly offended her because she had no idea what he meant. She must think I¡¯m implying that she said something stupid. ¡°That ¡®the customer is always right.¡¯ It¡¯s impossible; no sect of human beings is completely infallible, so how can all customers possibly be right if all customers are human? I think whoever first said it must have meant it as a sarcastic criticism rather than a philosophy of service,¡± explained Dave. ¡°Yeah, but it¡¯s so ingrained in our society that everyone thinks it¡¯s true. Customers always think that they¡¯re right and you¡¯re wrong, and we have to put them first.¡± ¡°Bullshit!¡± said Dave with more of the same levity, tossing an imaginary red flag in the air. That started an argument he didn¡¯t realize he was about to have ¡°What do you mean? If I don¡¯t do what they say, I could lose my job.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not true; you¡¯re a human, not a robot. You have the right to refuse service to whoever you want,¡± explained Dave. ¡°No, I don¡¯t. I could lose my job.¡± The argument only existed because they were talking about two different things: Dave was referring to what should happen as though it would, and Jess was referring to what could happen as though it would. Neither one of them had the conversational wherewithal to help the other understand they were seeing the elephant from different sides. ¡°You¡¯re not going to lose your job because you told someone to have a good day; that¡¯s not the way things work here.¡± ¡°Yes, it is. It¡¯s almost happened to me before.¡± ¡°What? Here?¡± ¡°No. At another store, but yes, with the same company.¡± ¡°Well, it sounds like you had a pretty crappy manager if that¡¯s the case,¡± ¡°No, I liked him. Eric was really good at his job.¡± ¡°Okay,¡± said Dave with the winking eye of skepticism. Just because you got along with him doesn¡¯t mean he was good at his job. ¡°But, what exactly happened?¡± ¡°This African-American woman came in and was standing about ten feet away from the register like she was looking at the menu. I don¡¯t think I noticed her at first because I was cleaning fridges or drains or something, so she might have stood there for a while. When I did notice her, I asked her how she was doing, and she said ¡®are you going to serve me or not?¡¯ which really caught me off guard. I asked her what she had said, and she said it again but louder and more aggressive. I remember saying ¡®yeah, if you¡¯re ready¡¯ and she did not like that. She went into a tirade about ¡®of course I¡¯m ready! I¡¯ve been standing here for fifteen minutes¡¯ and ¡®the only reason you won¡¯t serve me is because I¡¯m black¡¯ and then she said she wanted to speak to my manager. When I told her that he wasn¡¯t here, she made me give her his number, wrote down my name, and stormed off.¡± ¡°Okay, so you were a victim of belligerence,¡± said Dave, making sure he understood where this was going. ¡°Go on.¡± ¡°I wasn¡¯t though,¡± said Jess. ¡°I was in the wrong because I had ignored her.¡± ¡°That doesn¡¯t make any sense,¡± said Dave. ¡°You hadn¡¯t ignored her, you just hadn¡¯t noticed or realized she was ready. It¡¯s not like she tried to get your attention, right?¡± ¡°But, I was the one who got in trouble. She was the one in the right.¡± Once again, they were talking about two completely different things: Dave was referring to the reality and Jess was referring to the way things had been perceived. We are not on the same page, and I can¡¯t think of a way to make her understand me. I¡¯m on her side; why is she even fighting me? ¡°She called Eric,¡± said Jess. ¡°And the next day, he came up to me and said ¡®we need to talk.¡¯ He asked me if I had really said these things, asked me if I had used the ¡®n-word,¡¯ and told me that they might have to let me go. He said this woman was really upset and was threatening to sue.¡± ¡°Like I said, you had a crappy manager; he should have stood by you. He knew you personally, knew you wouldn¡¯t have said those things, and knew that you had never done anything like this before.¡± ¡°But, it was still my fault.¡± ¡°How was it still your fault?¡± ¡°Because I had ignored her.¡± ¡°You didn¡¯t ignore her. You hadn¡¯t noticed her because she was ten feet away from the register!¡± said Dave, his voice reaching higher and higher for pitches. He refused to understand how she believed why things had happened. ¡°-Or was it because I was being racist? Had I not noticed her because she was African-American?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. I wasn¡¯t there. Do you not like black people or something?¡± ¡°No, I don¡¯t have a problem with African-Americans, but she¡¯s right that I was being oppressive by ignoring her.¡± ¡°Did you do it on purpose?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t think I did, but I might have. Who knows? If she had been white, I might have noticed her.¡± ¡°And if she¡¯d stepped up to the register, signaling that she was ready to order, you probably would have noticed her as well.¡± ¡°Oh, so if she¡¯s white she can stand back ten feet, but because she¡¯s African-American she has to step up to the register. Is that what you¡¯re saying?¡± ¡°No! I¡¯m saying that any customer who happens to be ready to order needs to step up to the register to infer that they are ready. I¡¯m saying that you were a victim of slander and that your manager should have had the brains to realize that¡¯s what was happening. Good team members come before crappy customers.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s not how it is.¡± ¡°But, that¡¯s how it should be!¡± said Dave. ¡°I¡¯m gonna miss you guys,¡± said Riley. Chapter 30~ December 17 It was dark like it always was when Dave left. The air was crisp, but not freezing like he had expected. It was just cold. The road was wide and empty, just how he liked it, free of stress, free of competing, and prime for driving. Streetlights glowed in the city, the jewels beset in modernity¡¯s crown guiding wayward souls to somewhere and nowhere. Jess said goodbye while walking out to her car. Dave stood just outside the store with the person who¡¯d managed his shifts for the past year. ¡°Want a smoke?¡± asked Dave. ¡°What?¡± ¡°Do you want a cigarette?¡± ¡°You¡¯re not a smoker,¡± said Riley, pulling out her own pack and a lighter. ¡°No, I¡¯m not, but I had this crazy idea that it might help me connect with people if I was a smoker. So, I picked up a pack at the gas station today.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the dumbest thing I¡¯ve ever heard.¡± Dave lit his cigarette and drew in a short, filthy puff. ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m not inclined to disagree with you,¡± he said trying not cough, looking at the orange glow through the cancerous smoke. There was a quiet moment. ¡°I also bought them for homeless people.¡± ¡°Oh yeah?¡± ¡°Yeah. I remember you telling me once how much it sucks not being able to buy cigarettes as a smoker and that cigarettes can be worth more than money if you¡¯re homeless.¡± ¡°Sounds like something I¡¯d say.¡± ¡°Saturday is Christmas Eve,¡± said Dave. ¡°You workin¡¯?¡± ¡°Yeah, I work both Christmas and Christmas Eve,¡± said Riley before she lit the cigarette and took a draw. ¡°I¡¯m using vacation time on the rest of the month. Gotta get rid of it before I leave.¡± They sat down on top of the picnic tables. Dave took his time looking for what he wanted to say. His head was filled with the fog of the day. Another nasty puff of smoke rolled out of his mouth, adding to the haze of the world before him. ¡°It¡¯s gonna be your last Christmas here, isn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Sure is. I found a better job; it pays twice as much.¡± ¡°Good for you.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll be able to fix the heat in my car. I¡¯ll be able to afford to go to the doctor when I need to. I¡¯ll be able to save for emergencies. I¡¯ll be able to pay off my loans. Heck, I¡¯ll be able to take a day off without worrying about getting the electric shut off.¡± ¡°Heck yeah, startin¡¯ the new year with a new job. I like it.¡± ¡°Yeah, let¡¯s just hope it¡¯s all I¡¯m crackin¡¯ it up to be. I haven¡¯t reached the promised land yet.¡± ¡°No, but you worked hard and you found something better, and now you¡¯re going to continue making the life you want for yourself.¡± ¡°No.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°It sorta just fell into my lap. Also, I don¡¯t hate this place. I don¡¯t really want to leave. I¡¯m good at my job, and I kind of like it.¡± ¡°Okay, but don¡¯t discount the work you did to make it this far. That counts for something, right? You can make it in this world if you just work hard.¡± ¡°I guess.¡± ¡°What do you mean ¡®you guess?¡± ¡°You don¡¯t wanna talk to me about this, dude. We¡¯re gonna just have to disagree.¡± This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author''s work. I don¡¯t know how to be sincere about this. My friend just shared some good news, sad but good; all I can do is sit here and agendize it. Smoke rolled up around his face. He blew it away, watched roll in the air. He took a moment and admired how the restaurant glow from across the street fell through it. Sometimes, what you¡¯re looking for isn¡¯t past the smoke. Sometimes, it¡¯s all tangled in it. ¡°I just wanted to say thanks,¡± said Dave. ¡°For what?