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In the middle of an aisle, Dream opens another box from the cart beside him. His gloved hands rotate many individual cans so their labels face outwards. Once the box is empty and all of its contents are arranged into rows on the shelf, Dream unfolds the box’s flaps and flattens the cardboard. He crouches, he places the flattened box on his cart, then he stands up again to grab a new box. That first box was full of canned diced tomatoes, but this second box is full of canned tomato sauce, so Dream shuffles sideways to find the correct spot on the shelf.
The entire process repeats. Dream empties the box, he crushes the box, then he moves on to the next box. Again, and again, and again.
Dream has worked at the grocery store for several months, so he is very familiar with this process. Once he finishes unloading the entire shipment of boxes, he will take his thirty-minute lunch break. Afterward he will spend the rest of his nine-hour shift organizing and cleaning the entire store. Tomorrow he will return for another nine-hour shift and do all of it again.
Intensely focused on his work, Dream barely notices a person approaching him until -
“Excuse me?” A voice interrupts.
“Yeah?” Dream’s concentration breaks. He turns to face the stranger: a man with dark brown hair and deep umber eyes. “Did you need something?”
“I just wanted to say that you seem very focused.” Shorter than the employee, the stranger must lift his chin to make eye contact. “I mean, I was standing back there for, like, five minutes, and I don’t think you saw me.”
“Not really,” Dream admits. Gesturing to the pile of flattened cardboard on his cart, he shrugs, “Like you said, I was focused. Technically I’m supposed to ask everyone if they need help finding anything, but sometimes I don’t even notice people nearby unless they talk to me.”
“Ah,” the stranger nods with understanding. Then mischief glints in his gaze. “Well, what if someone stole something? You wouldn’t notice, would you? The person would escape.”
“Probably, but I mean, what would I do?” Absently rolling the cart back and forth on its wheels, Dream reasons, “According to store policy, we’re not allowed to apprehend suspects unless we witness them stealing something. I wouldn’t, like, grab or tackle someone either. I’m supposed to find a manager and tell them.”
“Oh, so this store has a plan in case someone robs you?” The stranger lifts his eyebrows with curiosity. He wonders aloud, “What if a customer steals your heart?”
Dream scoffs, suddenly annoyed. This man must be wasting his time on purpose. “I don’t know. Now, Sir, did you need help finding anything?” Hopefully the man will say no and the employee can continue with his work.
Unfortunately the customer replies, “Actually, yes. I was looking for butter.”
Thankful that at least this man requested something simple, Dream agrees, “Sure. I can show you where it is.” Beckoning for the customer to follow, the employee exits the aisle to walk along the back wall of the grocery store.
While the man pushes his cart, the employee guides him to the refrigerated section. When they reach the shelves of butter and margarine, Dream announces, “Here it is!” Ready to leave, he steps back and -
“Oh, wait, hold on!” Instantly the customer protests. Sensing the employee’s impatience, he asks hastily, “Which one is the best? Quality is very important to me.”
“That one is probably the best.” Dream points at a small tub of pure unsalted Irish cream butter, then he points to a similar tub beside it. “Or you could get that one. It’s the same thing, but with salt added.”
“Those are really expensive,” the customer comments with audible disdain. “Don’t you have anything cheaper?” Before the employee can answer, he chooses an enormous tub from a lower shelf. “Look! This container is much more affordable. Why didn’t you recommend this one?”
“Because that’s not butter.” Pursing his lips with irritation, Dream explains, “That’s a tub of margarine.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Margarine is plant-based, but butter comes from milk. Some people don’t taste a difference, but butter and margarine have completely different chemical compositions.” Gently plucking the tub of margarine from the customer’s hands, Dream returns it to the shelf and rotates it so the label faces outward again. “Anyway, you said you wanted butter, and that’s not butter.”
“But it’s like butter,” the customer insists. “That’s the entire goal of margarine, right? To be like butter?”
“Margarine is like low-quality butter,” the employee corrects. “That’s why this big tub of margarine is the same price as that little tub of butter.”
“Alright, fine, then I won’t buy that one.” The customer selects a different tub of margarine. “What about this one? It’s smaller, like that little tub of butter.”
“No, that’s not butter either,” Dream growls. “It’s still margarine!”
“Well, then, if you’re so smart, Sir -” The customer tilts his head mockingly. “What is actually butter here?”
“Do you see these?” Dream points at several packages which contain sticks of butter. “All of the stuff on this shelf right here is butter. Real butter.”
“But all of that stuff is more expensive.”
“Yes, because it’s real butter!” Dream’s voice pitches with indignance. “Why are you so fucking clueless? This conversation is going in circles!”
“It’s going in circles because you’re trying to trick me,” the customer accuses. Leaning one elbow on the handle of his cart, he places his other hand on his hip. “I thought you were just being unhelpful, but frankly you’re acting like a scammer. You’re trying to make me spend all of my money on expensive ingredients when I could easily buy something cheaper!”
“That is not what I’m doing!” Livid at the accusation, Dream loses his temper. “I don’t give a shit about how much money you spend here! I’m pissed off because you asked me questions, I answered them, and then you hated the answers!”
“Dream!” From nearby a third person interjects. Both men flinch; their heads jerk sideways to look. It is the grocery store manager, marching forward to apprehend their employee. “That is not an acceptable way to speak to anyone, especially one of our customers!” As Dream lowers his head in shame, the manager shifts their attention to the other man. Profusely they apologize, “Sir, I’m terribly sorry for my employee’s behavior. Is there anything I can do to repair the situation?”
“No thanks, I’m totally fine,” the customer dismisses the offer. “I was done with shopping anyway. I have some cold things in the cart, and I don’t want them to be out of the fridge for too long.” Excusing himself, he gives Dream a polite nod. “I hope you have a good day.”
After the man departs, rolling his cart away with a carefree hum that Dream resents, the manager returns their attention to their employee. “Office. Now.”
“Okay.” Tentatively removing his gloves, Dream follows them through an aisle to a little hallway in the corner of the store. The pair pass the restrooms and the break room until they reach a door at the end of the hallway: his manager’s office.
“Inside. Sit.”
Already predicting what will happen, Dream heaves a sigh and sits in the chair in front of his manager’s desk. Glumly he mumbles, “I’m sorry for freaking out.”
“It’s too late for that,” his manager decides. With a stern expression they sit in their swiveling chair and interlace their fingers on the desk surface. “I think you know what I’m going to say.”
Crestfallen, the employee accepts, “Yeah, I do.”
This was Dream’s last day of working at the grocery store.
***
After a few weeks of searching, Dream finds a new job at a local bakery. Overall it involves less manual labor than the grocery store, yet the increase in social interaction leaves him feeling equally drained.
