The patty sizzled on the grill. The fluorescent lights cast the kitchen in an eternal daytime, Marcus had just finished his 2 AM coffee. His eyes were bloodshot and his writing hand could manually administer a polygraph test in a single stroke. The general manager cut the budget and only one employee worked the late shift now. Had to be a manager and Marcus owed a favor.
This particular BurgerHut location existed about ten miles from the nearest town. It was surrounded by a field and the only map marker of note nearby was the highway exit. Trees bordered the edge of the field, and beyond them a stone wall that separated the highway from the grasslands. The BurgerHut lives as a highway accommodation, and sits about two miles down the road from a rest stop and the nearest gas station.
The brass at Burger Hut, Inc. prided themselves on on the company’s business model. Burger Hut is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year. The Burger Hut Corporation acknowledges no holidays, except for Founder’s Day. On Founder’s Day, which is March 23rd, employees are permitted (read: required) to wear giant foam heads in the likeness of Robert Crowley, the company’s founder.
The only customers at this hour were truckers on the way to the rest stop outside town and drunks who would be wise to opt for delivery someplace else. Marcus flipped the patty onto the bun, dressed it, wrapped it in foil. He made his way to the fry hopper and scooped up a large, bagged it all. At the drive thru window, he sighed before he slid it open.
The driver jumped awake and looked around for danger before his eyes landed on Marcus through the window. “Ah nice, what do I owe ya?” he asked.
“Eight dollars and seventy-one cents.”
The driver’s hand sunk into his center console and retrieved a wallet. He scrapped together nine dollar bills and handed the wad through the window with a hiccup. Marcus took the cash and handed him the bag. “Drive carefully,” he said as he slid the window shut. Through the closed glass, Marcus could see the driver give him a thumbs-up before he shifted his car into drive.
Marcus turned back towards the cash register when he heard the crash. He slid open the window and leaned his head out before he unlocked the storefront’s door and walked to see how bad the damage was. The drunk’s car door opened and he collapsed out from it in a rush.
“Ah, man, ah, man. Shit shit shit. I gotta get out of here, this can’t go on my record,” he slurred under his breath as he picked himself up. His eyes caught Marcus again, “Look! Here, take this,” he tossed the keys into Marcus’ hand. “Thanks, buddy, I owe ya one.”
The drunk started to amble towards the highway when Marcus shouted “Wait!”
The drunk stopped, straightened, and turned seemingly genuinely curious as to what Marcus might have to say. He turned to face Marcus with an expectant look.
“Look, man, you can’t just like leave your car here.”
“Oh, I appreciate the concern but that old thing isn’t mine anyway, I was gonna drop it off somewhere suitable, but here seems as good a place as any other,” the drunk pulled a Rolex out of his back pocket and strapped it onto his wrist.
The 2003 Chevy Cobalt was probably blue once, but now contained a multitude of varying colors. The front doors had been replaced with red door frames and the bumper was an unsightly gray. The back taillight was out and the space where rear window would go was covered in saran wrap. The license plate read Illinois. The hubcaps were all a different shade of not-quite-black and the tires, from a passing glance, seemed to need some air.
“Who are you?” Marcus, in his sleep-deprived state, could not manage to find anything else to ask.
“I’m something older, out of place. Don’t worry about it,” the man said as he walked a straight line to the trunk and popped it open, “Here’s a thousand dollars and a bag of meth. Leave me alone,” the stranger tossed a backpack at Marcus, about-faced, and marched on.
Marcus opened the backpack and looked inside. The drunk did not lie. Marcus straightened his back when he saw the bills, then his eyes wandered over to the baggie. He hesitated. He looked back towards the store and then to the stranger walking towards the highway. Marcus noticed that the man walked a straight line. Wasn’t he shitfaced a few minutes ago? Marcus started to run towards the man but when he heard the jingling of the keys on his belt loop he stopped and looked back towards the store. He turned to the man, “Hey! Hold on, wait a minute!” and ran back to the storefront. His hands still shaking, he reached for his keyring and flipped through to the big sharp one to jam it into the keyhole. Panting, he turned back towards the road. The man was gone. Completely out of breath, he leaned into the door and slid down to the floor.
A couple hours after he made the call the cops showed up. It was towards the end of his shift and the sun was rising up over the horizon. The first cop took a look at the damage and scribbled some notes into his pen pad before he called for a tow truck over his radio. His blue uniform was spotless and ordered. He was six feet tall and looked like he came off an assembly line. His head was shaved and his gaze was piercing. The cop walked back over to Marcus, who had just finished clocking out.
“Anything else to report?” the cop asked obligatorily.
“Uh, what do you mean?” Marcus had already stashed the backpack in the trunk of his jalopy.
“You talk to this guy, get a bead on him?”
