The Drive-Thru

It was open twenty-four hours. Still is.
What drives them to the window?
The light? The moths and occasional swarm
of winged ants, sure. Hunger?
That seems the least likely explanation.
The angry ones who yell at you like
they're yelling at the world?
The ones who call you beaner, chink, gook,
wetback? Tell you to go back home.
The men who expose themselves.
Take the bags with one hand and
say hello with the other.
The zombies who walk up and
tap the glass, desperate for a fix.
The bitch who pulled away without
thanking me then screeched to a stop,
left the engine running as she rushed
the lobby and started strangling
my manager. Manager excusing herself
to the dope ordering fries in her headset.
Boyfriend trailing her pulled her off.

She later testified someone threw something at
her car and called her a puta.
But at the time she was screaming about
ketchup. We hadn't given her enough
ketchup. I had put at least three or
four packets in the bag. Probably five or
six. Maybe one or two got lost
under the napkins. How much ketchup
do you need?
              

December 18, 2018