In the mornings before opening time, bakers and decorators prepare a variety of bread, cakes, and pies to sell throughout the day. Dream does not have the certification required to actually bake anything, so his primary role is interacting with customers at the cash register. At night after closing time, Dream assists everyone with discarding expired food and storing all unsold items in the back refrigerator for tomorrow.
During his first weeks at the bakery, Dream enjoys the new experience. His throat is usually sore from talking by the end of each day, but most customers are fairly normal and calm; they order something, they pay, and then they leave. Not much mental stimulation, but not much drama, either. Dream appreciates the balance… until an old enemy’s unwelcome return.
Around midday, the bakery’s cashier is finishing a transaction.
“Alright, here’s your change.” Dream drops a handful of coins into a woman’s waiting palm. “And here’s your receipt.” He detaches the paper after it prints from the cash register. “Have a good day!”
“You too, Sir.” With a polite nod, the woman slips her wallet into her pocket and carries away her cardboard container of red velvet cake. When she departs, the next customer in line steps forward.
“Good morning, welcome to the -” Dream trails off halfway through his standard greeting. He stares, gaping at the person on the other side of the cash register. Usually he does not recognize customers, but this man’s dark hair, umber eyes, and pretentious demeanor are instantly recognizable. The guy from the grocery store! Dream’s friendly energy transforms into cold suspicion. “Oh. It’s you.”
The man raises an eyebrow at the cashier’s attitude. Tilting his head with mock innocence, he pouts, “Well, that’s an interesting way to say hello.”
Firmly Dream reminds himself that other people are witnessing and listening to this conversation. He cannot make the same mistake as last time. Inhaling a deep breath to calm himself, the bakery cashier forces a cheerful smile. “I apologize, Sir. You caught me off-guard. How can I help you today?”
“I would like to order a custom cake. Do you sell those here?”
“Yes, we do sell custom cakes,” Dream confirms, pointing at the section of the overhead menu which displays available cake sizes. “What day will you need your cake?”
“Uh… tomorrow?” Squinting up at the menu, the man requests, “I would like one large sheet cake with two tiers, please, and my name is George.” He finishes his order with a pleased smile.
“Wait, hold on.” Stopping the customer before he can elaborate further, Dream shakes his head. “Tomorrow is too soon for you to order a custom cake. You need to order them at least five days in advance.”
“Well, what if I pay extra?” George challenges. Purposefully glancing at the bakery around them, he adds, “Based on what I see, this business definitely needs all of the money it can get.”
Slightly offended despite his relatively short career at the bakery, Dream scoffs, “It wouldn’t matter if you paid extra. We still wouldn’t be able to make your cake in time for tomorrow.” Annoyed at this man’s arrogance, he dares to ask, “Also, why are you asking for a cake the day before an event? Wouldn’t it be easier to just bake one yourself?”
“I did bake one myself,” George retaliates. “And it was terrible. The texture was all weird and greasy.”
Curling his lip with contempt, Dream guesses, “Because you used margarine instead of real butter?”
“You know, you sound kind of condescending for a guy who’s a cashier at a bakery. You’re not superior to anybody.”
“Alright, fine.” Through gritted teeth, Dream replies sarcastically, “I’m extremely sorry.”
The lie is so obvious and the tension is so thick that another customer - the person behind George - decides to intervene. “Listen, uh, excuse me.”
“What?” Dream snaps, more harshly than he intended.
Nervously shuffling his feet, the other person offers, “What if I order the cake and pay for it, then you can just make it for him so he can pick up the cake tomorrow?”
“That is not the fucking problem!” Losing his temper again, Dream snarls, “I literally just said that custom cakes can only be ordered five days in advance at the minimum. Five days, not one day! It doesn’t matter if someone else orders the cake or if they pay extra! The problem is that you want it tomorrow and we can’t do that!”
Once the echoes of his voice cease, silence falls over the bakery. All of its customers witnessed Dream’s loss of control. Someone in the corner is filming the argument on their smartphone, too.
Then a manager bursts out into the bakery’s front area. “What happened?” Alarmed, he finds the pair of customers who stand before the cash register. “I heard yelling.”
The person behind George points at Dream. “It was him.”
“Dream, were you yelling?” Stunned, the manager joins his side.
Numb with resignation, Dream stares down at his shoes. “Yes.”
“Okay.” With a sigh of disappointment, the manager shifts his attention back to the customers. “Gentlemen, I’m very sorry if he frightened you. I’ll speak with him after this, don’t worry.”
“It wasn’t a problem at all,” George shrugs. Completely nonchalant, he returns his gaze to Dream. “Well, I suppose if I can’t get a custom cake, then how about I just order one of the cakes from the display? Are those available?”
“Yes, they are,” Dream mumbles, feeling hot with shame.
“Epic. I would like one of those chocolate sheet cakes with the chocolate frosting and the chocolate sprinkles, please.”
“Sure.” Dream steps aside so his manager can finish the transaction. While George pays for his order, the humiliated cashier leaves the register to package the sheet cake. Without making eye contact, he slides a closed cardboard box across the countertop. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” Still unfazed by the entire incident, George picks up the box, he turns away, and he carries his cake out of the shop.
While Dream wallows in mutinous silence, the manager calls into the bakery, “Hey, Kory! Would you mind covering the register for a while?”
“Me?” Tying a clean apron behind her back, the bakery’s other cashier emerges through the swinging doors. “Yeah, I have some time. What’s up?”
“I just need to chat with him for a minute.” The manager nods in Dream’s direction.
“Got it. No problem.” Without further questions, Kory swoops in to help the next customers in line while the manager escorts his unruly cashier away.
Dream’s stomach sinks as he follows the older man to the office. Weakly slumped forward, he anticipates what will happen next.
This was Dream’s last day of working at the bakery.
***
Even though Dream would prefer to rest and relax on weekends, Saturday and Sunday mornings are the most profitable shifts at the breakfast diner. He has only been a server for a few weeks, but already he is uncertain about how long he can manage such physically intense work.
“Order for Table 22 ready!” A chef announces, sliding several plates of hot food across a stainless steel countertop.
“Order for Table 22 received!” Dream grabs a large circular tray from beside the window that separates the dining area from the kitchen. With one hand he balances the tray, and with the other hand he stacks all of the plates upon it. Next the server lifts the tray and carries it away from the window. Speedwalking through the dining area, he navigates to Table 22. An elderly couple pause their conversation to look up expectantly as their food arrives. “Hello. I have French toast with bacon and eggs?”
“That’s mine.”
“Great.” Dream places it in front of the woman. “And I have a 3-entree combo with eggs, hash browns, and wheat toast?”
“That’s for me.”
Placing the second plate before the man, Dream asks, “Anything else I can get for you two?”
“No, thank you, we’ll be alright.”
“Awesome.” Relieved, Dream salutes, “Enjoy!”
As the server hurries away from Table 22, a customer at Table 24 raises a hand to catch his attention. “Um, hello? Excuse me?”