¡± ¡°I¡¯m a pretty crappy worker; I might even be a pretty crappy person, but I don¡¯t think I¡¯m completely worthless, but I always felt like maybe I was wrong about that when I came here. I suck at cleaning. I¡¯m slow. You never seemed to think I was worthless; you knew I had some sort of value as a worker, heck, as a person.¡± ¡°Aww, buddy!¡± said Riley, drawing out each syllable. ¡°You¡¯ve been a good supervisor. You were the only person to try and keep me from leaving. I did sales and failed miserably. You were the only person to support my coming back. It¡¯s kinda like I¡¯m your prodigal son, pops.¡± ¡°You know, you¡¯ve changed since you started working here.¡± ¡°How so?¡± She was right to the length of Dave¡¯s concern, but if the devil¡¯s in the details, Dave wanted to see Old Scratch¡¯s face. ¡°I remember you hated my guts when I started. You thought I was an idiot.¡± ¡°Yeah, I don¡¯t think you¡¯re wrong about that. But, that¡¯s not what I was talking about; you used to be grateful you had this job. You were grateful that you had an opportunity to pay for your wedding. You thought it was awesome you were getting paid a whole dollar above minimum wage.¡± ¡°Well, that¡¯s back when I thought every entry level job made minimum wage. Then I learned this was on the low end of average.¡± Dave¡¯s mind went off in its own direction. Saying that means the only thing that¡¯s changed between now and then is what I know. I hate my life because I know more about it. I couldn¡¯t see the flaws before I¡¯d experienced them. I had to live it to find the bad; I must have to live to find the good. ¡°Right! You¡¯re not grateful anymore; you¡¯re bitter because you¡¯ve learned what¡¯s going on.¡± ¡°Well, I¡¯m trying not to be bitter, but every time I take a step in that direction it feels like I get shat on.¡± ¡°You¡¯re going to keep getting shat on. You¡¯re at the bottom. Shit doesn¡¯t have wings, Dave.¡± ¡°Yeah. You¡¯re not wrong. But, ¡®what does that even matter?¡¯ I always think to myself; in the grand scheme of things, I¡¯ll be dead, and none of my suffering will remain.¡± ¡°The suffering of others will.¡± ¡°Then they¡¯ll die eventually, and their suffering will end. Same with joy and ambivalence.¡± ¡°I thought you believed in God.¡± ¡°I think I do. I think I believe as much as I can, and that means I don¡¯t worry about things beyond my control. Anything after death is up to Him; the reality of life beyond life is one of those things. It¡¯s what I can and am supposed to do with the life before me that I¡¯m concerned with, and I just don¡¯t know.¡± ¡°You just have to try to be happy. Try to make that happen. Try to make that last.¡± ¡°What the hell good is happy?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t know. Do you like being miserable?¡± ¡°...Sometimes, I really think I do. It always feels like I¡¯m lying about the world when I¡¯m happy. Happiness is just something I ingest to endure the reality: everything kinda sucks.¡± He snuffed his half-done cigarette on the ground and tossed it in the trash. ¡°I hate these things.¡± ¡°I can¡¯t believe you bought those as conversation starters. I mean, you¡¯re married; who do you need to talk to so badly?¡± ¡°People who aren¡¯t doing so well, I guess.¡± ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± ¡°Well, I also just couldn¡¯t get the image of smoke out of my head. Maybe that¡¯s my body just trying to poison itself.¡± ¡°You really feel that way?¡± ¡°Being sad makes everything kind of strange. I live in a world filled with chemicals trying to retain their compounded states. I pour chemicals into a hole to maintain this compounded state. Sometimes, it seems appropriate to go against the grain and toss something down the hole that tears apart the compound¡¯s pattern. I guess that¡¯s what¡¯s going on; what do I know? I¡¯m just a buncha chemicals.¡± ¡°That¡¯s all you are?¡± ¡°That¡¯s all we are¡­ but, I¡¯m going to fight to the death not to believe it. I¡¯m going to fight until my chemical patterns stop to believe there¡¯s something more than just that.¡± Dave looked down at his phone to catch the time. He¡¯d missed three calls from Billy. There was a message, ¡°Help! It¡¯s Cliff. Come to 612 Madison St.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got to go!¡± said Dave. ¡°Well, good talking to you, my dude. Thanks for the smoke!¡± ¡°No problem!¡± he shouted as he ran to his car. He was already making a call. Chapter 31 ~ December 18 ¡°Hey, I¡¯m going to be late coming home,¡± said Dave as he made his way to the apartments on Madison St. ¡°Why? What¡¯s up?¡± asked Elizabeth. ¡°Billy called. I haven¡¯t spoken to him, but he said he needs help. Something about Cliff. It¡¯s urgent.¡± ¡°Okay¡­ Well, let me know what¡¯s going on.¡± ¡°I love you!¡± ¡°I love you too.¡± Dave hung up. He made another call; Billy didn¡¯t answer, and Dave couldn¡¯t help but worry. His mind was stuck in the place between ¡®anything is possible¡¯ and ¡®few things are probable.¡¯ If it were that big of a deal, he¡¯d call the police before he¡¯d called me. It can¡¯t be all that urgent. The Madison St. apartments were the biggest roach motel Dave had ever lived in; it was where he and his wife had lived when they first married. They go out as soon as her lease was up. In the span of his stay, Dave learned about how roaches check in and never bother checking out. It wasn¡¯t just a few; it was ten or twelve every time you turned on the kitchen light. It was dollar store sticky traps filling up overnight. It was multiple landlords refusing to fumigate their individual apartments, and poor young people who didn¡¯t know how to take action. We¡¯ve come so far; materially, things have been so much worse. We had to take that step to get here. I have to take another step to get somewhere else. The apartments were built on the side of a steep hill. The small parking lot sat in a bowl at the bottom of this hill. Both single lane entrances served as exits. Dave drove down the hill looking straight at the ground; driving into Madison Manor was like driving down a wall and every time it reminded you where you were in life. The bottom. The only advantage of living here is that it was less than a quarter mile walk from the college, which is why it was full of young, dumb bodies for the roaches to live off of. Dave parked in the one empty spot left. He got out of the car and turned around to look at the three storied, yellow brick hovel. That yellow reminded Dave of sick; he remembered it looking almost pleasant in the sunlight. Billy was sitting on the stoop at the back door, the more commonly used entrance. ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± asked Dave. ¡°Cliff¡¯s on a rampage,¡± said Billy. ¡°Macey called me to get some help with him; I think she said he¡¯s been drunk for a week. We¡¯re driving him to rehab tonight.¡± ¡°Alright, let¡¯s go inside.¡± ¡°We can¡¯t. The door¡¯s locked. We have to wait for Macey to let us in. I think her phone¡¯s dead.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t have to wait,¡± said Dave as he messaged Elizabeth. ¡®Cliff¡¯s drunk. Taking him to rehab.¡¯ Dave ran to the car and started rummaging through the back seat. He found an old pair of needle nose pliers. Perfect. ¡°Watch this,¡± he said as he ran back up to the door. He pulled the door toward the hinges, increasing the crevice between the door and the frame. He pinched the latch with the pliers, levering against the frame, sliding the latch into the door as though he¡¯d turned the knob. The door opened effortlessly. Dave had forgotten how light and fragile it had been, like a giant index card painted and put on hinges. It kept nothing out that wanted in. ¡°I used to leave my keys inside all the time when I lived here,¡± said Dave with a wry smile. The inside of Madison Manor usually had that welcoming scent unique to old buildings; something kind of stale but altogether homely. Today, the bottom floor reeked with cheap cigarettes and old ashtrays. Sick yellow lights lit sick yellow walls. The carpet was almost black from years of being carpet, years of being cleaned with no more than a weekly vacuum. Dave and Billy went up the stairs on their right. There was a narrow doorway at the top of the stairs that lined up with the front door of the building; a long and narrow hallway stretched between the two doors. Dave remembered an old feng shui lesson he¡¯d come across about a front door and a backdoor lining creates a flow of money in then directly out. No reason this place is decroded. Billy stopped in front of apartment twelve. They could hear screaming on the other side of the door. Billy hesitated, his hand fluttering between knocking or trying the knob. He knocked twice. ¡°Who the fuck is that?