“I confronted him after the crash, but he kept walking towards the highway. I ran to chase after him but I realized that I couldn’t leave the store unlocked and unattended. By the time I turned back around he was gone. That was all there was to it.”
“What did this guy look like?”
Marcus did his best to describe the perpetrator, but his mind was elsewhere. How long has it been since something good happened? The cop scribbled his notes and went on his way. Marcus got permission from the general manager to close the store, not an easy task.
The backpack sat open on Marcus’ kitchen table, which was cluttered with old Burger Hut bags and cigarette butts. Marcus had plenty ideas what to do with the money, put it towards student loan debt mostly. Nearly 40, Marcus was beginning to feel embarrassed about his lingering adolescence.
Marcus did not have any idea what to do with the meth. Marcus had never tried meth, never even seen it before. He was not new to drugs, he smoked pot until he couldn’t afford to anymore and he tripped acid twice in college. He would have kept tripping if he hadn’t looked in the mirror that one time. This was good meth, too, not that Marcus knew the difference. It wasn’t blue like the stuff he’d seen on some TV show but it was sharp and crystalized.
Marcus wandered to the dresser in the corner of his kitchen, the one he had not opened in years. In the top drawer he found old letters, expired coupons, junk mail he didn’t have the heart to throw away. He reached for the back and felt around for the glass, his hand grasped it. He pulled the pipe from the drawer and made his way back to the table. He looked into the bowl and found ash he never cleared, he blew it out. The meth broke up into a powder after he hit it hard enough.
He took a puff and promptly coughed out a lung. He slammed his fist on his chest, trying punch out the cough. Once finished, he inhaled a long, cold breath. He took a look around the room, When was the last time I cleaned this place? The once-white carpet accumulated enough dust to take on a grayish color. The bare walls, which he never bothered to decorate, had adopted a yellowish tint from his constant chain smoking. The kitchen, which was only separated from the living room by a change from carpet to linoleum, featured a sink full of dirty dishes and a stove covered in grease. The refrigerator had one magnet, an advertisement for BurgerHut that had the storefront’s phone number on it.The trashcan to the left of the front door was filled over the brim with BurgerHut bags and tissues. Marcus’ gaze fell to the coffee table in front of him, covered with more BurgerHut bags and ashes. The overflowing ashtray on the center of the table served as a centerpiece to the to the bouquet of cigarette butts that surrounded it. Gotta start somewhere. He cleared the table with his left arm while lighting the cigarette he found in his mouth with his right. He scrambled to his closet where he lurched towards the washing detergent. Back at the table, he poured it all over the surface and got to rubbing it in with his fists. Something’s missing. His lightbulb energized and he ran to the kitchen where he filled a cereal bowl with tap water. Running back, he tripped over the mess he threw to the floor and the bowl flew onto the table where it cracked into three pieces. The water pooled in the middle and Marcus clambered to his feet. He used the shards of ceramic to rub the water into the detergent. Once it was sufficiently foamy, Marcus got an idea.
Couldn’t hurt. He used the flattest ceramic shard to scrap out a line of foam which he leaned over to snort. It burned down his throat, he threw up on the table. It could hurt, back to the drawing board on that one. He surveyed his cleaning job, the table was covered in puke and foamy detergent and ashes. Better let that sit. Marcus shuffled over to his new favorite backpack and picked up the baggie. He stared into where he figured the bag’s eyes would be if they had any, and he grumbled, “You and me, we’re gonna have ourselves a week.”
The next day at work Marcus lived in a cloud. All he could think about was getting back to that baggie. He already had plans for the money, it was serve as a vehicle to get more meth. That was obvious now. His student loan debt could wait until the next time a cosmic stranger crashed a stolen car into the restaurant.
Everything reminded him of the baggie. The smell of the patties sizzling on the grill reminded him of the baggie. The beeping of the fryer reminded him of the baggie. The powdered meth caked to the palms of his unwashed, gloveless hands reminded him of the baggie. Plain Joe’s blaring bald head reminded him of that harsh cough. That cough resonated with him. He missed the high but his lungs thanked him for the time off. There’s gotta be another way to do that. Plain Joe was whining about something, who knows. Marcus stared at the clock. Theresa’s late. He turned and scanned the room and all he saw were a list of reasons to leave. Finally his gaze met Theresa, hustling up. Marcus handed off Plain Joe and bolted for the time clock.
Marcus sat at his still foamy kitchen table and stared lovingly at his baggie. He craved the high but he never got over that cough, and his nasal passage was still reprimanding him for the foam incident. How else can I consume this? He scooped out a handful and rubbed it on his gums like he’d seen in the movies. That feels kinda nice. He took more handfuls and rubbed them all over his face, letting it fall into his shirt and collect in his fat rolls.