“Yes?” Dream stops walking, hiding his annoyance behind a smile. Table 24 belongs to a different server. These are not his customers!
“Could I get a refill of my orange juice, please?”
“Absolutely.” Dream snatches the empty cup. “I’ll be right back.” Speedwalking to the kitchen, he refills the cup and carries it back to Table 24. “Here you go. Enjoy.”
As the server turns to leave Table 24 behind, a voice calls across the restaurant. “Hey, Dream!” From a podium near the restaurant’s entrance, the hostess waves. “I gave you Table 31! Two adults, two kids.”
“Got it!” Nodding, the server grabs four menus and goes to Table 31, where two adults and two children wait for service. “Good morning, welcome to the House of Waffles! How are you all doing today?”
“I suppose we’re doing as well as we can,” the mother replies, breathless as she attempts to remove a tablet from her child’s hands. “Are you here for our drink orders?”
“Yes, I am.” Dream removes a miniature notepad and pen from a pocket of his uniform. “What can I get for you?”
“The kids will both have milk, and I’ll have -”
“Mom, I don’t want milk!”
“Can we have soda, please?”
“No. Milk is good for you.” Ignoring their children’s protests, the father insists to the server, “Anyway, we want two milks, and both my wife and I will have -”
“Woah, hold on, Jerry,” the mother interrupts. “I’m an adult. I can order for myself.”
Forcing himself to remain patient, Dream writes down the family’s drink orders, then he hurries back to the kitchen. As the server fills cups and arranges them on a circular tray, a voice calls from the kitchen: “Order for Table 6 ready!”
Table 6 belongs to Dream, so he responds: “I’ll be right there!” The server delivers the four drinks back to Table 31, then he goes back to the kitchen. Repeating the same process as earlier, he stacks as many plates as possible onto his tray and carries it away. “Order for Table 6 is half-done! I’ll come back for the rest!”
“Well, move faster!” One of the chefs scold him. “These plates are taking up space!”
Dream does not reply. Instead the server carries the first half of the order to Table 6, where all seven of the people at the table lift their heads. “Hello, everyone. Thanks for your patience. I have some of your entrees here, then I’ll go back to get the rest.”
“Oh, don’t worry at all, honey,” one older woman reassures. “We’re having a mighty fine time here just talking.”
“Don’t work too hard,” an older man adds. “You’re gonna ruin your spine if you keep rushing around like that.”
“Thank you for your concern, I appreciate it,” Dream nods briskly, distracted by the weight upon his splayed fingers. “I have a bowl of oatmeal.”
“For me!”
“And I have an order of smiley-face chocolate-chip pancakes.”
“That’s mine.”
“And I have an order of chicken-fried steak with hash browns.”
“Mine!”
“And I have an extra side of seasonal fruit.”
“That’s all of ours. We’ll share it. Gotta get the Vitamin C somehow, right?”
Dream barely notices the people talking to him. Once his tray is empty, he spins around and sprints back to the kitchen to fetch the rest of their food. Stacking bowls and plates upon the tray, he announces, “Order for Table 6 fully received!”
The response from the chefs: “Finally!”
Dream delivers the second half of the food to Table 6, but as he turns away to leave, a protest rises from nearby.
“Um, hello? Are you even paying attention?” When Dream turns to look, the father at Table 31 is glaring at him. “We’ve been ready to order for, like, thirty minutes.”
Instead of arguing that Table 31 has been waiting for ten minutes maximum, not thirty, the server acknowledges, “I’m sorry. I’m trying my best to keep up with everything.”
“Well, clearly your best is not good enough,” the mother agrees with her husband. Then, noticing that one of her children is using their tablet again, she hisses, “And honey, put that away! You’re embarrassing us.”
“Just give up already,” her husband dismisses, exasperated. “These little monsters are never gonna listen to you.”
Still standing with his notebook and pen, ready to write, Dream hides his frustration behind a strained smile. Once the husband and wife finish their heated discussion about who is the better parent, they order food for themselves and their children. Collecting their menus, the server is glad to leave.
However, as Dream walks toward the kitchen, he realizes he must check on some of his earlier customers at Table 14. He has not visited them for a while, so when he arrives, they are finished eating.
“Hello again. May I bring you the bill?”
“Actually, we were hoping to get a refund.” One person points at their two companions, then they clarify, “None of us enjoyed our meals. All of the food seemed very low-quality.”
Dream looks at the plates spread across the table. All of them are empty. These three people ate everything, but now they insist the food was terrible? The server snorts with derision, “There’s no way you seriously expect a refund. I don’t believe you.”
“Excuse me?” The same person gapes with shock at the server’s disrespectful attitude. As their companions lower their gazes sheepishly, probably wishing their friend would just shut up, the customer accuses, “Are you saying I’m a liar?”
“I’m saying that I’m familiar with most types of scams,” Dream growls. “Stop trying to get a free meal. The world doesn’t revolve around you. I need to make money, too.” Huffing with anger, the server leaves to fetch a tray. “At least if you dined-and-dashed without me noticing, I would respect the hustle instead of thinking you’re a coward.”
Dream returns to Table 14 with the bill and a tray. As the customer’s two companions criticize them for making all three people seem like cheapskates, the server gathers their plates and carries them on his tray back to the kitchen. When he arrives, he wonders how soon he will be able to take his lunch break, until inevitably -
“Hey, Dream!” The hostess calls him again from the podium near the entrance.
“Yeah?”
“I gave you Table 42. One adult.”
“Got it!” Grabbing one menu, the server strides across the entire breakfast diner again. He navigates by memory to a small square table near a window. One of its chairs is empty, and in the other chair is a man about his age with -
Dream skids to a halt. No way. This cannot be a coincidence. Alongside his shocked recognition, a name bursts into his mind: “George?”
The man watched his server approach with an eager expression. Now a delighted smile spreads across his face. “You know my name?”
“Unfortunately I do,” Dream grumbles. Eyes narrow with suspicion, he demands, “Why are you here? To sabotage me again?”
“No, I’m just hungry, and I want to eat.” The server’s hostility does not seem to bother George at all. His smile becomes mischievous as he rests his elbow on the table and props up his jaw with his palm. “Isn’t that why people usually come to this place? Because they don’t feel like cooking?”
Baffled, Dream demands, “I know, but you - how did you even know I was here? How do you keep figuring out where I work?” Full of adrenaline, he struggles to control his racing thoughts. Is this man seeking him out deliberately? Does George enjoy getting him fired from every single minimum-wage job where he works? “Okay, you know what? Whatever.” Despite the prickling sensation on the back of his neck, Dream forces himself to remain calm and recite the standard greeting: “Welcome to the House of Waffles. I hope you’re doing well this morning. What can I get for you to drink?”
While the server pulls out a miniature notepad and pen, the customer leaves his menu untouched in front of him. “Could I get a pink lemonade, please?”
