I wish I was Mozart, thought Dave. He was waiting in the lobby of the store for his shift at two-thirty. When asked why he was so early, he explained that sometimes he wanted to sit and think before his shift; the truth was he often had no idea what time he was scheduled, so he showed up the earliest he knew he would have to work. He couldn’t remember. He could barely care at this point, but he hated getting a call asking if he was coming in today. I wish I was a prodigy. Talent delivers purpose.

The wishing man sat and looked out the window. I wonder what Mozart thought of his talent, of the hours spent playing with a blindfold, paraded as his father’s prodigy. I bet he thought at times it made him better than everyone else, and it did… at making music. And to Mozart, making music was all that mattered. Music was purpose. The sky scattered a silent, steady drizzle across the city outside. The soaked streets reflected golden headlights and streetlamps, filled too full with water to devour more light. Where is my music, God?

Dave looked around the store while he mused on Mozart; he only saw people living in the way life. Obstructions. Once again, the parking lot swelled with people in the way. The drive-through line reached out to the road. Dripping, wet tires rolled upon asphalt with that unique, man-made hiss. Everything bustled. Dave observed the bustle from behind a paper cup, a man in the audience of a complex and winding dance.

Each of these moments is unique; it’s never been these exact people swarming in these exact spots, and it will never be these exact people swarming in these exact spots. Each person is different from the ones here and there yesterday. I can’t say how they’re different; to me, they’re still no more than people. I guess that makes them just the same. Everything is different and the same.

He looked down at what was left of the latté macchiato, now devoid of foam and warmth. In his head there sparked a certain kinship with the paper cup; the natural sweetness drained out and warm passion slowly seeped away. All the admirable qualities and their nuance were gone. He delighted in the nuances of life, but what is delight when it is found alone? Unshared, appreciation oft withers and fades.

I had once thought appreciating nuance nurtured a hunger to live, but I feel so alone chasing hidden values and unthought treasures that now I think nuance is nothing more than illusion. No one else cares. Revering obscure minutia is merely a worship of the imagination. I may as well hold my head back and pretend the rain is wine. May as well watch tv.

Dave downed the puddle left in his cup. He looked up at the register and then followed the line with his eyes all the way to the door. Damp folks covered the tile floor in muddy prints, just glad to be out of the drizzle after leaving their warm cars. He was going to be asked to mop that up later. I am thirsty, but there’re more people in the way. That’s all I see in them now; humans are a frustration. I don’t want that though. I bet they all have loved ones of different sorts. I bet they laugh on their birthdays. I bet they’re just trying to get by sometimes. I bet the ones that are rude are only so because they care or cared too much. Caring takes a lot of strength; now maybe, they just don’t care at all. Now, they’ve grown too tired and too weak. They’re just taking another step toward a life long chain of mistakes. Their so used to problems, they can’t tell the difference between them and solutions.

Why do these people make me so bitter? I don’t even want to blame them; I don’t want to give them that power; I don’t want to bend to their battering. He imagined himself like he often had, a Saxon warrior armed to the teeth, leaning on his spear with a shield slung across his back. But, here I am, reminded of the nails I feel being driven into my skin and bones. Every day they come, each one the slow ‘tink’ of a carpenter’s hammer. And, every day they see me wince a little more.

I wonder what nails I help drive into others. How many hands has my hammering pierced? Am I just too sensitive? All I’m talking about is people asking for food. All I’m talking about is patterns of chemicals seeking sustenance. What can I say of Jesus and the loaves and fish? I’m not sure. I’m not sure. I wish I had that much patience.

The line eventually trickled out the door and back into the damp city after flooding the lobby floor with incessant and inane chatter about the advantages of Twitter versus Facebook, shallow analyses of promiscuous pursuits, and ignorant but passionate platitudes on the status of the election. Conversation is a curious happening; it’s sometimes just a hamster in a wheel. Dave took the opportunity to order one more small latté macchiato before his shift. He saw himself in his mind’s eye as that proud medieval warrior now waiting with his spear for service at the register. This is such a silly place to go to war. Such a silly hill to die on.

“You know, Jess, I kind of hate pleasantries,” he said sardonically when his coworker came up to the register. “Except for ones about the weather; I kind of like talking about the weather. But really, pleasantries are like canned conversations.”

“You hate what?” asked Jess.

“Pleasantries.”

“Oh, yeah. I hate those too,” she said, not listening, not caring as she wrote his order on his cup. Dave decided it would have been unfair to be upset with her; he realized she was working, and he had sent an invitation from the middle of his mental monologue. He went to the handoff plane and waited. He didn’t feel like talking anyway.

Stolen story; please report.

“How’s your day going?” she asked once she started making his drink.

“I’m about to clock in here; how do you think it’s going?” he said. He rolled his eyes inside his brain; yeah, she has no idea what I was trying to say about pleasantries. “How long are you working?”

“Until three. It’s been a long day.”

“You’re almost there!” he said with a cheer. There’s something she understands: work. Crappy work. Something we all understand, here at least. “You can do it, man.”

“Thanks.”

His shift started in ten minutes. As he walked to the back office, he glanced at the black and red sign over the front door, listening to its invitation. I could go. I don’t have to stay here. I could leave right now, and if I got a job elsewhere and never returned, it would never matter. They’d be mad. They’re always mad. We’re always mad. It’d all be different, but it’d still be the same.