¡± yelled Cliff. Macey opened the door. She looked like sleep had turned to torture; her brown eyes were dark and stained with tears. Her blonde hair was a wild mess. ¡°He¡¯s in the living room,¡± she said, stepping out into the hallway. Billy didn¡¯t say a word as he walked inside; he just waved his hand in front of his face like something smelled. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. ¡°Hey, Billy! Where you been, man?¡± yelled Cliff. ¡°Have a beer. No, yeah! Have a beer!¡± Dave stayed out in the hall. Macey was less than a person at the moment. He noticed her trembling. She¡¯s exhausted. She¡¯s been through Hell this week, I bet. What can I do for her? ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± ¡°He just won¡¯t stop,¡± she said. Tears starting rolling down her face again. She sniffled. ¡°He¡¯s been drinking for a week?¡± ¡°Yeah, a whole week.¡± ¡°Why didn¡¯t you call the police?¡± ¡°He didn¡¯t hit me or anything. I don¡¯t want him to go to jail; he just won¡¯t stop. He won¡¯t stop drinking. We don¡¯t have any money. He isn¡¯t going to work. He isn¡¯t going to class. I just can¡¯t get him to stop!¡± ¡°Hey, hey¡­ it¡¯s okay, man. Things are going to be different now, but we¡¯re taking the problem out of your hands for a second.¡± ¡°Okay.¡± I have no idea if I can deliver on those words. Macey burst into a full cry, too distraught to argue. Dave offered a hug to his old friend. Botticelli¡¯s Angels, he thought once again. Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. He went inside the apartment and immediately met the gross odor Billy had tried to wave off; the small place reeked of stale beer. Empty cans carpeted the floor, telling on Cliff in language of rustles and crunches under foot. After Dave shut the apartment door, all light came from the living room, which barely shone in the six feet of foyer Dave had tramped through. Billy sat in the corner of the couch that was closer to the door, his back to Dave. Cliff sat on the far end. The sick man threw his head back as he chugged down another beer. When the can was empty, he threw on the carpet. He looked past Billy and saw Dave at the corner of the foyer and the living room. Delight snapped off his face with an explosion of rage. ¡°What the fuck are you doing here?¡± ¡°I-¡± ¡°Don¡¯t fuckin¡¯ talk to me you piece-uh-shit. Get the fuck out!¡± ¡°Calm down, man,¡± said Billy. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me calm down. I¡¯ll kick your ass,¡± said Cliff with a sloppy finger pointing at Dave. ¡°Oh yeah? Maybe you should kick my ass,¡± said Dave. His face was cool, calm and resolved. It was what it is. Something has to happen for it to be something else. ¡°Maybe you should get this out of your system.¡± He looked Cliff in the eyes. It¡¯s like staring at a piece of glass about to be smashed over your head, he thought. Alcohol had put a gloss over Cliff¡¯s eyes leaving two blue marbles in a bright field of red framed with yellow. I have no idea what I¡¯m doing here. Something¡¯s gotta happen, though. ¡°You shut the fuck up,¡± said Cliff. ¡°No. No, I¡¯m not gonna shut up. I¡¯m sorry about what happened. I¡¯m sorry I didn¡¯t know how to handle things before, but I¡¯m here for you. I¡¯ll always be here for you. If that means I¡¯m gonna be a punching bag, then go for it.¡± Cliff charged through Billy, bowling him over, running at Dave through a drunken haze with an intent to kill strangled in each of his hands. Dave shot underneath Cliff and tripped him to the ground in the narrow hallway. Cans crunched under their weight. They grappled and rolled, slamming against the walls; Dave knew what he was doing, but Cliff was twice as strong. They were damp with dribbles of beer and backwash. Dave tried to put Cliff in a cradle, but he was too weak to hold it. Cliff pinned Dave down, ready to wail on his face, to break his nose, to make him bleed. Billy grabbed Cliff under the arms and behind the neck in a full nelson. He pulled the drunk man off of Dave. Cliff thrashed like a drowning fish; he howled like a mad beast. Dave wrapped his arms around Cliff, helping Billy hold him down. ¡°You¡¯re a slave driver,¡± yelled Cliff. ¡°You¡¯re a fucking slave driver! Fuck you! Fuck you!¡± Dave hopped up and socked Cliff in the mouth, trembling with rage like wolf baring its teeth. ¡°You shut the fuck up, you little shit,¡± said Dave. ¡°You lied to me! You almost cost me everything because you were selfish because you thought it was cool to get trashed and leave your cans behind my tent! I needed that job to move! I needed that money to get my wife the hell out of this shithole, and you didn¡¯t give a damn! You just thought it was a place to drink! Who the hell is dumb enough to smoke next to fireworks! ¡°You shat on me! You almost got my business license taken away; like hell I was gonna pay you; You didn¡¯t deserve a damn thing because you weren¡¯t good for a damn thing you told me you were good for. Now get the fuck up and get in the car.¡± Cliff struggle and fought. He was stronger than both of them, but he¡¯d drank himself to a shaved Samson. They could hear Macey out in the hall crying. ¡°Is that what you want Cliff,¡± said Billy. ¡°You want to make her cry?¡± ¡°Let me go, fucker,¡± said Cliff breathlessly. ¡°Let me go.¡± ¡°Not until you agree to come with us.¡± ¡°No! Let go!¡± ¡°Either you¡¯re coming with us, or you¡¯re going with the cops,¡± said Billy. Now Dave heard other voices in the hallway. ¡°Billy, I think it¡¯s too late.¡± Cliff thrashed and struggled again. He ripped free from Billy. His fist landed on the back of Dave¡¯s head once, twice; he broke loose and ran to the door. An officer stepped into the entrance way; the two collided. They hit the ground at the same time. Cliff fought with newfound violence, hammering the officer¡¯s face. Macey screamed with shock out in the hall. The officer restrained Cliff, pinning him to the ground without mercy. ¡°Eleven ninety-nine. We have a two forty at six twelve Madison street. You have the right to remain silent,¡± growled the cop with anger caged behind grit teeth. Dave saw blood drip from the officer¡¯s face as he continued stating Cliff¡¯s rights. Chapter 32 ~ December 18th By two o¡¯clock, Cliff had been hauled away and everyone else involved had been questioned thoroughly. Dave¡¯s head throbbed where he¡¯d been hit. The three friends lingered in the parking lot, Billy embracing a sobbing Macey with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. They stood around sobering from the surrealism of the night. ¡°Billy?¡± asked Dave. ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°Did I do the right thing when I cut him off?¡± ¡°He¡¯s an alcoholic. You couldn¡¯t help him. I¡¯d say, yeah, you did the best you could.¡± ¡°That¡¯s what I always thought. Why doesn¡¯t it feel like I did the right thing?¡± ¡°I¡¯m wondering that too,¡± said Billy, staring at a cloud of smoke. ¡°Did I do the right thing when I told him to fight me? To get it out of his system?¡± ¡°I think you could have tried to calm him down.¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t think trying to control him worked.¡± ¡°No, it didn¡¯t.¡± ¡°Thanks for pulling him off of me.¡± ¡°Thanks for socking him in the face.¡± ¡°Yeah¡­ I think that one actually was the wrong thing.¡± ¡°I bet it felt right though.¡± ¡°Only at the time.¡± ¡°That¡¯s something at least. Something¡¯s better than nothing.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got a wife to get home to. I¡¯ll catch you two later. Macey?¡± ¡°Yeah?¡± ¡°I¡¯m really fuckin¡¯ sorry.¡± She came to him with open arms. They embraced. He hugged Billy, then turned to get in his car. Dave looked back the Manor. This place was gold at first. I spent so many hours here falling in love with Elizabeth. Now, it¡¯s just shit. He looked at the exit sign above the back door and burned that image in his mind. What changed? I¡¯m not coming back to this. I¡¯ve moved beyond here, and I¡¯m never coming back. Everything changed. Life is change; that¡¯s for better or for worse. Que sera, sera. Something always happens, but the top of the mountain¡¯s at the top of the mountain, and it takes a climb to get there. He stood up within the audience. He walked down the aisle, straight for the stage, decked with Christmas spirit. Silver, green, and red strands of tinsel ran across the edge. Suds of fake snow flowed from the roof. Dave climbed up and walked past singers and dancers in 50¡¯s Christmas costumes. They reciprocated his neglect, both treating the other like they were never a part of the same stage. He walked past Cliff sitting in an almost fetal position, hands ready to pull his hair out, rocking back and forth with madness. Another actor playing Cliff shotgunned cans of Lager Light and stacked them around his doppelganger, building four thin walls taller and taller, thicker and thicker. The stage was much larger than it looked from the audience, and Dave could go anywhere across it. It stretched at least a hundred yards in every direction. He¡¯d look one way and see dancers, he¡¯d look another way and see activists ranting into microphones. For a moment, the whole of it was empty. Then, he kept walking forward. He walked up to a thin but tall plaster tombstone with his sister¡¯s name on it. He stared at it for a second, then looked at his chest to see a dark stain dripping down his faded black shirt. Dave picked up a flower from next to the tombstone and put it in his shirt pocket. He looked back over his shoulder at the exit sign in the back of the theater, then brushed the fake snow off the top of the tombstone, patting it with his hand the way he wished he could pat his sister¡¯s shoulder. ¡°Not yet, sis.