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.”

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

“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.”