“Pink lemonade.” Mouthing the words to himself, Dream writes them on his notepad. “Alright, Sir. I’ll go back and -”
“Wait!” Suddenly flipping open his menu, George interrupts, “Can I order my food, too?”
“Sure.” While a poisonous worm writhes in Dream’s stomach, he waits for the man to find an item on the menu.
“Alright, this one. I want the egg white omelet, please.”
“One egg white omelet, got it. Anything else?”
“Definitely not.” Slapping his menu closed, George slides it toward the server.
Dream carries away Table 42’s menu, he sends the food order to the kitchen, he heaves a tense exhale, he fills a cup with pink lemonade, he delivers it back to Table 42, and he wonders if he will finally have a chance to take a break. As soon as this thought enters his brain -
“Hey, Dream?” The hostess calls him again from the podium.
“What?” The server snaps, more harshly than he intended.
“Oh, sorry.” She shrinks back with a sheepish expression. “Were you busy?”
“No,” Dream lies. “Did you need something?”
“There was a spill at Table 7. Would you mind handling it?”
“Fine.”
Using a disinfecting spray and several wet rags, Dream kneels to clean up a puddle of spilled apple juice beneath Table 7. After he wipes the stickiness off the floor, the server stands with a sigh. He stretches his arms and spine, then he returns the cleaning supplies and washes his hands. By now everyone at Table 6 have finished their meals, so the server gives them the bill. Fortunately the entire booth is polite, nodding gratefully to their server as he collects their plates.
“Thank you so much, Sir.”
“Everything was delicious!”
“We’ll definitely come back here again.”
“I appreciate that, thank you,” Dream nods. His heart rises out of the gloomy depths. Good people still remain in the world.
Then, as the server shuffles back with a tray of stacked plates and bowls, a voice interjects: “Hello? Sir? Were you ignoring us on purpose again?”
Dream pauses and looks in the voice’s direction. The parents and children at Table 31 have also finished their meals. Offended, the server asks, “What do you need?”
“We haven’t gotten our food yet.”
“I understand. I’m sure our chefs are working on it, but as you can see, it’s a really busy morning today -”
“I know that! It’s too loud in this diner, and our kids are hungry. Can you tell the chefs to hurry up? We want to get out of here.”
Dream dips his head in acknowledgement. “I’ll check in on them.” Silently he agrees that he would also like this family to get out of here. But no one can get everything they wish for. When the server returns to the kitchen, he has zero intention of actually asking the chefs how much longer Table 31’s food will take. When he arrives, someone else’s meal is done instead.
“Order for Table 42 ready!” A chef announces from the kitchen.
“Order for Table 42 received!” Dream swoops in, he snatches a single plate, and he carries it away. Glancing between the food - an egg white omelet - and the rest of the restaurant, the server feels his heart sink as he realizes where he must deliver this meal.
“Oh, hi!” Lifting his attention from his smartphone, George turns off the device to greet his server. He spots the plate in Dream’s hand. “Did you bring me something?”
“Obviously yes.” With an unfriendly attitude, the server places the plate in front of his customer as if he were serving poison to a king. “Your delicious egg white omelet.”
“Ew.” Observing the meal, George scrunches his face with revulsion. “Why does it look like that?”
Dream has already lost most of his patience and his will to live, so he curls his lip with disdain. “What do you mean?”
“This doesn’t look like the picture at all,” George complains.
The server grabs a menu from nearby, he flips to the section labeled “EGGS”, and he thrusts the menu into his customer’s face to prove him wrong. “No. See, this one here in the picture is the regular egg omelet. You ordered the egg white omelet. That’s why it looks different.”
“Oh.” Disappointed, George glances between his food and the menu, then he points at the picture of the regular egg omelet. “Well, then can you ask the chefs to make me one like that, please?”
“Absolutely not. I brought you exactly what you ordered: an egg white omelet. You haven’t even tried it.” Dream crosses his arms like a disapproving parent.
“I haven’t tried it because it isn’t what I wanted,” the customer defends. “Omelets aren’t supposed to be white. They’re supposed to be yellow.”
“Not an egg white omelet, you idiot!” Dream loses his temper again. Furious, he snaps, “Do you think I just have infinite time and infinite energy? No! I need to help, like, forty other people besides you! You’re not special!”
When the server finishes his rant, chest heaving while he catches his breath, the customer merely watches. Apparently entertained by Dream’s rage, George nods before he decides, “Alright. I suppose trying it won’t kill me.” Unfazed, he picks up his fork and cuts a piece of egg white omelet for himself.
“Oh my god, finally!” Exasperated, Dream spins around and storms away. Still hot with anger, he stalks past several tables. Many other customers witnessed his outburst, but he ignores their startled expressions. The server takes this opportunity to use the restroom, wash his hands, and rinse his face. He removes plates from customers who are finished and he delivers food to several more tables.
At Table 42, George eats his entire egg white omelet. He does not request a refund - in fact, he even seemed to enjoy the meal - but Dream is too agitated to care. After the customer pays for his bill and leaves, the server finds an elaborate pyramid-shaped pile of coins on Table 42 as a tip. On the receipt, the customer also left a short note: “This is what the Pyramid of Giza would look like if they built it during the Industrial Revolution. :]”
Dream has no idea what that is supposed to mean, so he collects the coins and cleans up the table once George departs. He endures the rest of his busy shift, tolerating customer complaints and receiving new tables faster than he can get rid of the old ones. Even at the end of the server’s shift, his stress does not reach an end.
Catching his employee in the early afternoon, the manager warns, “Dream, I would like to speak with you in my office.”
Too exhausted to ask what the problem is this time, Dream just slings the strap of his bag over his shoulder and follows the manager to the restaurant’s staff area. Once they are beyond the earshot of the customers, the manager leans against the wall.
“This feels like the hundredth time that I have received a report from one of our guests about your temper,” the manager scolds, simmering with fury. "First a guest reported to me that you refused to provide their entire group with a refund when they informed you that they were unsatisfied with the quality of their meals. Then another guest reported that they witnessed you screaming at someone because they requested to change their order.” Before the server can interrupt and defend himself, the manager shakes his head. “Dream, I don’t know what your problem is or why you keep working here even though it’s not an appropriate match for your personality, but I cannot allow this to continue for any longer.”
Dream’s spirit crumples like a leaf. During such a stressful shift, he had been proud of himself because at least he remembered not to swear aloud. However, this improvement was clearly not enough to salvage his reputation.
This was Dream’s last day of working at the breakfast diner.
***
Dream is unemployed, on the hunt for a new job yet again. By now a pit of resentment has opened within him, sucking his hope and energy into its depths.
Currently the former grocery store employee, former bakery cashier, and former server stands in the shower. Later today he will submit more job applications, but for now he merely wallows in self-pity.