¡± Dave turned around, looking upstage again. He locked eyes with Elizabeth at the back of the stage. He started walking toward her through a confusion of dancers. Black morph-suited figures pawed at him, shuffling into his way in a strange, postmodern romp. Black hands reached for his face, tearing at his vision, scraping softly at his arms. A few fingers jabbed at the wound on his chest. He struggled through the less than human dancers as they tugged gently at his black work shirt. They couldn¡¯t stop him; they couldn¡¯t hold him but only grope, trying to steal his attention, trying to coerce his focus. He kept his stride, he kept his pace; he kept his eyes on his wife¡¯s looking back at him. Dave and Elizabeth stood before each other. The shadows twirled away as the two wrapped arms around their spouse. Dave whispered in her ear, ¡°Follow me. I need someone to go with me. I can¡¯t go alone.¡± ¡°You shouldn¡¯t have to.¡± ¡°No one should have to, but we all do.¡± ¡°I¡¯m here for you.¡± He grabbed her hand and walked off stage. They walked out of the light and into the darkness. Exit stage left. ¡°You¡¯re home,¡± said Elizabeth. ¡°Yeah. Thanks for waiting up.¡± ¡°Of course. You look like a mess. What happened?¡± ¡°Well. Today¡¯s been a long day. I started off late for work. I had a mental breakdown on the way there. I got into an argument with a coworker over something stupid. I found out Riley is leaving. I got in a fight with Cliff, and then¡­ ¡± Backstage was dark. Dave shuffled slowly. ¡°I watched the guy who was my best man get arrested under charges of battery on an officer.¡± ¡°Oh my God! Cliff was arrested?¡± ¡°Yeah. He broke an officer¡¯s nose. I¡¯m lucky he didn¡¯t break my nose.¡± ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re okay. Why don¡¯t you go take a shower, and we¡¯ll go to bed.¡± ¡°I think that¡¯s a good idea, but I don¡¯t know if I can sleep. I¡¯m exhausted, but my mind is on fire. I just can¡¯t believe it. We were going to take him to rehab. He was going to get better. He was going to recover with Billy. He threw it all the fuck away.¡± They both sat quietly on the couch, staring at nothing. The fog and haze that seeps into your bones and brain at the end of a long day came upon Dave, cooling that blaze in his mind. If you come across this story on Amazon, it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. ¡°I gotta go take that shower before I fall asleep here,¡± he said after he realized he¡¯d lost track of how long he¡¯d been sitting there. ¡°Thanks for being here. Thanks for keeping me alive.¡± ¡°You¡¯re welcome,¡± she said with no idea how much he meant it. Dave got out of the shower. He walked into the bedroom and put some shorts on. Elizabeth laid in bed already, her phone illuminating her face as her eyes darted about to read the screen. The rest of the room was dark. ¡°What¡¯d you have a mental breakdown about?¡± asked Elizabeth, putting her phone away. ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°You said you had a mental breakdown; what¡¯d you have one about?¡± Dave took his time finding the words to answer her. He rolled the thought around in his head. ¡°My sister,¡± he said, finally. It didn¡¯t break the silence; the two words hit it at once like a tennis ball hitting a wall, then the ball rolled across the ground like an old man meandering and looking for a place to sit until it found where it should stop, until it became dead and still. Elizabeth stared at ball, the dead man, not sure what to make of it. Dave stared up at the dark ceiling. She¡¯s thinking, ¡®it¡¯s been over two years; you should be over this by now.¡¯ I¡¯m not. I don¡¯t know if wounds like this ever heal. Anyone that says they do has to be a liar. ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I wish there was something I could do for you,¡± she said. ¡°Don¡¯t worry about it. Keep doing what you¡¯re doing.¡± She won¡¯t say those words; it wouldn¡¯t be polite. No one would say those words, but we¡¯ll all wonder in silence. It¡¯s fair to wonder; it¡¯s a part of understanding. It¡¯s a step. ¡°Do you want to talk about it?¡± Dave smirked. ¡°I always wanna talk about anything.¡± ¡°Okay blabbermouth, will you talk about it with me?¡± ¡°You know, that depends on if I can; sometimes, the things I need to say the most are the hardest to find words for.¡± ¡°Well, start looking,¡± said Elizabeth, prodding him with her finger. Dave chuckled: she¡¯s so cute. It¡¯s good to have this kind of person in my life. She¡¯s a frame on the smoke. Dave laid still while he dug through his mind; the world was quiet while his head was abuzz. What can I say? What else is there to say? There¡¯s gotta be something deep or wonderful or profound or-- ¡°I just miss her,¡± he said. The tennis ball lay inert again, after hitting the wall, after a long roll. Dave picked it up and bounced it under his racket. ¡°She¡¯s not coming back, just like the scars of grief aren¡¯t going away. I don¡¯t think I want them to go away; it¡¯s kind of all I¡¯ve got left of her. I¡¯m looking back right now with a certain peace I haven¡¯t had in a long time. ¡°I¡¯m humbled; I don¡¯t want to change things. I don¡¯t know what¡¯s better, or what¡¯s worse. I can¡¯t pretend I know what the world is all about anymore; I¡¯m just here, living a life, praying to God. I don¡¯t know what I¡¯m praying about. I guess it¡¯s peace I¡¯m praying for. I don¡¯t want to fight anymore. I¡¯m not a hero; I¡¯m just another player on the stage. I can¡¯t tell if that¡¯s any better or worse either. ¡°You know, sometimes it¡¯s hard to recall the good memories. Right now, I remember stomping through dead leaves in the woods with her, picking our way through brambles. We were looking for fairies, trying to hide from pookas. We were playing in the woods. Just kids. Just having fun. That¡¯s something else I¡¯ve got, I guess. I hope I never lose it.¡± He looked over to Elizabeth¡¯s peaceful face slowly dancing with sleep. I may as well be productive. I¡¯ll sleep when I sleep. Dave tapped away: Innocence¡¯ Requiem: Elegy and Lamentation in the Shaman¡¯s Howl ~ The Wolf Knight comes swift: takes Pawn. How in the City did we Move from white to black? We all go in the same box; how do we fall from the board? A mother who lost her child: Boy went crazy, sick and wild. Carcass at his feet; he smiled. Dog watch the world; inhale the City¡¯s air. Expresses his concern, the only man who dare. Finds the carcass in the street, rotting there. God knows of how she sits and cries, How she bustle with dead insides. It¡¯s ¡¯cuz they walk with lonely eyes. Jabbing his blue vein with their psychic pain, Killer knows how easy it is to make eyes rain. Lamenting floods the City, running down the drain. Momma watches while her children¡¯s red flows. No folks see just where her boy goes. Only the Shaman knows. People move in a wild, sick satire to the Dancer. Queen of souls and purpose they think might have the answer. Royal subjects ask the question but no one heeds her. Still they all bleed and suffer from the Killer¡¯s cancer. Time will see to that the world is defiled Under the regimes of the sick and vile Violence riddles the fakely reconciled. They don¡¯t get the joke. They say they do, but they don¡¯t, Laughing awkwardly. The jest goes on without them, All while others sit and cry. Here¡¯s ¡°A Second Introduction¡± You know, but have you been introduced? It started in faraway times and places. Turn the page to get away. We were safe in here. We saw the City crumble; We watched it happen from outside a book. Our noses were in deep. We Got no closer. Thought we were safe in the land of plenty. All rivers run dry when the Earth burns. We charged ahead. Full steam. Charged toward death like Hefty animals garbed in nooses, diving over cliffs. No way back up with a broken neck. Those not diving busy screaming. Hoarse cries give way to the choke of blood. No one hears the words above the gargle. *Haaaghx! Raw, chapped, torn chords: we don¡¯t know what they¡¯re saying. Personally. I don¡¯t believe in Democracy. Too much demagoguery. Totally. The Oligarchy is a python Let the snake cults worship; they¡¯ll be the end of us. We¡¯re all less than humane now; It¡¯s part of being human. Flesh is power to the cult. B-B-Barbarians. The worshippers hiss live 24/7, Broadcasted for the nation. If it¡¯s not a hiss it¡¯s hate. Vile breeds violence; in the pit They writhe. The *tsss! echoes up the side of the signal tower where birds tweet for hours. That¡¯s the sound of the static shushing to our brains. It was a sword which cut the Gordian Knot. We¡¯ve lost the sword called Thought. The venom runs through the veins of America. They say to suck the poison out; Learned that on the Western Channel. The venom makes the throat tight lips numb, eyes go blind, ears hear only *hiss and slither. We drink the toxins like wine from our own skin. Hospital says they cannot heal Hands bound, mouth gagged tight by fear. Stare at me from the Caduceus. ¡°Let¡¯s beat up our countrymen!