You sweep a portion of the floor, wincing every time the broom slams into the dustpan with the dull thunk of plastic. It’s finally clean. You blink. Dust and trash coat the ground. Nobody has walked past you. Nobody is even in this part of the store.
You refilled the ketchup dispenser two days ago. It was a fresh bag. It held so much ketchup. It looked like it was filled with blood, and lolled about like a head atop a broken neck when you lifted it. A customer approaches you. “You’re out of ketchup,” they say. You’re always out of ketchup.
Someone says the machine is out of lemonade. You just put in a new cartridge this morning. You go to check the machine. The maintenance screen tells you the cartridge is full. You check the selection again. The grey icon of missing lemonade bores into your eyes. You do not have lemonade.
“Can I just get a cheeseburger?” the customer asks. They didn’t even look at the menu. They blink when you ask them what kind. There are no different kinds of cheeseburger. There is only the cheeseburger. You point to the menu behind you, and all the different options flicker onscreen. The customer stares. “Can I just get a cheeseburger?”
Nobody has entered the bathroom since the last time you cleaned it, but you have to check every half hour. Toilet paper and paper towels litter the floor. The toilet seat is propped up and smeared with something unidentifiable. Hair and crumbs stick to the sides of the wet sink. The mirror is streaked with water stains, already long dry. There’s a puddle beneath the soap dispenser. Nobody has entered the bathroom.
The customer slots their card in too early. You can only watch in horror as the chip reader struggles to understand. It hasn’t prompted the customer yet. Desperately, it blinks at them, begging them to remove their card. They don’t remove their card. They stare at you expectantly, waiting to hear that the transaction has been approved.
“I ordered fries with this,” the customer says when you set their tray down. You remember asking if they wanted the combo. They adamantly insisted that they only wanted the burger. You ask if they’re sure. Their brows furrow, and you flinch. “I know I ordered fries with this,” they snarl. Nervously, you check their meal ticket. The fries that you know you didn’t punch in stare at you in bold black print.
You’re out of cups up front. You’re always out of cups up front. You go to the back room. There are so many cups. The back room is never out of cups. You take a stack, then two to be safe. You restock the cups. Half an hour later, you’re out of cups up front.
You check the condiment station. Ketchup and mustard are smeared everywhere. Someone has spilled their soda. Little paper cups are strewn about the counter. Why did they take so many paper cups? Why didn’t they put back the ones they didn’t use? You don’t know. You put them away yourself. You are always the one to put them away.
You go to collect the trays. None of them are stacked right. The customers have created a crooked pile. You nudge it with one finger. They all fall into place with a series of clanks and clicks. They interlock perfectly. Another customer sets their tray atop the pile before you can pick it up. It’s crooked.
The restaurant is empty. You cannot remember when your last customer was. Your manager says they will have to send one of you home. You watch your coworker count their drawer with a blank expression. They go out the door, and you watch them vanish out of the corner of your eye. You blink. Ten customers are in line, all demanding service.
It has been thirty minutes. You come back to the counter to end your break. The timer says it has only been twenty-nine minutes. You stare. Five minutes tick by as you wait to end your break. The timer says it has only been twenty-nine minutes. “The last minute is always the longest,” your coworker jokes from beside you. How long has it only been twenty-nine minutes? You do not know.
2087
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