He was late, just enough to be pissed off. He knew driving sixty-five in a fifty-five wasn’t going to make red lights green, but it might get him through a yellow one or two. It was all a gamble; he was just trying to increase his slim odds, his no-good chance. Dave sped past a red car.

The roulette stopped; the pill landed on red. Dave pumped the brakes, came to a stop, and waited. He’d bet on black. That red car pulled up on Dave’s left. The driver looked over at Dave and shook his head, his face rich with judgment like a fellow gambler who had lost a smaller sum.

Dave grit his teeth and looked at the perpendicular lights to the left: green, yellow… red. He took his foot off the break and hovered over the gas. Rolling. Green. The pale Prius sped forward like a gimp horse out of the gate. White Lightning. His foot oppressed the pedal with wrath and frustration, any sense of hope and reason lost before his scramble out of the townhouse. White Lightning was a name for a Prius Dave found delightfully ironic, sarcastic even.

He laughed at the idiot in his driver’s seat, at himself. It doesn’t matter how much sooner I want to get there, I’m still subject to the theatrics around me, a member of the audience along for the ride. At best, I’m an actor playing his part. The script can’t be changed. Maybe that’s how life becomes a string of mistakes: it starts by leaving the house late, the one thing I had control over. He drove faster as if booing from the audience. The show went on.

Dave exited the highway. Around the bend, another red light halted Dave’s heroic efforts in defying time, bringing him to a familiar stop. No one here today. It was too common to find a panhandler here. Dave had learned their faces, but he stayed shy from learning their names. Today, there was no sad face or cardboard sign, and Dave sighed relief. I don’t have any cash. I need to remember to grab my tips when I get to work. The light turned green.

Three lanes of traffic stood still. Bloodshot eyes hanging on black wires stared at Dave, the city itself mocking his journey. What good am I doing by being upset? he thought, staring back at them. I think I’m just upset because I feel like I’m supposed to be. I’m the one on stage, pretending I care about this job. I’m just an actor playing his part. I should quit the show, just walk right off. A red beacon glowed over a black door on a black wall, quiet compared to the bright stage. It said one word to Dave. Watching passively and walking out can’t be my only choices. I can’t be the only one sitting here thinking this.

He looked at the parking lot as he turned onto the side street; every spot was filled. The drive-through line backed up out to the road, barring entrance to his store and the restaurant next to it. He drove up the road to try the other entrance and parked at that neighboring restaurant. He trod across the lawn with his apron in hand, slipping between bumpers in the drive-through.

After slipping into the back office, he tapped his username and password into the computer. Enter: 2:32 pm. Two minutes late. That bothered him. It bothered him more than it bothered anyone else. They were too distracted working. If being late doesn’t matter, why does it get to me? That means I think it matters. Why do I think it matters? Just another emotion I don’t seem to need. I hate this job.

“I don’t want to work here forever,” said Dave over the headset. “But, I don’t know where to go next. I just feel like a bug on a leaf in the wind. Makes me wonder why I keep getting out of bed. I come here, I endure the miserable drudgery, and I go home and wait to get paid for the hours I spent. I thought I wasn’t born to just pay bills and die, but if there’s a purpose for me, why don’t I know what it is or how to fulfill it? By deciding my purpose am I discovering the one I was given? I mean--”

“Whatcha working on?” asked his shift supervisor, Riley.

“Oh-uh, wiping out this fridge.” Figuring out who I am.

“Okay. Work faster,” she added.

Then came the ding of an assault. Dave sat cross-legged with the fridge door open. He wiped milk-dribble up with one hand and reached to the button on his headset with the other.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

“We need just a minute! Thanks.” The reply was sharp and insensitive like a bodkin shot into his ear.

He watched the clock on the monitor on the wall as it counted seconds of his life away. Right now, the seconds of Dave’s life carried a doubtful advantage. Those moments he begged to pass were moments he’d never have again. Everything, life, crept away from him while he waited for his freedom from the clock. Red numbers ticked by. The customers were still attempting to rally their order.

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The war horns resounded on Dave’s eardrum: “OKAY! WE’RE READY!” He recoiled, yanking the headset behind his ear. He rallied his defenses, turning his headset down low. He got up off the floor and stepped over to the computer.

“Alright! What can I get for you?” he half-shouted back for no reason.

“I NEED ‘TWO BUCKETS OF CARBONATED SYRUP WATER WITH A MONTH’S WORTH OF ADDED SUGAR,’ ONE ‘THIS WILL TASTE GOOD NOW, BUT NOT IN FIVE MINUTES,’ AND ONE ’OVERDONE SELF-HARMING DEVICE ON A BUN!”

“Sure thing! Two extra large colas, one Tacos n’ Fries box, and one Big’un Burger!’ Will that be all?”

“(mrmple)” Oh, now she stops yelling at me! “Okay! Your total is twenty-forty-five; we’ll see you at the window!” half-shouted Dave.

