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.

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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.