“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.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“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.