“HOLD ON! I SAID ONE MORE!”

No you didn’t! “Oh! I’m sorry! I couldn’t hear you that time!” Why so passive aggressive? Because, I’m not allowed to be real-aggressive. The employer has the illusory power of curbing radical free will. I give up free will in order to maintain it… Why do I want it to begin with? Why do I even want to be alive. It’s hard to appreciate life; I don’t really know anything about its alternative. The four ticking digits on the monitor spelled the word ‘exit’ in bold red letters.

“Sometimes, I just feel like I’m a crop on a farm.”

“What do you mean?” asked Tom. “I didn’t ask to be planted, I just was. I’m just a plant with eyes. I’ve been given room for growing, but that’s just to feed someone else’s machine that--”

“DO YOU HAVE A ’QUESTIONABLE FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION?”

Everything here is questionable for--“Let me check on that for you… Yes! Yes, we do!”

“CAN I GET ONE OF THOSE WITH ‘WE BOTH KNOW THIS ISN’T CHEESE, BUT LET’S PLAY PRETEND’ ON THAT?”

“Absolutely! Anything else I can get for you?” said Dave, still half shouting at the woman who thought he was deaf.

“NO! THAT’S IT! THANK YOU!”

“Okay. Your total--”

The car pulled forward cutting Dave off like a hand put in his face. Part of him seethed at her capacity for such lack of consideration, but the rest of him knew it did no wellness to mind this sense of being trampled over. To her, his thoughts and feelings were cast beyond the edges of perception, the edges of the world, the edge of significance; Dave realized this is where I live: past the edge of significance. How on earth do I change that.

“Hi! How you are doing?” half-shouted Dave filled with the kind of joyful energy that makes it sound like you say everything that way. The woman didn’t look up from her phone, didn’t say a word, but stuck her arm out the window for Dave to grab her card. She turned to her passenger and said something. Yep. Past the edge of significance.

“Good!” yelled Dave. “I’m doing well too.” She never turned to look at him, except when he handed her the order, and then she didn’t even say thanks. She drove off, still talking to her passenger as they sorted out the contents of their order.

BLACKOUT. From the corner of his eye, the gentle red glow was all Dave saw in the dark theater. That quiet glow seemed to care more than that yelling arm from the drive-through. The sign knew he wanted out. Out of the theater. Out of the dark. It knew how to get him there. ‘What are you waiting for?’ it wanted to ask. ‘I’m right here for you.’

Dave looked over, staring into the four red letters. He thought about getting up, about what it would be like to shuffle sideways through the row of seats murmuring excuse me. He imagined himself in front of the door; he put his hands on the bar. The steel was cold. It clicked and gave way a little when he pushed.

He was back in his seat, looking at the stage. Where do I even begin to live? The curtain rose. Dave was on stage at work again.

“Do you guys ever think about how when people meet us here at work, they really only see us as a shadow?” asked Dave.

“Yeah,” said Tom. “But, it doesn’t bother me.”

“Why not?”

“Because, most of them are older than me. Most of them have unhappy lives and dead end jobs, so far as I can tell. I’ve got a chance. I know what I’m doing. I know who I am and what I want, and that’s what’s important.”

“It’s kind of like they’re dead and you’re alive?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Who cares what a dead man thinks, right?”

“Bingo.”

“But, they’re not dead. They’re people too, and we only see a shadow of them.”

“That’s… something I never thought about,” said Tom.

“I try to imagine that what I’m seeing most of the time is the world at its worst. It’s like I’m trapped in a fire, trying to find my way out, but there’s smoke in my eyes. Somewhere, there’s a place with less smoke. That’s what I’m looking for: the other side of the smoke.”

“Hey, Dave,” said Riley.

“Yeah?”

“Two words. Word economy.”

“I know, I know. I’m talking too much, I’m sorry. I’ll get back to work.”

“Sounds like the fire’s really just in your head,” said Tom.

“Yeah, it’s like everything’s covered in ash, and I can’t imagine the world without it. Smoke and burning eyes are normalcy, reality,” said Dave. He hadn’t understood what Tom meant. Tom hadn’t understood how dangerous an imaginary fire could be. Neither realized they weren’t really saying anything to the other.

“It sounds like you’ve got it figured out,” said Tom.

“It does?”

“Yeah, now you just have to do something about it.”

“No, it’s not that simple.”

“What are you guys working on?” asked Riley.

“Is everything done? Are we ready to go?” asked Riley as she shut off the lights.

“Oh! Wait,” said Dave as he ran into the back office. He thumbed through the tip envelopes until he found the one with his name on it. He took the money, hoping he might see a panhandler on his way to work tomorrow. This time I’ll be prepared he thought as he marked his initials on the envelope.

“Sorry about that. We’re ready,” said Dave. Where do you begin to live? I guess I’ll start here, wherever that is.