¡± they shout in the hall. Resounding. Echoes in the chamber where they wait like bullets. They hate us. We hate them. Let¡¯s all just kill each other. Brother. Can¡¯t say I¡¯ve never been born yesterday I¡¯ve heard the hiss scream, the rattle roll. Don¡¯t think I ever thought to wear a mask, though. Already have one round my eyes. You have to wear the serpents¡¯ colors ¡¯fore one strikes your hands. That¡¯s what the City really is. An ambiguous writhe to the outsider. It welcomes the weak; easier to coerce. Champion of the clinically opressed; It¡¯s a profession now. Losers try to change the game: don¡¯t race, just writhe in place. Let the dirt swallow you whole. Skin raw from the scrape of stone. I forgive all my enemies; my friends are just like them. Don¡¯t understand benefit of the doubt. Always idiots killed in the wars between man and Leviathan. Hobbes hops from the grave. Don¡¯t you believe it. Opposition only means ¡°onerous moron¡± The wild moron can¡¯t speak; You have to talk down to him. Make him shut up listen up straighten up. He don¡¯t go for that; they shackle him to their machine, their conjecture, their pristine and perfect view of a place he call Hell. I don¡¯t like their America, Land of the Victim Vassal. ¡°Live and let die,¡± ¡¯cause that¡¯s the way the serpent writhes. When they look back upon our century they will name it The Time of the Google Regime or the World Wide Worship of the Grand Machine. Bow your words or be banned, vassal. Strike me down I come back stronger. Bite my hands and I¡¯ll work harder. Bind my mouth and I¡¯ll shout louder. I don¡¯t plan to die over the edge of a cliff. I wait in want of peace. Bury me in street they kill me. Only Fluorouracil will free the vassal. The thoughts had to come out. They had to hit the page. Dave captured in earnest what he¡¯d been given, what he¡¯d found lying around in his head, and then racked his mind giving it form. I don¡¯t understand it, but I am impelled to speak. It makes feel better. I just have to put to words what happened when I rolled the boulder up the hill, and boy was it a helluva hill today. Chapter 33 ~ December 18th Dave drug himself into the store after a long thirty minutes in the car spent thinking about whether or not to call out. This place is stupid. I feel like I need a break from stupid. Stupid people who barely know how to ask for what they want. Stupid coworkers who can¡¯t understand what I mean when I speak. Stupid condescending business model, selling sugar to fat people like weed to high schoolers. He was as bitter as the swill he swigged. He had made it in early in spite of the restless night. When he wasn¡¯t leaving his thoughts to how tired he was, what had happened the night before, or how much he hated everything around him, he let the words on the page consume him. He just wanted to hear what they had to say. He had brought his laptop with him; the words still came as easily as they had the night before. He twisted and tapered a single long stanza with gentle purpose, letting a few strange words play strange games in the white field of possibility:

Hear the City See ~ The Killer

I will tell you about the killer; He is tall, and he is slender. His long, white and filthy fingers reach to grip the neck of the woman alone in the alley. Like spiders, hands are reaching. Spid¡¯ry hands are c o l d . Run! He is chasing, bat in hand. You can¡¯t get away. --brutal, beaten; brains battered beyond broken. Pieces of your skull-- He takes his leave wearing your recesses on a single slimy sleeve. ____ Damn, thought Dave. This is getting dark. A moment ran by him as the weight of what he¡¯d written sank in. I was wrong to come in today. Cliff is sick, and he¡¯s probably going to jail for a long time because of it. I have lost one more person in my life, and I didn¡¯t even take a day off to grieve. Well, I guess I¡¯ll deal with that ball of knots sooner or later. And Riley¡¯s leaving. I wonder who I¡¯ll close with when she¡¯s gone. I¡¯m gonna leave this place too. One way or another, I¡¯m getting out of here. I wasn¡¯t supposed to stay this long. Relationships can be more than circumstantial. Compassion should be more than just convenient. That¡¯s easier said than done, but there¡¯s no sense in saying it if you¡¯re not going to try and chase it. The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement. I¡¯m going to clock in. I¡¯m going to do my job today, face the hellspawn trying to steal my soul from me. I¡¯m going to clock out. I¡¯m going to go home, and I¡¯m going to listen to my wife. I¡¯m going to try to be her frame on the smoke. We¡¯re in this life together. Right now, we¡¯re all in this together, even those against us. The couple sat on their gray couch in their gray and yellow living room. Their small world was lit once again by the yellow, electric glow of a lamp and the chromatic television screen. Camus¡¯s head laid in Dave¡¯s lap while he chewed on a rawhide bone. Such a bizarre world, thought Dave. You look adorable to me chewing on part of something that¡¯s been dead for a long time. We call it a bone, but it¡¯s really skin. Your head is in my lap chewing on a dead animal, and I think it¡¯s endearing. Is this evidence of humankind¡¯s brevity in wisdom and perspective? I guess questions are all we really have. That¡¯s more than just the self. Life: you¡¯re a Gordian knot. I wish purpose and meaning were as simple as ¡®Alexander¡¯s sword,¡¯ here I am trying to untie you instead. I need decisiveness, I need action, I need¡ª ¡°Whatcha thinkin¡¯ ¡®bout?¡± asked Elizabeth. ¡°Uh, knots and dog bones¡­ nothing, I guess. Have you heard from your dad lately?¡± ¡°No. He still hasn¡¯t called me back.¡± ¡°Well if it¡¯s any consolation, you¡¯re handling his mistakes well.¡± ¡°Thanks.¡± ¡°What do you think?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve just learned it¡¯s better to keep him at a distance. Don¡¯t expect too much from him. Don¡¯t think about it too often. He¡¯ll come around when he comes around.¡± ¡°He makes a lot of mistakes and hurts people a lot. I don¡¯t think he means to.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t?¡± ¡°You do?¡± ¡°Sometimes, yeah. I think he uses me. I know he uses me. He¡¯s used me for money. He¡¯s used me to get to my siblings. I¡¯m just a means to an end for him.¡± ¡°You know, I always saw it from the angle that he was seeking out your help, one family member to another, but I think you see it a little better; at the end of the day you shouldn¡¯t put people and pliers in the same box in the closet.¡± ¡°Exactly. It¡¯s one thing to say to someone, ¡®hey, you have a skill or a talent that I need you to use to help me achieve this goal.¡¯ It¡¯s another thing to only say that to someone. I¡¯m his daughter, not his screwdriver.¡± ¡°Why do you think he does that?¡± asked Dave. How does one¡¯s life become a string of mistakes? remembered Dave. It starts with one and then another. I suppose the biggest problem is never learning the right lesson, never processing the right issue. ¡°I don¡¯t know. You¡¯re the one who said you thought he didn¡¯t mean any harm.¡± ¡°Right, but I want to hear what you think. I don¡¯t know him like you do.¡± The only sound in the room was Camus¡¯s chewing. Dave looked at Elizabeth¡¯s face looking down at the ground; he could see through the blank stare to a deep color of thought painted across in a thin wash. Underneath the wash was a basecoat of pain, misery, and anxiety. I¡¯ve never been able to imagine that Alexander cleaved the Knot with a single stroke; he probably hacked at it at least a couple of times. There¡¯s truth in that. Ropes and tangled emotions aren¡¯t so easy to cut, but I still think we have to try with all the tools we have to untangle them. ¡°I think,¡± she said. ¡°He genuinely doesn¡¯t know any better. He doesn¡¯t know what he¡¯s doing, like a child drawing on the wall. He just does it anyway. He just thinks about himself more than anyone else.¡± ¡°That makes sense; that¡¯s any easy place to get trapped in.¡± ¡°Yeah, well¡­ he¡¯ll come around when he comes around.¡± ¡°What about you?¡± ¡°What about me?¡± ¡°Where do you plan on going?¡± ¡°Nowhere. I¡¯m going to stay right here. I¡¯m going to wait for him. He¡¯s still my dad. I still love him, even when he makes mistakes. Even when it hurts. That¡¯s what we¡¯re supposed to do.¡± ¡°You¡¯re so much wiser than I am.¡± Chapter 34 ~ December 25th ¡°At least we close early tonight, folks,¡± said Dave over the headset. He dumped ice from the bucket into the bin. ¡°And you never have to come back, Riley! Today sucks, but we can embrace the suck together one last time, right?