Not usually the creative type, Marcus ran to the sink and found his toothbrush. He poured out another handful onto the brush and got to work on his teeth. When he was done he didn’t spit, but swallowed. His smile lit up the room.
Marcus needed more. I need more, where can I get more? He looked out his window onto the cracked sidewalk. There was foot traffic, but nothing that shouted “meth dealer”. He walked downstairs until he smelled something familiar. He sniffed the air erratically, trying to track down the scent. He hunched over and walked down the hallway, sniffing along the walls. The scent got stronger towards a beat up old door. He dropped to his knees and sniffed under the doorframe. Bingo. Sure of himself, and in a frenzy, he barged through the unlocked door. Inside was an old lady watching TV, who was suddenly very alarmed. The old woman screamed and Marcus screamed back, staring her dead in the eyes for dominance. The old woman clutched at her chest and fell to the floor.
That was weird. Marcus, vaguely concerned, walked over to the now-unconscious woman and was in the process of leaning over to check her pulse when he caught the scent again. He resumed his sniffing and found a ventilation duct behind a coffee table. Marcus threw the coffee table to the side, narrowly missing the old woman who he already forgot about, and bent over to take a big long whiff. Next door.
Marcus rushed out of the room, closing the door behind him, and rushed down the hall. Heavy music blared from behind the door, so Marcus banged on it hard enough that the occupants would hear him. The music stopped suddenly. Marcus waited. He heard a loud click and all of a sudden the door swung open and a shotgun appeared in his face. Marcus peered down through the barrel, not really concerned by the implication. The voice behind the shotgun blurted, “What do you want?”
“I’d like to buy some meth please.”
The shotgun lowered slightly and the face changed from angry to curious. “You a cop?”
“No I’m a manager at a burger restaurant,” Marcus replied, then, sensing the urgency of the situation, “Wait, are you a cop?”
“Not funny,” the voice said. Marcus, not sure if he believed the man, squinted to get a good look at him. The shotgun-wielding man’s face was obscured by a hoodie, but Marcus thought he could see a long scar ending near his chin. “Are you sure you’re not a cop? I think you have to tell me if you are.”
“Get out of here you broke tweaker,” the man said while moving to close the door.
“Wait!” Marcus shouted as he pulled off his backpack, a motion which lead the man to raise his shotgun again. He unzipped the backpack and showed the man the money inside.
“Oh! Well that changes things,” the man laughed as he handed off the shotgun to someone on the other side of the door. “Give me that,” he said as he snatched the backpack from Marcus and slammed the door shut.
Marcus stood there, unsure what to think. Still high from earlier, he wobbled back and forth for a few moments before the door swung back open. The man tossed him a gallon-sized ziplock and slammed the door shut again, Marcus could hear the deadbolt.
He lifted the baggie to his face and took a big whiff. Pleased, he turned back towards the stairwell just as a man and a woman walked in the hallway. He stashed the baggie under his shirt and did his best to act casual as he walked past them. Marcus heard them open a door behind him and just as he thought he was in the clear he heard the man shout “Oh my god! Call 911!”
Fuck, they must have smelled it. Marcus broke into a run and dashed up the stairs, he slammed through his door and slammed it again behind him, bolting it shut. Marcus needed a hiding place. He tore into the baggie and poured some into his ears, but there was still far too much left over. He ran to his kitchen and emptied out the salt shaker. He frantically filled it to the brim. The flashing red lights beamed through his window and he darted to pull the blinds. He sprinted to every light switch and flipped it off. Marcus darted his eyes around the room, looking for any safe haven. At a loss, Marcus dropped to his knees and scurried under his bed.
He spent the night there, cradling his bag of meth.
The next evening Marcus awoke underneath his bed. He rolled out from under it and checked to make sure everything was in order. With quick sweep of his apartment, he determined that no federal agents had planted any cameras or listening devices. Sufficiently relieved, he moved on to the kitchen to make breakfast.
Marcus never considered himself a chef. He knew how to scramble an egg, but that was about it as far as breakfast goes. He plucked the last egg from the carton and cracked it over the pan. He reached for his salt shaker, forgetting that he had dumped out the sodium in favor of amphetamine, and sprinkled in a healthy dose.
At his kitchen table, Marcus was dumbfounded. Since when can I cook? The meal was absolutely delicious, he had never tasted anything like it. At this point, the line between sobriety and being high was blurry to Marcus, and he did not realize that his manic nature was the cause of his drug consumption. He started to think about his place in life. Where is this job going? Marcus determined that it was too late to switch careers, the only opportunity for moving up in life was to progress in his rank at Burger Hut. After about thirty seconds of deliberation, Marcus decided that the only way to get a promotion to corporate was a huge sales spike. He needed his Burger Hut location to be the most successful in the franchise.