Unable to believe that the same man - George - was somehow involved in all three of his job losses, Dream has formed a profound grudge against him. While inhaling steam and rinsing his skin with soap, he practices exactly what to say when he encounters his enemy for the fourth time. Because apparently it’s not a question of ‘if’ I see him again. It’s a question of ‘when’ I’ll see him again.
“Listen, dude, I don’t know who you are,” Dream rehearses to himself, muttering low so the sound of running water drowns out his voice. “I don’t know what you want and I don’t know why you keep following me, but every time I see you, something bad happens. I’ve lost three fucking jobs because of you, and every time, you just get to - whoosh!” An exaggerated hand gesture. “You just get to leave without any sort of inconvenience to your life. It pisses me off!” Squeezing his eyes closed, Dream rubs shampoo into his soaked hair. “Do you have any idea how difficult the past few years have been for me? I’m poor, and as soon as I try to stop being poor, some guy decides to torment me by making me lose every single job that I find!”
Suddenly the water blasting against Dream’s body becomes icy cold, plunging him into shivers. He ran out of hot water. With an involuntary hiss, he quickly rubs off the rest of the soap. Panting because of the cold water and his emotional turmoil, he rinses the shampoo from his hair and turns off the shower.
Stepping out into his cramped restroom, Dream wraps a towel around his dripping body and stares at himself in the mirror. Fog obscures the glass, blurring his outline. He looks away from his reflection and shifts his attention to the darkened studio apartment beyond the doorway. The sight of his tiny living space fills him with determination. When the chance finally comes to confront his enemy, he will be ready.
***
If working at the breakfast diner was like a psychological horror, then working at a fast food restaurant is like jumpscare horror.
When Dream was still a teenager in school, this restaurant was a source of affordable meals while financial troubles kept his family close to the poverty line. Ironically, now that the adult Dream receives free hamburgers every day as part of his employment, he can barely tolerate them anymore.
According to the restaurant’s policy, two cashiers must be present at the front counter during busy times of day. However, Dream’s coworker is gone for a lunch break, and due to a lack of other employees, he is the only person working in the front of the restaurant.
“Alright, Miss, your number will be 401.”
“Thank you.” The woman in line drops her wallet into her purse and accepts her receipt from Dream’s hand. When she moves aside, the next customer steps forward.
“Sorry, Sir,” Dream apologizes immediately. “I have to put out some orders.”
“Oh.” Wrinkling his nose with dissatisfaction, the man in line mutters, “I guess I need to wait even longer, huh?”
Dream does not respond. Instead he hurries from the cash register to the kitchen window. Several platters and takeout bags are already waiting. With dozens of customers’ eyes upon him, the employee dashes back and forth to transfer the platters and bags to the front countertop near the register. Raising his voice above the indistinct chatter which fills the busy restaurant, Dream announces, “I have an order for 398!” A pause. He glances around. “398!”
Someone looks up from their smartphone in the waiting area. “What did you say?”
Lowering his voice to a normal volume again, Dream repeats, “I have an order for 398.”
Rising from their seat, the customer retrieves their meal and opens the paper bag to peek inside. Frowning with confusion, they ask, “Where’s my burger? I don’t see it.”
“It’s at the bottom of the bag,” Dream explains, running out of patience already. “Right below the fries.”
“Oh.” Without a thank-you, the customer snatches their bag and turns away to leave.
You’re welcome, Dream thinks sourly before shifting his attention to the next order. He raises his voice again to announce, “I have an order for 400! 400 is ready!”
The next person approaches to claim their food. Only a single cheeseburger occupies the platter. Beside it is a tall milkshake. The person grabs both the platter and the cup, then they request, “Can I have a straw, too?”
“The straws are over there.” Dream points at a bin of packaged straws near the waste bins.
“You really make the customers do everything ourselves, huh?” Grumbling with disdain, the person carries their platter and milkshake away.
Before Dream can shift his attention to the next customer who is waiting to order, another person strides toward his countertop.
“Um, excuse me?” Displaying the time on her smartphone for emphasis, a woman protests, “You completely skipped my order! I’m number 399, and you just served number 400!”
Dream is reluctant to start another argument by pointing out that obviously someone’s cheeseburger and milkshake will be ready before number 399’s order of eight hamburgers, five French fry buckets, and seven cups of soda. Instead he inhales a deep breath to reassure: “Miss, I didn’t skip your order, and I promise I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”
As the customer glares at him, Dream leaves the countertop behind and returns to the cash register. The same customer who he abandoned is still waiting with an unimpressed expression.
“Thanks for waiting.” Tapping a button on the register to start a new order, Dream asks, “What can I get for you today, Sir?”
“Three cheeseburgers: one with extra onions, one with extra ketchup and extra onions, and one with no ketchup or onions.”
“Mm-hm.” Trying to remember these details so he will not need to ask the man to repeat himself, Dream presses buttons rapidly on the cash register. Once finished, he looks up. “Is that all for you today?”
“No. I want three milkshakes, too. All vanilla.”
“Got it.” Dream presses more buttons. “Alright, I have three cheeseburgers: one with extra onions, one with extra ketchup, and one with no ketchup or onions, and I also have -”
“Woah, stop,” the customer interjects sternly. “I told you the burger with extra ketchup is supposed to have extra onions, too.”
“Right. Sorry, Sir.” Clenching his jaw, Dream edits the order, then he recites, “Now I have three cheeseburgers: one with extra onions, one with -”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you.” Exasperated, the customer dismisses him with a wave. “Let’s hurry up and finish this. My family is waiting for me.”
Dream clicks a button. “It’s ready for payment, Sir.”
The customer swipes his card through the card reader. A notification appears on Dream’s screen: “INSUFFICIENT FUNDS AVAILABLE”. Of course. “I’m sorry, Sir. Your card declined.”
“What do you mean? I have plenty of money on this card! Your machine is probably just broken.”
“It’s not broken, Sir,” Dream sighs. “Would you mind swiping one more time, please?”
“You’re not going to charge me again, are you?”
“I won’t, Sir.”
Impatient and hungry, the customer swipes his card again. The same notification appears: “INSUFFICIENT FUNDS AVAILABLE”.
“Your card declined again, Sir.”
“Well, can’t you just donate something for free, then?” Agitated, the man demands, “This place probably makes enough profit to cover a few burgers and milkshakes, unless you’re too greedy to help someone from the community?”
Offended at the accusation, Dream retorts, “No, I can’t give out anything for free because that would be favoritism. We would need to give everyone else free stuff, too.”
“Fine.” Opening his wallet, the customer pulls out a different card. Thankfully this time the transaction works.
No one speaks until the employee rips off the receipt and thrusts it into the customer’s hand. “Your number is 402.”
Next in line is a young couple around Dream’s age. The male partner is much taller than his female companion, and his expression appears much less friendly than hers.