¡± ¡°Absolutely, my dude,¡± said Riley from the drive-through. ¡°What was that you said the other day, Dave?¡± asked Tom from the drive bar. His voice became heroic. ¡°No one will care what time we clock out. No one will¡­¡± ¡°...Care what our times look like. No. All that will matter is that today, three stood against many.¡± ¡°Four if you count Jess,¡± said Riley. ¡°Never yield to force; never yield to the the apparently overwhelming might of the enemy,¡± said Tom. ¡°I like that. Who is that?¡± asked Dave. ¡°Churchill the Bulldog. Yours?¡± ¡°Conan the Barbarian.¡± ¡°Who¡¯s that?¡± ¡°Do I have a bacon coming?¡± asked Riley. ¡°Indeed you do,¡± said Dave. ¡°Between the times when the oceans drank Atlantis,¡± he continued with a voice cracked with age and filled with wonder, his best Mako imitation. ¡°And the rise of the sons of Aryas, there was an age undreamed of.¡± ¡°Dave, where¡¯s the bacon?¡± asked Riley. He tossed the bag to her and turned to go fetch a couple of gallons of milk. ¡°And unto this, Conan, destined to wear the jeweled crown of Aquilonia upon a troubled brow.¡± ¡°Hi! This is Riley; how are you doing today?¡± she said out the box. ¡°It is I, his chronicler, who alone can tell thee of his saga.¡± ¡°Uuuh, we need just a minute, okay,¡± said a faceless and uncertain human. ¡°Let me tell you of the days of high adventure!¡± ¡°Dave, shut up,¡± said Riley. ¡°Absolutely. You just let me know when you¡¯re ready.¡± ¡°Well, I mean, that was the end of the monologue, so yeah.¡± ¡°I need uhhh¡­¡± ¡°Just making your last day one to remember, dude,¡± said Dave with a wry smile. ¡°Uhhh one¡­¡± the customer tried to say. ¡°¡­one¡­¡± ¡°How many milks do you need, Tom?¡± ¡°Two twos and one non.¡± ¡°Can I get two sugar, sugar, sugars?¡± said the customer at the slow speed of her own thoughts. ¡°What size?¡± asked Riley ¡°Uhhh¡­¡± Dave grabbed the three bags Jess had written on for croissants for customers up front. He tossed two in one oven and one in another; you couldn¡¯t heat more than two of something at a time. While those warmed, he ran down the line and pulled a couple stickers for Tom, labeling the respective cups and setting them in line to wait to become drinks. Then, he grabbed two of the four dirty pitchers and ran back down the line to the pitcher rinser. He rinsed them right as the ovens started beeping. Dave left the pitchers by the rinser and ran down to grab the croissants. After he¡¯d bagged them, he ran back up the line, grabbing the pitchers on his way. He called out the three croissants for up front, then turned around to deliver Tom¡¯s clean pitchers. By this time, two more pitchers had joined the two he¡¯d left behind. The busy store support pulled a few more stickers, looking to make sure he wasn¡¯t missing any food items. He grabbed three of the dirty pitchers and went to clean them. One was still hot. ¡°I need two whole milks,¡± said Tom in between the jabbering mouths at the box. ¡°You got it,¡± said Dave after yanking his hand away from a hot pitcher he¡¯d touched the wrong way. ¡°I also need some ice in the front bin,¡± said Tom. ¡°Cool,¡± said Dave, knowing he¡¯d have to make a second trip for that. He left the pitchers and ran to get the whole milks. On his way back, he remembered to grab the three pitchers in the other hand. ¡°Excuse me,¡± said an older woman over the counter. Her hair reminded Dave of the sick yellow from just a few nights ago. She wore nice work attire; he wondered where her soul sat between the juxtaposition. ¡°Where¡¯s my drink?¡± ¡°Um, let me see,¡± said Dave with one hand holding two gallons of milk and the other holding the three clean pitchers.¡°What was it?¡± ¡°A medium flat white with an extra shot.¡± ¡°You know, it¡¯s right here in the line. Tom¡¯s about to make it for you.¡± ¡°How come he¡¯s not making it now?¡± ¡°Well, there are drinks in front of it.¡± Dave looked Tom¡¯s line of cups. There were two fraps in front of the missus¡¯s flat white, a hot espresso based drink. Tom looked out of the corner of his eye, listening to the woman¡¯s fuss over top the hiss of steaming milk and the clank of steel. ¡°He¡¯ll get to it as soon as he¡¯s done with the ones in front of it.¡± Dave delivered the milk and pitchers, then turned to fetch that ice Tom needed. He moved quickly, making up for the precious lost seconds. Get out of the way, lady; I¡¯ve got a job to do and a day to win. He dug deep inside the ice maker, taking ten raucous scoops of cold from its damp depths. He rushed the ice up to the front bin. He removed the guard, careful not to dribble any of the dirty coffee, water, milk drippage from the rim of the guard into the bin. Dave tipped the bucket upside down, loosing a cold rush into the black bin. Before he could turn, ¡°Excuse me, but I have a meeting I need to be at in seven minutes, and he¡¯s not even making my drink. He¡¯s over there, making those drinks,¡± she said, pointing to the cold bar where Tom looked up from the fraps he was making. Dave looked at her, and saw the terrible grey-green face of a harpy, screeching at him with her wings spread wide. ¡°Well ma¡¯am, I hate to say it, but if you were that strapped for time, you probably shouldn¡¯t have gone into a restaurant on Christmas,¡± said Dave, staring her straight in the eye. He couldn¡¯t believe he¡¯d actually done that, as though he¡¯d let an arrow slip from his bow without thinking. He drew out another arrow, notched and fired as the first shot sailed into the harpy¡¯s wing. ¡°But, since that can¡¯t helped now, I¡¯ll make sure your drink gets out to you as soon as possible,¡± said Dave. He hung the ice bucket on a cabinet handle and went over to the drive bar. Tom had already set her milk to steam and pulled her shots. He¡¯d started her drink before he started on the fraps in front of it, and that was a kindness and efficient decision she would never be grateful for. In spiteful of her ungrateful screeching, Tom was still Tom, still working hard to do his job best. Dave turned his gaze to the harpy and dared her to screech once more. ¡°He needs help. You all are making him make all the drinks, and it¡¯s not fair.¡± ¡°Ma¡¯am, there¡¯s only four of us.¡± ¡°Well then you need to have more people scheduled.¡± ¡°Yeah, I try not to think about that one. I get paid a sandwich an hour, and that¡¯s a salary problem.¡± She glared at him, visibly angry. The other customers stared at the back of her head, visibly uncomfortable. Dave poured the flat white slowly, properly, the way it should be done. He drew his arming sword and charged, howling for blood from behind his great alder shield of self-respect. The harpy landed before him, nursing her wounded wings. Dave raised his sword over her head and said, ¡°here you go ma¡¯am. You try to have a merry Christmas now.¡± The woman stormed off through the uncomfortable crowd without a thanks to give. Get out of the way. I have a job to do. Dave returned to his support role, pulling stickers, looking for any food he¡¯d missed while resolving that distraction. This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. ¡°Do you need anything, Tom?¡± ¡°Three wholes on cold bar.¡± ¡°You got it,¡± said Dave as he grabbed the bags Jess had written. He needed to warm four different sandwiches between the front and the drive. He put a Big¡¯un Burger and a Spicy Italian in and went to fridges for the whole milk. ¡°Does someone have my Spicy Italian?¡± asked Riley. ¡°In a minute,¡± said Dave. ¡°It¡¯s warming.¡± ¡°What was the issue up front?¡± ¡°She didn¡¯t want to wait in line.¡± ¡°Oh, okay.¡± ¡°Yeah¡­¡± The seasonal howl rolled on. Syrups splashed. Rags ran across steel counters. Tender changed hands. People prattled. Ovens beeped. Pitchers clanked. Sinks ran. Milk spilled. The workers moved constantly, one foot in front of the other on their way toward the end of the day. ¡°Dave, I need you to assign up front. Jess is going on her lunch.¡± ¡°You got it.¡± The store was louder than Dave remembered it ever being. The line curled over to the door where more people waited to cram inside. Dave stepped up to the second register up front and started punching in his numbers to assign. The next person in line jumped up to him. ¡°I¡¯d like a white chocolate mocha, a caramelized honey, and a peppermint mocha frappee,¡± she immediately prattled off. ¡°Okay, awesome,¡± said Dave. ¡°Give me just a second here to get logged in. You¡¯re going on your lunch, Jess.¡± ¡°Thank God,¡± she whispered. ¡°Alright, we¡¯ll have these right out, sir. Have a fantastic evening.¡± ¡°Thanks! Could I get a bag for these snacks?¡± ¡°I¡¯m really sorry; we¡¯re actually out of bags.¡± ¡°Oh, no problem. I understand.¡± Dave looked at the woman standing in front of him. ¡°You said you wanted a white chocolate mocha, a caramelized honey, and a peppermint mocha frappee,¡± he said. ¡°What size are these?