“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 café. 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?”

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“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.”