“Hello.” Dream likes the female partner’s hairstyle, so he compliments, “I like your hair.”
“Really?” She beams with shy pride. “Thank you.”
“Of course.” Addressing both people, the employee asks, “What can I get for you two today?”
Before his female partner can answer, the male partner blocks her: “A salad for my girlfriend, a double cheeseburger for me, and a chocolate milkshake for both of us.”
“One salad, one double cheeseburger, one chocolate milkshake,” Dream recites, pressing buttons on the cash register. “Anything else?”
The girlfriend opens her mouth as if to request something, but her boyfriend shakes his head firmly. “Nope.” Slapping a 10-dollar bill on the countertop, he grabs the woman’s hand and mutters, “We’re done. Bye.”
Surprised, Dream calls after them: “Wait, do you want your change?”
“Keep it!” Although the gesture is generous, the boyfriend’s attitude is venomous.
“Oh, okay.” Despite the uneasy feeling that squirmed within his gut while speaking to the other man, Dream adds, “Your number will be 403!”
No response. Still clutching his girlfriend’s hand, the boyfriend stalks away to sit in the waiting area.
Heaving a deep breath, Dream crumples their receipt and tosses it into the waste bin below his cash register. Before he can move on to the next customer in line -
“Hey, Dream!” A scolding voice from the kitchen. “You’ve got orders sitting here!”
“Got it!” Dream runs to the kitchen window. He grabs several paper bags and several soda cups that are ready, then he announces aloud, “I have food for number 399! 399!”
“At last!” The woman from earlier was already waiting beside the countertop. Arms crossed with impatience, she notices another problem. “How am I supposed to carry all of those drinks? I only have two hands!”
“I’m sure there’s a way to do it, Miss.” Shaking his head, Dream presents the woman with the eight hamburgers, five French fry buckets, and seven cups of soda that she ordered. “If you look in the self-serve area where the straws are, we have some cardboard cup holders. You might need to make multiple trips to your car, though.”
“Well, what if someone steals my food while I’m gone?” She places both hands on her hips. “Will you give me a refund?”
“If your food is stolen, we’ll figure something out.”
“What does your restaurant policy say?”
“I don’t know.” Internally screaming with despair, Dream gives up. More food is ready anyway. Ignoring the woman who still stands before the countertop, he announces, “I have number 401! 401!”
Woman 401 is also ready, but her expression is soft with sympathy for the overwhelmed employee. Nervously skirting around the other woman, she accepts her platter of a cheeseburger and fries. “Thank you so much, Sir. You’re doing a great job.”
Appreciating the random customer’s support, Dream opens his mouth to respond before -
“Well, thank you for making me seem like the villain here,” Woman 399 scoffs sarcastically. Gathering a handful of bags and drinks, she carries half of her order to her car and leaves the rest on the countertop like the employee suggested.
While Woman 401 leaves to sit down with her food and Woman 399 exits through the restaurant’s side door, Dream takes the opportunity to announce, “I have food for number 402! 402!”
The man who ordered three cheeseburgers and three milkshakes approaches to claim his order. Man 402 removes the cheeseburgers first and delivers them to his family, who sit at a table in the corner of the restaurant. Next he returns to claim his three milkshakes. Meanwhile Woman 399 removes the rest of her order, leaving the countertop free for Dream to move on.
“And I have a number 403 ready! 403!”
This food belongs to the unsettling couple who Dream served a few minutes ago. Throughout the past few interactions, the employee was vaguely aware of the male partner’s inexplicably menacing gaze focused upon him. When the couple approaches the countertop, Dream discovers the cause of the man’s hostility.
“Hey, buddy.” Ignoring the paper bag and milkshake that the employee slides toward him, the boyfriend growls, “I don’t like the way you were flirting with my girl back there.”
“Flirting?” Dream is bewildered. “Because I said I liked her hair?”
“Yeah. What the hell were you trying to do?”
“Uh…” Intimidated, Dream steps back to put distance between them. “I was trying to be nice?”
“Thomas, please calm down,” the girlfriend murmurs, embarrassed at her boyfriend’s reaction. Gingerly she tugs on his sleeve. “You don’t need to -” Her attempt to calm him is too late.
The boyfriend grabs the milkshake off the countertop and throws it at the employee. The cup hits Dream in the chest, splattering his neck and soaking his uniform with sticky sweet cream. When the cup falls to the ground, it drips melted milkshake upon the employee’s shoes and across the floor.
Lifting his chin with vengeful satisfaction, the male partner storms away with the bag of food. His girlfriend follows, scurrying meekly after him. The sound of the main entrance doors swinging open and slamming closed indicate the couple has left the restaurant.
For a moment Dream just stands still, staring down at the chocolate milkshake which stains his chin, neck, uniform, shoes, and the entire area behind the cash register.
No one speaks. No customers attempted to stop the couple from leaving. No coworkers venture from the kitchen to help the employee clean up the spill.
Despite Dream’s awareness that customers are probably waiting for him to take their order, he can only focus on the mess. Awkwardly leaning down, he reaches below the cash register to grab a roll of paper towels. With a thick, choking sensation in his throat, he crouches with a wad of paper towel in his hand. Sniffling and tearful, he begins wiping the spilled milkshake off the floor. It smears, leaving sticky residue on the tiles.
Nearby a door opens. A female voice gasps, “Dream?” Footsteps stride closer as a uniformed woman joins him behind the front counter. Faintly the employee recognizes his manager’s perfume. “What happened?”
“I, um…” Rising to his feet, Dream stares down at his uniform and the floor in shame. “I just - I was, um -”
“Listen. Accidents happen. Spills happen.” The manager’s brusque reassurance becomes a stern warning. “But you can’t cry in front of our guests. Go take a few minutes in the restroom and clean yourself off.”
“Mm-hm.” Weakly Dream nods, humiliated when he realizes everyone in the restaurant is probably looking at him. Pulling off his gloves, he wipes tears off his cheeks with the part of his hand that is not covered with chocolate cream. Unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze, the employee rushes into the hallway that leads to the restrooms.
Inside the white-tiled floors are covered with filthy shoeprints and scraps of toilet paper. Broken hand dryers mean that a solitary wet floor sign has found a permanent home beside the door.
Secluded alone, Dream struggles to stop crying. Everything feels like too much. No matter where he works or what he does, it is just an absolute nightmare. Removing his apron, he drops the soiled fabric into a crumpled pile on the floor. Dizzy and dehydrated, the employee washes his hands and splashes cold water on his neck. Brown-tinted water pours into the sink. Dream washes his sleeves and chin next, then he turns off the water and uses a wad of toilet paper to wipe his shoes. More clumps of toilet paper dry his face, neck, and hands. At the end, almost his entire outfit is damp… and still chocolate-scented. Salty tears have dried upon Dream’s cheeks, so he uses one more handful of water to rinse his face. Finally the employee has cleaned himself as much as he can. After another few hours of work, he will go home and take the greatest shower of his life.
