The following is part of a serialized story, Everyone Thinks I Dream of Chocolate. You can find the first chapter here.
After that first order, I was swept by a current of people’s needs and desires. My body felt drawn towards a cycle: writing orders down, ringing them up, and taking the list to the kitchen.
Old couples. Nuclear families. Mobs of teenagers with loud personalities. Each experience blended together. I can’t remember each interaction or even specific moments of each interaction. What I do remember are the frenetic energy and the emotional high. I was not myself. By wearing that burgundy apron, I was a part of the establishment. Like a battery-powered by a crank, I continued to rotate an infinite revolution.
Often, my body was forced out of the standard, 3 step cycle for a number of reasons. Dick needed me to take an order out to customers. Becky needed to help a customer in the chocolate shop and needed me to take the next sandwich order. A customer needed help with extra utensils or a refill. These detours were all part of the flow, however. It was all part of the rhythm.
Help a customer. Take down an order. Bring it to Dick. Someone needs a Refill. That person didn’t get their drink. A child spilled their drink. No problem. Smile and get it done.
Most people were pleasant. I smiled as wide as I could and often it brought out the best in people. That cherry sweet tone I carried was sickly, sedating, and medicating. I watched them eat their grilled cheese and wash it down with Coke. Like my tone, the food had the power to make them comfortably numb.
Some were not as happy. A mother came up to me asked for a second refill. Unlike a fast-food chain like McDonald’s, this mom-and-pop store didn’t have massive corporate deals or bank vaults filled with money to justify the legal overdose of sugar and caffeine to the American population. I didn’t say that, of course. Most people don’t like to be reminded that we are a nation that has permanently fucked the global human diet.
Instead, I said, “I’m sorry, ma’am. We only allow one refill.”
“What?” her tone was shrill. It pierced my ears and caused the corners of my smile to twitch. I am proud to say that my smile held. “If I had known that, I wouldn’t have bought the soda in the first place.”
We both know this is a lie. Well, at least I do. I am not a fat shamer. I am sure that there are 400-pound beauty’s out there. In some of my dreams, I am sure that I am diving into every part of them, allowing their bodies to drown me in flesh and pleasure. No, it was everything else about her that gave away her illness. Her skin sagged in every single place. It was especially prevalent in her arms and face. She needed a scooter to move around. I can hear the engine whined in pathetic agony. I thought I could hear the gears grinding, reflective of the owner’s lack of care and attention to her own body. Her eyes were angry but they simply made me sad.
“Is there anything else I can get you?” I said.
“I guess I will buy another drink.
And before I knew it, it was 4 pm. The last customer left the eatery. Dick came out of the kitchen, wiping his face with a damp paper towel. Becky grabbed a wooden stool and sat down. I went to do the same.
“What are you doing?” Dick asked. His voice was incredulous as if I had done something I obviously shouldn’t have.”
“Taking a seat.”
“There’s still work to do.”
“Oh. Sorry. I just saw her and…”
“Well, she’s pregnant, isn’t she?”
I looked at Becky and at her stomach. I’ve been conditioned since I was 6 to not assume anything about people. My mom was haunted by an incident in my youth when we were invited to a neighbors house. They were Indian and it wouldn’t be until I was about 20 that I would become properly introduced to South Asian Cuisine. The spices clung to the air in the house like a proud tradition. Of course, the first words out of my ignorant, six-year-old mouth was that the house smelled “terrible.”
My mom still brings it up today. She has managed to turn my own past into a sort of boogeyman, a fable that ends with a message of warning. I don’t think that is what she intended but I don’t mind. The story is objectively a nightmare. It makes it hard to say anything without considering the potential consequences, the likes which range from unforgivable shame all the way to nuclear war. Even with this consideration, things would still slip through my mental filter, resulting in unforgivable shame and inner turmoil (a feeling close to nuclear war).
But today, I merely congratulated her. Innocent enough, I thought.
“How far along is she?”
“She’s about halfway there,” Becky said. “I can feel her kicking now.”
“Yeah, and when it’s out, I’m sure you can’t wait to leave us,” Dick said. The tone was both mocking and jocking. It was a shaken cocktail that was both well and ill-natured. The resulting flavor was confusing, like a beer with . A short silence with uncertain faces from Becky and myself.
“I’ll still come and visit,” Becky said.
“Yeah, I’m sure,” Dick said. “Mouse, go clean the eatery. It’s filthy.”
“Sure.”
Even after sweeping several times during the lunch rush, the mess was impressive. I made my way from table to table, making sure to catch any dust, food, or bits in my path. I moved chairs out of my way, trying to get into every little crack that I could.
While I did, my body had set itself into a certain motion, letting my mind wander. I had similar experiences on treadmills and exercise bikes. While my body swept trash and debris, my mind let me explore an island. There, I was a martial arts treasure hunter. I searched for a Mcguffin through a wild jungle.
Those details weren’t as important as the power fantasy of leaping from treetop to treetop. I could perform complicated and theatrical movements, blocking anything that came my way. Guns did nothing, bullets flew past me in cinematic bullet time. For some reason, I could strike a tree with my fingertips, like they were old-school matches I could striked anywhere. The action would produce lightning from my fingertips that created a trail of plasmic currents. I pointed toward my foes and they exploded in glorified ultra-violence.
And of course, there was a pretty girl to swoon after me. Why? Because humans are perpetually horny.
“Mouse!”
I looked up. Dick came out from the kitchen.
“When you are done sweeping, take out the trash will ya?
“Yep. You got it.”
It was close to closing time anyway. After it was all put away, Dick took me into the back. His office was located past the kitchen, in a hallway next to the freezer. It was cramped. Barely enough space for a chair. Yet, Dick fit perfectly in his seat, like a marble statue waiting to be carved out by a sculptor.
He opened his safe with a combination and started counting out some money, then wrote something on a piece of paper.
“How do you like it here?”
“I like it a lot,” I said and meant it.
“Yeah, I think you’ll work out just fine here. Are you still good for weekends?”
“Sure. I just need a couple of days heads up.”
“Can you do Saturday and Sunday, next week?”
“Let me check my schedule. I can let you know by Tuesday?”
He passed me my pay. I had worked several jobs in my life but never once had I been paid in
cash. After taxes, it was about $80. Considering that I had also gotten a normal job during the week, anything I made here was for fun. I was 21-years-old. I had Saturday night to myself. I had friends to see and booze to drink, all paid for with simple 8-hour shift.
“Sure,” I said.
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4. First Day pt.2
Danger Wonka 