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.

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

“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.