¡± People spent their Christmas waiting. They waited in line to order. They waited by the handoff plane for their order to be filled. They were calm but loud, except when they were telling Dave what they wanted; he struggled to hear most of the orders. All sorts of nasty, haggard faces passed him. A few nice ones were sprinkled in between. Most all of them left a nice little tip in his jar. Dave had no time to be in his head; from the moment he clocked to the moment he clocked out, he belonged to a faceless entity willing to toss him a sandwich for each of his hours. ¡°You know,¡± he said to a customer. ¡°This sandwich costs you what I make in an hour. In one day, I can earn eight sandwiches, and that¡¯s like two days worth of food. I don¡¯t think that kind of output has been so commonly available ever in the history of humanity. One days work for two days of living¡¯. That¡¯s crazy, man. ¡°Yeah, I guess it is,¡± said the customer. ¡°Uhh, have a Merry Christmas then.¡± ¡°Oh heck yeah! Merry Christmas and stuff!¡± The next customer came up to Dave with a few ornaments in her hand. She set them on the counter. ¡°Hi, how are you doing?¡± said Dave as he scanned one of the ornaments. It rang in at twelve and some change after tax. ¡°I¡¯m good. Wasn¡¯t that supposed to be thirty-percent off?¡± ¡°Umm, I don¡¯t think so, but let me go check for you,¡± said Dave. He went over to the shelves. I guess I should check. Let¡¯s see. Looks like we¡¯re out of the cheap ones. I feel like they¡¯ve changed what¡¯s what every single day this past week or two. There was an empty shelf with a sign on its edge. Underneath that shelf sat two baskets with a few various ornaments left. Dave came back to the register. ¡°It looks like we¡¯ve sold out of the ones on sale at the moment. ¡± ¡°Well, if you¡¯ve sold out of them, someone should go take the sign down,¡± she said, starting to scratch at her face. ¡°Yeah, I guess you¡¯re right. We¡¯ve been really busy today, so I don¡¯t think anyone¡¯s had the chance,¡± said Dave looking at the line behind her, not noticing what her fingers were doing. ¡°It doesn¡¯t take but five seconds to take a sign down.¡± The woman ripped off her face, tore the human flesh from the rest of her body, bursting into the form of an eight foot tall, swollen ogress. Okay, thought Dave. He gently placed his helmet over his mail coif. But, that¡¯s not my job right now. He drew his longsword from its quiet wooden sheath. My job is to make sure that people have to wait as little as possible, so get out of everyone¡¯s way. By this point, both Dave and the woman were visibly perturbed, clenched jaws set in rotten faces. ¡°It¡¯ll be twenty-four seventy-five.¡± He flourished his sword from behind his alder shield. Go ahead. Come at me. ¡°You¡¯re not going to give me the discount?¡± asked the ogress as she raked at Dave with disease painted pink nails. ¡°No ma¡¯am, I can¡¯t do that,¡± said Dave, breaking her claws on his shield. I could have done it easily if you hadn¡¯t been condescending. ¡°Well that¡¯s ridiculous. Can I at least get a bag?¡± ¡°No. We¡¯re out. We¡¯ve been busy,¡± said Dave through his teeth, running his sword through the ogress¡¯s head. He stared her in her filthy eyes as they went cold. The woman walked off with no more protest. You think I want to be here? Dealing with you? he thought before flashing a genuine smile at the next customer. ¡°Hi! How are you doing today?¡± he asked, putting away his sword. He tossed his helmet on the ground without a second thought. ¡°Guys, we are officially closed,¡± said Riley. She locked the front door behind the last patron. ¡°What¡¯s everyone doing once we get this place shut down,¡± asked Dave. ¡°Sleeping,¡± said Jess. ¡°Maybe drink some eggnog. Maybe eat some leftovers. Definitely do some sleepin¡¯.¡± ¡°It¡¯s only six o¡¯clock,¡± said Dave as if to say ¡®you don¡¯t have to do this¡¯. ¡°We¡¯ll be done by seven.¡± ¡°Short hair don¡¯t care, Dave,¡± said Jess. They both laughed. ¡°We¡¯re taking down the tree tonight,¡± said Tom. ¡°Why tonight?¡± asked Jess. ¡°Because we have to get it ready for the bonfire.¡± ¡°Wait, what?¡± asked Dave. ¡°Every New Year¡¯s Eve, we have a bonfire with the Christmas Tree.¡± ¡°That¡¯s genius,¡± said Dave. ¡°I¡¯ll have to talk to Elizabeth about doing that.¡± ¡°What about you, Riley?¡± asked Jess. ¡°I¡¯m playing Skyrim. Little Christmas present to myself.¡± The friends went on chatting and working. They were hoping it wouldn¡¯t take a full hour to get out, but there was previously no chance to start the cleaning. All the syrup splatters and old milk splashes were patient though; they had no plans of going anywhere for the holiday. ¡®Do you think we won today?¡¯ Dave wanted to ask, but he kept his thought inside head. They wouldn¡¯t understand what I mean; they don¡¯t see things the way I do, I don¡¯t think. I often assume that they¡¯re fighting as hard as I am, but they don¡¯t readily admit it. I¡¯m getting out of here. Not just tonight, but for good, I¡¯m going to leave this place. I had only ever planned to visit, but then I got used to things. I hate where I am because it¡¯s not a ladder to me anymore. This became a plateau, but I¡¯m going to find the mountain, and I¡¯m going to climb it.

Out of the Gutter; On the Street ~ The Wolf

Blood seemed to fill the world that night beneath the towers. Streets are never cleaned by Spring showers, so the flowers never grow. The City saw it all, but never could she speak. Their lives went on inside her, a masquerade for death. My mind¡­ My mind¡­ ...was awake to the scene. The electric pulse of persistent psychic pain tore apart my purple brain. Said she knew where to find him. Down the street, I marched the beat, snout down low now to the ground with the scent of flower all around. Yeah, I like the way the flower smells. ( t h e d a n c e r ) The masquerade goes on. She don¡¯t dance in the day; only by night with manufactured light. That¡¯s life for you: it grooves on. They didn¡¯t see her moving They were lost in the act of letting everything distract from being. Even ¡°violence¡± on the screen hides the violence of the scene. Live at five. Dead by six. They just let the pot stir on top; the bottom still burns, a black thick tar incapable of being called ¡°still edible.¡± Mastication and a pinched nose won¡¯t help you swallow this shit, or so the story says it goes. The flower isn¡¯t trampled by the City¡¯s dance. No, She keeps on rolling like a foul, film romance. I know he paints the City red, ( t h e k i l l e r ) but not her kind of color; it dries to crispy black and brown. Were you ready? They revolted in the streets. Yeah, they woke up in a stupid daze. Violence initiated, each leather hand Tore another, limb from limb The clouds were gone; we still couldn¡¯t see the stars¡­ I screamed with the rest of me as they celebrated excess with gratuitous slaughter. Laughter. As the Wolf might say. ¡°They weren¡¯t fighting for a thing¡­¡± The thing was their fighting and their killing. She was watered for the first time in years, if it was only by her tears. Life cries as the wind blows; no one really hears. The killer¡­ ...he started to s i n g . Which one will I be in morning? I see the question rising with the dawn. ____ Dave rolled on across the highway tired and happy. Merry Christmas, man. It started to rain. Drops pattered and smacked on the windshield. His old wipers scraped them off. The wind carried trash across the road so it might visit new places before the jailbirds could gather it. What a filthy place this is. I¡¯m glad to be a part of it. Chapter 35 Backstage left was a place where light didn¡¯t get an invitation, didn¡¯t have a ticket to go. Dave and Elizabeth fumbled through that darkness, stepping slowly, hands against the black brick wall. He knew what he was looking for, and she just had to trust him. Sometimes, that¡¯s all another person needs: someone to sift through the darkness with them. They came to a door light had stuck its foot in, sun beams gleaming on the hard floor through a crack between a black push bar door and the frame. A red sign glowed over it, and sunlight peaked around it through the crack left between it and the frame. Dave pushed it open and stepped outside. The wind swept his hair across his face as he stepped out onto a grassy landing. The great glory of earth reached out before him. A blue sky beset with a white golden sun rested over blue steel mountains dusted with heaven¡¯s frozen tears. Dave looked upon the green and blue wetland before him that the cold mountains hugged warmly like an old friend. This looks like someone dropped the Alps in the everglades, he thought. In the midst of all the glory of the landscape sat one mountain close to Dave. He noticed a trail leading to its foot and up its side. I¡¯m going to hike that trail. I¡¯m going to climb that mountain. I don¡¯t know what waits at the top, but I can¡¯t wait to see. I¡¯m finally excited about something. The search has meaning again. ¡°I have to go up that mountain,¡± Dave said. ¡°And I don¡¯t think you can come.¡± ¡°No. We all have our own mountains to climb. You can tell me about it when you come back. We¡¯ll talk over supper.¡± ¡°Yeah. Let¡¯s get pizza.