Inhaling a deep breath, Dream emerges from the restroom. Immediately he encounters his manager, who lingers in the hallway beyond.
“Hi, Dream.” Now her expression is much more sympathetic than earlier. “Don’t worry, you’re not in trouble.”
“Hi, Pyper.” Uncertain, Dream wonders, “What about the front?”
“Jei is back from their lunch break. They’re handling the line.” Beckoning for the employee to follow, the manager instructs, “Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“To my office.”
Despite his manager’s reassurance that nothing is wrong, doubt writhes in Dream’s gut. When they reach the manager’s office, she opens the door for him to slip inside. The room is small, practically a walk-in closet with only an overhead light and no windows. A tiny desk with an empty chair occupies the corner.
Another man is already in the office. His familiar dark brown hair and deep umber eyes are like a slap in Dream’s face. George?
“Thank you for waiting here for us, Sir,” the manager acknowledges politely. “I appreciate you taking this time out of your day.”
George neither responds nor meets her gaze. Instead he stares at the bottom corner of the room, visibly subdued and uncomfortable. His cheeks are pink and his shoulders are hunched as if he were ashamed. He grips a paper bag with a tag that says #404. The bag’s opening is already wrinkled from George’s hands squeezing it.
“I have decided to give our guest’s meal to him for free,” the manager continues, unaware that the two men in her office are not strangers to each other. Glancing between them, she addresses her employee, “And I also wanted to apologize for my attitude toward you, Dream. I didn’t see what happened and I assumed that you had spilled the milkshake on yourself, but after I sent you away, this nice gentleman came forward and explained the situation to me.” Shifting her attention to George, she adds, “I don’t tolerate any harassment against my employees, so I banned the man who attacked him from our restaurant permanently.”
Throughout the manager’s explanation, Dream glanced between her and the perplexing man beside him. George remained silent with his neck craned forward and his eyes focused on the office’s opposite wall. Kneading the paper bag in his hands, he appears embarrassed to be caught doing something helpful. When the manager finishes talking, both of their gazes settle upon the customer.
Realizing that he is supposed to respond, George mumbles weakly, “Um… that’s good to hear.” Still avoiding Dream, he darts a sheepish glimpse up at the manager. “May I go?”
“Yes, of course.” Excusing the customer with a nod, the manager permits, “I hope you have a wonderful day, Sir. Enjoy your meal.”
“Thank you.” Instantly George whirls around, sprinting to the door like a cat escaping from a veterinary office. He pulls it open, he slides out through the gap, and he disappears. Rapid footsteps echo down the hallway until the door drifts closed again.
Next Dream’s manager encourages him to take his thirty-minute lunch break while his coworker handles the line of customers. Within five minutes Dream is sitting in the restaurant’s outdoor seating area, trying to relax in the corner as the sun dries his uniform. Just like every other day at the restaurant, the employee eats a free cheeseburger with a small cup of soda. I’m never drinking a milkshake again.
After Dream’s lunch break, he rejoins his coworker’s side at the front of the restaurant. Together they collaborate to handle a growing line of customers who are on their way home from work. By the end of his shift, Dream drives back to his apartment with his job intact. This was not his last day.
***
One month later, Dream still works at the fast food restaurant. During an evening shift, he raises his voice for an announcement.
“Good evening, bitches!”
Alone in the front again, Dream pauses to survey the restaurant. Several hours ago the indoor seating area was crowded, but now the overhead lights illuminate empty chairs and clean tables. Except for two chefs who are cleaning up the kitchen, no one else can hear the employee’s announcement.
“The time is now 9:50pm, so that means we only have ten minutes until closing time!” Dream pauses again, enjoying the sound of his voice echoing off the glass windows. Outside, night has fallen over the parking lot and the road beyond. Relieved that he can go home soon, the employee recites the rest of the evening announcement: “Please finish up your meals and have a good night.” As an afterthought, he adds, “You fucking whores.”
No response. By the end of the announcement, the restaurant is still deserted. Hopefully it will stay that way. Removing a key ring from his pocket, the employee skirts out from behind the front counter. Dream hums to himself, jingling the keys as he strides toward the main door… but before he can lock it, the door swings open.
A man steps into the restaurant. The employee stops walking. His counterpart freezes in the doorway, too.
“Oh, fuck.” Instinctively Dream prickles with irritation, then he corrects his rude reaction. “Sorry. Hello, George.”
“Hi.” Without the pressure of other people watching from nearby, the customer finally has a chance to glance down at the employee’s name tag. “Dream.”
“Yeah, that’s my name,” he confirms stiffly.
“Cool. I like it.”
“Thanks.”
For a moment neither man speaks. The main door closes slowly behind George until the customer’s gaze drifts past Dream. Scanning the empty tables and chairs, he frowns with confusion. “Is anyone else here?”
“No. That’s why I was going to lock the door.”
“But you’re not closed yet.” George jerks his thumb at the back of a sign in the window. “You’re supposed to be open until 10pm. We still have nine minutes.”
“It’s probably eight minutes by now,” Dream grunts. Then, reminding himself that George rescued his reputation the last time they met, the employee concedes, “But yes, you’re right. We’re still open.” He steps aside, encouraging George to accompany him. “Here, I’ll take your order so we don’t stay overtime.”
“Epic.” With a gleeful smile, the customer follows the employee to the front counter. “I kind of like when the restaurant is empty. It means I have you all to myself.”
“Uh huh.” Distracted, Dream logs into the cash register. “So before our kitchen closes and the chefs go home, what would you like to order?”
“I would like a cheeseburger with nothing else on it besides the cheese.”
“One cheeseburger, no toppings,” Dream recites, pushing several buttons.
“And one ice cream cup, please.”
“Which flavor?”
“What flavors do you have?”
“Vanilla or chocolate.”
“You don’t have strawberry?”
“No, we don’t sell strawberry ice cream.”
“Yes, you did. There was a limited edition strawberry ice cream offered here, like, two years ago.”
“That was two years ago, then.” Dream’s hand hovers above the screen. “Now which one of our current flavors do you want: vanilla or chocolate?”
“Chocolate.”
“Awesome.” Dream submits the order. “Your total will be $7.”
Thankfully George pays for his meal with a credit card, so Dream will not need to recount all of the dollar bills and coins in the cash register tonight. As the customer wanders away from the counter, Dream grabs an empty paper cup and fills it with a heaping dollop of chocolate ice cream. He plunges a plastic spoon into the cup while the kitchen prepares their final cheeseburger of the night. After Dream locks the front door to prevent any more late arrivals, a voice calls from the kitchen: “Last order out!”
“Got it!” Hurrying to the window, Dream snatches a platter with a single cheeseburger on it. He leans down to peer at his coworkers. “Thanks, guys.”