After clocking in, he waited until two-twenty-nine before he went over to his dugout. I wish I had a foxhole for real; at least in the trenches I’d be part of something big. I’d say ‘I’m defending my home. I’m fighting for freedom.’ I’d be brave, bold, and called a hero. I’d be something.

I wish there were dragons to slay and giants to conquer. I wish I had some struggle to emerge from with greatness on my shoulders like a mantle sewn from timelessness. I want more. I need more; is more even real?

Dave started taking and closing orders. The barter between him and the employer had begun; he upheld his end. He took a deep breath, looked out the window, and endured the tink of hammers. This job isn’t so bad, thought Dave. A faint smile fluttered to his face like a ghost. His eyes looked just as dead. Sometimes… I think I’m the one with the problem. Not the world.

All he had time for was to take and close orders, to talk to the person at the box and the person at the window, and to sift through the vomit of pleasantries and orders while exchanging tender. He kept his shield up and his spear out. These were the daily mental gymnastics of Dave’s unskilled labor, and anyone could replace him.

“This isn’t right,” said the Fomorian slamming against Dave’s shield. The last hit sent him sprawling onto his back.

“You’re right. I’m so sorry about that. Let me fix it for you.” I can’t get anything right today. He left the window and started to make a blended peppermint mocha. Ice. Milk. Syrup. Sauce. Base. Cap. Blend. He ran over to the register and hit “right now recovery” to take the most expensive item off the order.

Dave pulled the window open and stuck his head out. The Fomorian glared at him with one nasty yellow eye. His purple skin was scarred with warts and tumors.

“I’m really sorry about that mistake—”

“You’d better be,” said the Fomorian as he swung his massive club. Dave raised his shield again to intercept the blow. His spear dropped from his hand as his body rattled like a drum from the Fomorian's blow.

“Right. So, it’s only gonna be five-thirty-five.”

“Here.”

Dave took the card and processed the transaction. Tom had already performed the last steps of the sequence, trying to help keep the line moving. Pour. Whip. Drizzle. Top.

“Thanks,” said Dave as he took the beverage then looked at the line of drinks by the window. Keep going, he thought, drawing out his longsword. He thrust the drink out the window and said, “Have a good day, sir. We’ll see you again.”

“No, you won’t.”

It was a simple mistake, dude. Get over yourself, thought Dave as he watched the Fomorian drive off. The next car pulled up. He had the order ready, and he continued to get the next few cars out as quickly as possible. I’m coming along now. His line of drinks shrank.

A woman in a yellow car pulled up to the box.

“Hi, what can I get for you?”

“Mmm, that new Confectioner’s Coffee Candy Caramel Cocoa Cream Crunch Cookie Frappee sounds delicious.”

“Yeah, it’s great.” Tastes like sugar.

“Can I get that iced instead of blended?”

“You know, that’s not an option, but I can make you up something special,” said Dave. He looked at the monitor to see that she was the only person in line. I’m going to do something nice; it’ll make me feel better, and it’s what I’m here for. He punched in the order and hit ‘ask me.’ He got the next few cars through then personally made the drink for the woman in the yellow car. Espresso. Milk. Ice. No, not blended (it still needed to be mixed in the blender because of the powders). Start over. Espresso. Milk. No ice. Syrup. Candies. Cocoa powder. Confectioners sugar. Whipped cream. Cap. Blend. Drizzle the cup. Pour. Ice. Whip. Cookie sprinkles. Top.

He opened the window, but before he could—

“What took so long?” said the ogress witch in the yellow car. Dave thought she had snot hanging from her nose, but it was just a septum piercing. Her face was painted a deep blue on one side and a brown-red on the other, the color of dried blood. Boldly, he raised his shield and peered from behind it, his sword drawn and balanced on the edge of his green and white shield.

“I’m sorry,” said Dave, doing his best to be genuinely kind. “There isn’t a standard for this, so I kind of had to make it special for you. If you don’t like it, let me know and we’ll make you something else. Also, if you want it somewhere else, they might not make it for you, so please don’t be mad at them.”

“Why wouldn’t they make it for me?”

“Because there isn’t a standard for it—”

“I’m from California. When I ask for it iced in California, you guys just make it. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“Never mind,” said Dave, rolling his eyes. And lo, how the mighty ogress’ strike did bring him down by her flames and the sundering of his alder shield and arming sword. Sparks and splinters filled the air: I’m done. What’s the point? She doesn’t care about what I just did for her. She’s not listening. She can screw off.

The ogress cackled. “It’s okay. I’ve been a customer since before you started working here. I know how things work.”

“Cool. Have a good day.” I don’t care about your ignorant lack of frugality. I don’t care about your endless hunger for empty calories. I don’t care about you; get out of my drive-through.

Dave shut the window and walked away. The ogress witch drove off, blissfully unaware of the damage she’d done. Dave grabbed the espresso machine and threw it on the ground in his mind’s eye. The only thing that stopped him from doing it for real was the fact that he was too weak to lift it. Fury and apathy rushed through his veins like the venom of two snakes as he glared at the stage from his audience seat; this is how the workday started.