Burger Hut’s method of operation did not involve any seasoning on the store side. All patties and fries were pre-seasoned at the factory. The people want salt. Marcus decided it was time for an experiment. Given that there is no seasoning in the storefront, the store did not stock it’s own supplies of salt, corporate had decided that it was easier to pre-salt everything. Marcus grabbed the salt shaker and made his way to work.
Marcus greeted Theresa in the office. “Greeted” is a strong word for the exchange. He merely grunted, and she took that as her cue to clock out. Marcus was never one for conversation, which is why he didn’t mind working alone on the late shift so much. As soon as he heard the door close behind Theresa, he moved out into the kitchen and looked for the cameras that corporate used to keep an eye on things. He found the best angle for his plan. At the grill, he pulled the salt shaker out from his sleeve. Using his body to block the camera, he sprinkled all the patties. He did not stop there. Once finished at the grill, he moved to the frier and flung some more “salt” into the grease. He coated the spatula. Even the tomato slices and lettuce leaves got a healthy dosage.
After he put things in motion, he moved to the office to wait for his first customer. He sat there for about a minute and a half before he got restless. He looked around the office and noticed that no cameras were installed. Freed from supervision, Marcus pulled out his baggie, which he had taken to keeping with him at all times.
He shoveled a handful into his mouth and bided his time.
By the end of the shift Marcus had already seen three repeat customers that night. All three of them truckers energized and amazed by their first order. Palm of my hand, Marcus thought as he salted the fry hopper once again. He looked on the drive through camera monitor and saw that there was a line around the building. Five semi trucks tried to jam into the drive through line and one waited with his blinker in the street. Marcus was surprised at his business acumen, he did not expect things to go so well so quickly. The people love salt, who were we withhold it?
Marcus juggled things exceptionally, at least until the sixth driver rammed into the fifth out of impatience, which startled the meth-addled fifth driver and caused him to lurch forward and ram into the fourth, and so on. The series of crashes could be heard from miles away. Marcus ran outside to survey the damage. He wandered over to the roadside just in time to see the sixth trucker clamber out of his vehicle. The trucker had a green baseball cap and wore a chest-length beard, but his most distinguishing characteristic at the moment was the foam guzzling out of his mouth.
Marcus, believing that his secret ingredient was just plain old sodium, immediately dialed for the cops. Foaming mouths was bad for business, and so were accidents that blocked up the drive through. He was not going to let this deranged trucker ruin his promotion, he still needed to triple the usual nightly earnings and his shift ended in an hour.
Immediately after calling the cops, Marcus remembered how high he was and how much meth he still had on his person. The gravity of his situation set in, and he decided the only way to save his skin was to finish off the rest. Marcus darted for the office and dumped the rest of the baggie down his gullet. The red and blue flashing lights waited for him outside. Marcus fidget-walked over to the officer, he could not tell if it was the same one from the night before or if it was just another cop from the same assembly line.
He walked up just in time to hear the radio chatter. “Officer requesting backup, we have a situation on our hands.” At this point all of the six truckers were brawling and barking and gnashing at each other’s throats. Marcus started to understand what had happened.
Four more cop cars pulled up and their occupants immediately ran to break up the fight. A couple of the drivers saw the officer approaching and made a break neck run to their rigs in an attempt to escape, but their engines just groaned as their trucks struggled to free themselves from the entanglement of the wreck. Marcus stood at the entrance to the Burger Hut and watched as the cops wrangled the truckers. A fifth cop showed up to block the exit so that none of them could make their escape.
Marcus’ heart sank into his stomach. The original police officer approached him.
“I have some questions for you.”
Marcus lowered his eyes and noticed that the cop had a Rolex on his wrist. He looked up into his eyes and found familiarity. “Can we talk inside?” the cop asked.
“You’re a cop?” Marcus asked incredulously from across the booth the two were sitting in.
“Thought I’d try it on for size, I dabble in a lot of things,” the stranger responded.
“Why’d you give me the backpack?”
“It wasn’t my style, didn’t need it anymore. Anyway, on to the matter at hand, you know there have to be repercussions for this.”
Marcus began to get frantic as the high wore off and he could see with more clarity exactly how grave a situation he found himself in, “If I’m going down, you’re going with me!,” he started, “I can prove you were there the night of the accident, I’ll — “
“Calm down,” the man said, “I don’t need any undue attention on me either, it’s a hassle. Don’t feel like moving again. We’re in this together.”
“Oh… Well, what do we do?”
The man pulled out a folded wad of paper from his pocket and unfolded it on the table. He flipped through the pages. “I have plans for all sorts of situations, let me just find a suitable one.” The cosmic stranger in a cop’s uniform plucked one page in particular out of the pile and examined it.
“Know any good scapegoats?”