¡± ¡°Let¡¯s get pizza,¡± she said smiling at his face. Dave put one foot in front of the other with his hands in his pockets. His feet led him to the forest at the mountain¡¯s foot. Cicada¡¯s roared from the verdant walls around him as he hiked onward and upward. Didn¡¯t Lola say something about climbing a mountain? As Dave climbed farther, a fog rolled in around him like smoke from a campfire. The mountain seemed to become a different place from the one he had seen earlier. He looked back through the greenery and into the red sky as the jewel beset upon it crept behind the mountains that held the welkin world on high. Dave breathed in the beauty, then turned to continue his trek upon the mountainside. Is this still the way up? The smell of ashwood burning invited Dave onward. He stepped out of the mountain grove with a long tangled beard and hair in want of a cut. He took his pack off as he approached the bright little fire pit. He looked up at the cloak of night; never had he seen the stars in all their magnificence, and now they looked down upon him, great giants dusted upon a beautifully and brightly glittering expanse of darkness. A man sat in a producer¡¯s camping chair tending the fire. ¡°Hello Dave!¡± said the man. Dave looked into bright and warm eyes disciplined with the coldness of man who has spent many days fighting to hit deadlines. Dark but peppered hair lay gently combed but firmly styled atop a handsome head with a healthy face, full of life and dignity. A mustached trimmed tight over its lip accented the piece that held the face together; a compassionate smile seemed to say everything anyone would ever want to hear. ¡°Uh, hello sir,¡± said Dave. ¡°Well, why don¡¯t you come have a seat; there¡¯s a chair here waiting for you.¡± ¡°I¡¯d love to.¡± Dave couldn¡¯t pass up a nice fire with good company. His toes were clammy in his shoes, and his fingers were chilled by the mountain air. But all at once, everything grew calm and still and comfortable. He sat down in the nice camping chair with the same look of thought on his face that he always wore. Few moments passed as the fire crackled its melody on the quiet mountain. ¡°You look a little confused, son,¡± said the man, tapping his fingers and raising an eyebrow. ¡°Well, you¡¯ve caught me off guard I guess,¡± said Dave. ¡°You aren¡¯t who I thought I¡¯d find up here.¡± ¡°I see. Who were you expecting then?¡± ¡°Eugene O¡¯Neill.¡± ¡°Why would you think that?¡± ¡°Someone gave me a description, and his face kind of fit the bill.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t look that much like a skeleton, do I? Who told you about me up here, anyway? I bet it was Lola. She never listens. Doesn¡¯t hear a word I say.¡± ¡°Yeah, I figure she¡¯d recognize Walt Disney.¡± ¡°Well, you take what you can get. Now onto business; I have something very important to ask you, son.¡± ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± asked Dave. He was perplexed; he thought he was the one with all the questions. Why am I so surprised about another surprise? You¡¯d think I¡¯d learn by now. ¡°Did you enjoy the ride?¡± ¡°Huh? Uh, well¡­ is it over?¡± asked Dave, running his fingers through his nasty and tangled beard. ¡°I mean, I¡¯d like to say yes. When you look at a painting that moves you, you want to be able to tell the artist about the effect it had on you, but I don¡¯t think I¡¯ve seen the whole painting yet.¡± ¡°Then I take it you did get something out of it.¡± ¡°Did?¡± The man pulled out a white, unfiltered cigarette and an expensive lighter with mouse ears engraved on it. Smoke rolled up around his face. Dave watched the pale smoke mingle over head with the black smoke from the fire. The stars were obscured, but not entirely blotted out. ¡°Did. Will. Would should could. That¡¯s all relative. Anyway, what isn¡¯t relative is that there¡¯s no sense in creating if nobody gets anything out of it. So, I want to know what you got out of it.¡± ¡°Well¡­¡± said Dave. ¡°I didn¡¯t find any answers, if that¡¯s what you mean.¡± ¡°Answers?¡± said Walt with a chuckle. ¡°No, I think those are rather boring and overrated. They¡¯re kind of like life¡¯s macguffin. That¡¯s the way Hitch usually puts it.¡± ¡°Is that why most answers only create more questions?¡± ¡°Yeah, I think that¡¯s why it¡¯s designed that way.¡± ¡°Everything is always in motion, moving toward the final act.¡± ¡°If you say so.¡± If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°We try to hold on to those sunsets and intimate nights, but we don¡¯t have hands to grab with.¡± ¡°Are you looking to hold onto the moment, or the joy that it brings. You can remember joy; you¡¯ve got hands to hold that.¡± Dave rolled the thought around in his head. ¡°Everytime I think I know something,¡± said Dave, ¡°I find out I don¡¯t know anything at all.¡± ¡°Oh, come on now; you have to give yourself more credit than that, otherwise you¡¯ll be stuck in a spinning teacup. It¡¯s best to have some friends and family in there with you.¡± ¡°Yeah, I guess you¡¯re right. It¡¯s easier said than done though.¡± ¡°What isn¡¯t? That¡¯s the excuse of lazy, invalid, pessimists. Is life something you live, or is it something you talk about?¡± ¡°A little bit of both, I guess,¡± said Dave, feeling clever. ¡°Sure, but don¡¯t spend too much time running your mouth or you¡¯ll forget why your mouth learned to walk in the first place.¡± ¡°I guess you learned to speak with your cartoons.¡± ¡°I learned to speak in a lot of ways, but yes, cartoons were one of them. What about you? I hear you write a little poetry here and there.¡± ¡°I try. It is what it is, but I like to think I¡¯m working on my own ¡®Rime of the Ancient Mariner.¡¯ It¡¯s only half the length though and a tenth as deep.¡± ¡°How many other people do you know who have walked that far or dived that deep creating something?¡± ¡°None, I guess.¡± ¡°You sure? Have you ever bothered to ask?¡± ¡°No. No I haven¡¯t, but I figure they would have said something if they¡¯d created something worth sharing.¡± ¡°Did you ever say anything?¡± Again, Dave thought he would be the one with all the questions. ¡°Never mind that though. Just keep it in the back of your head if you want. My real point was for you to just keep walking. Just keep diving¡ª¡± ¡°Just keep going.¡± ¡°That¡¯s right. You¡¯re working. You¡¯re working hard, and there¡¯s virtue in that. Work harder if you want, but remember why you do what you do.¡± ¡°Because I¡¯m in love. I¡¯m in love with my wife. I¡¯m in love with the beauty of Earth. I¡¯m in love with creating. I¡¯m in love with my coworkers, no matter how much they frustrate me at times.¡± ¡°That¡¯s right. Fall in love. Fall desperately and madly in love, and then look up and realize what you¡¯ve got in your hands: a responsibility to the thing you cherish. Give it a shot. See what happens.¡± ¡°Is that an answer?¡± ¡°Only in so much as it will will lead you to more questions.¡± ¡°That¡¯s not really a bad thing.¡± ¡°No, I don¡¯t think it is either. Any chance you could let me see those poems you¡¯ve been working on?¡± ¡°Well, they¡¯re all on my computer, and I¡¯m afraid I didn¡¯t bring that with me.¡± ¡°You sure about that? What¡¯s in your pack?¡± ¡°Is that how this works?¡± asked Dave, unamused. ¡°Magic works in a lot of ways,¡± said Walt with a wry smile. ¡°Do you really need to ask?¡± Dave pulled out his laptop, pulled up his old poems, and passed the computer to Walt.

The Killer or the Wolf

It¡¯s morning again in the City. There was always one star the whole town could see. The Killer met the Wolf in street. The whole world spun beneath their feet. It¡¯s always like that, always spinning. ¡°I¡¯ll go for the throat,¡± he thought. ¡°But, then I would be just the same; a taste of blood¡¯s a taste of death.¡± The Shaman has his own ways, and he wields them with the Sun. He is the Wolf Shaman, wild and uncommon. The Killer, he lifted his bat over his shoulder. ¡°I¡¯m the man who killed the horse. I am God and I am Satan. I am born from your remorse and sorrow seeping into bones because there¡¯s no tomorrow. I have lived in every dawn and twilight, a herald of hubris, fault, and plight. I am ruthless. I am night.¡± Dawn rose above the City gilding stone with mighty sun beams. This was her message to the Shaman: ¡°What happens if the moon screams? Do you listen? Do you paint its pale glow on your heart? When the rain is gentle, do you lament? Were you born to die, or do you die because you were born, Wolf Shaman? What happens if you live between that time, riding across the smoke in the night sky? Will you find the glitter of stars; will they reflect off your eye as you smell the moon and lift your sacred cry to heaven? Pray, Wolf. Pray to the power that is and will be. Let not Death¡¯s Dogma the Killer¡¯s Kind bury you beneath the might of their kind. One day we all meet the killer; it is our curse and our desert, yet the angels sing your name; it is not Nihil, for you are not of that tribe. You are no slave in the Nile. Some rivers run north, remember. Chains can be forged; chains can be broken: by truths. You are a being, not a was or a will be. Now, take it in your hands and understand, ¡®What happens when we chance to love?¡±