“Whatever.” Exhausted, the main chef decides, “We’re gonna finish cleaning up, then we’re gonna go. Are you good to close this place down?”
“I am,” Dream affirms. While the chefs resume shutting down the kitchen, the employee adds the ice cream cup to the platter. Since there is only one occupied table in the restaurant, he does not need to announce the order number. Just like when he worked as a server at the breakfast diner, he balances the platter on one hand, he carries it across the restaurant, and he delivers it to the solitary guest. “Enjoy your meal.”
Dream half-expects to hear some sort of complaint, but George simply dips his head with gratitude: “Thank you for letting me stay, Dream. I’m sure I’ll love the food.”
Was that really all he wanted to say? While the employee watches in confusion, the customer picks up the burger. Carefully his slender fingers unwrap the parchment paper and peel it away.
Suddenly realizing that he does not need to stay here, Dream withdraws and hurries back to the front counter. If the employee had never encountered George before, that man would have faded from his memory the second he disappeared from sight. George does not vanish from his thoughts, though. Dream’s mind races, his heart pounds, and he does not understand what he is feeling.
While the customer eats, the employee finishes his evening tasks. He says goodbye to the chefs as they exit the restaurant, he turns off the lights in the kitchen, and he shuts down the cash register.
One minute before closing time, Dream returns to the customer’s table. “Hey.”
George pauses, his soft lips pursed as he swallows the last spoonful of ice cream. In front of him is an empty wrapper and a crumpled paper napkin. Blinking expectantly, he replies, “Hi.”
“Did you like the food?”
“It was quite tolerable, yes.”
Faintly amused, Dream raises an eyebrow. George must be allergic to giving praise. “Then what kept the food from being amazing? What was wrong with it?”
“The ice cream was too cold. It gave me a headache.”
The sheer absurdity of his response causes Dream to burst out laughing.
George does not seem to understand this reaction. While the employee slaps the table, cackling and hiccuping, the customer accuses, “Oh, so you only came over here to mock me?”
“No, no, I’m not mocking you.” Calming himself down, Dream catches his breath. “It’s just - listen, I promise I wasn’t laughing at you. I just wanted to check on you because we’re gonna close in, like, ten seconds.” Removing his customer’s platter from the table, he clarifies, “But honestly, I don’t really care if you stay past closing time. I don’t make enough money to care about anything at this job.” He points over his shoulder at the darkened kitchen behind the front counter. “You could waltz back there and steal literally everything we have, and I would just be glad for the entertainment. I don’t have enough money to afford entertainment at home.”
“So you mean, like, you have no money at all?” George raises a skeptical eyebrow.
“Well, as soon as I get money, I need to spend it,” Dream explains reluctantly. Balancing the platter on one hand, he spins it in a slow circle with his fingers. “I rent an apartment that I can barely afford, I own a car that I can barely afford, and I attend a community college that I can barely afford.” His tone becomes bitter. “And all of the extra money that’s left over? Maybe fifty dollars per month? I use that to buy food, then I have no money left for anything else.” With a sigh of resignation, he concludes, “So yeah. In a way, I really do have no money at all.”
“Oh.” George does not know what to say. “Wow.”
“Sorry.” Suddenly feeling self-conscious for exposing his vulnerability to someone who is practically a stranger, Dream apologizes, “I guess you didn’t need to hear all of that. There’s just a lot happening in my life, and it’s difficult to handle sometimes.”
“It’s fine,” George shrugs. “Hearing about other people’s lives is interesting. I feel like I peel away a layer of an onion every time I find you.” A playful smirk lifts the corners of his mouth. “Figuring out where you went is like a fun little manhunt.”
Dream already suspected that his customer was seeking him deliberately, but he did not expect George to admit it aloud. “So you were following me? Why?”
“I don’t know. Because you’re hot?”
“I’m - what?” Dream feels like he just got electrocuted. Without waiting for an explanation, he scoffs derisively, “So is being an asshole your love language or something? You like it when I freak out, so you intentionally complain to piss me off?”
Now it is George’s turn to feel shy and self-conscious. Drumming his fingers on the table surface, he confesses, “Actually, I don’t think I have a ‘love language’. It’s kind of hard for me to make friends at all. I never know if people are being nice to me because they like me or because they think they can get money from me, so I just prefer talking to people who aren’t nice to me. At least if someone is mad, then I know they’re being honest.”
Dream would love to be wealthy enough for that to be his biggest problem, but he does not want to disrespect his companion by dismissing his insecurity. Instead the employee apologizes, “I’m sorry, George. That must be really stressful.”
Even though Dream’s explosive outbursts never seemed to bother him, the employee’s unexpected compassion is what catches his customer off-guard. Uncomfortable, George looks away and changes the subject: “Anyway, um, I, uh - I think it’s kind of late now. I should go home soon.”
Taking the hint, Dream steps back swiftly. “No problem.” Realizing that his customer is not arrogant at all - George is just lonely with trust issues - the employee softens his attitude. “I’m going to mop the floors, but you don’t need to rush.”
While Dream fills a bucket with water and soap, he processes the situation. During the past month since his previous encounter with George, he recognized that he has not been particularly likeable either. Regardless of his career, the employee has always been sensitive to the slightest provocation. Like a vicious cycle, Dream’s temper flares and he says something that he regrets later. He was often at the end of his patience due to a buildup of minor inconveniences whenever he met George, yet the finicky customer always ended up as the recipient of the employee’s fury. Life isn’t fair to me, but I haven’t been fair to him either.
Remorse weighs heavy in Dream’s heart while he plunges a mop into soapy water. Humming to himself, he rolls the bucket and plans a sincere apology for his impulsive behavior. However when the employee reaches the restaurant’s main seating area, he discovers -
Oh. George is gone.
Alone, Dream checks the clock. 10:07pm. Trying to ignore his companion’s absence, the employee concentrates. Working fast, he mops the entire floor of the restaurant. It will be dry by tomorrow morning, so he does not need to place a wet floor sign. Sounds of breathing and squelching water fill the quiet building… until Dream’s mop reaches the floor beside George’s table.
Something appears in the employee’s peripheral vision. He thought he already removed his customer’s trash with the platter, so he pauses and looks up.
On the table is money. Unlike the pyramid of coins that George left as a tip at the breakfast diner, this is a small stack of bills.
“How much is -?” Abandoning the mop, Dream grabs the money to view it more closely. “Holy shit.” These are hundred-dollar bills! Astonished, the employee spreads the stack in his hands to count them.
One thousand dollars.
“Oh my god.” Is this a prank? Shocked, Dream looks around. No cameras. No one laughs at him. This moment is secret; it feels illegal. Quickly he folds the bills and slides them into his pocket, feeling anxious as if someone might catch him and confiscate the money.
Only a note remains on the table now. Still stuck in disbelief, Dream lifts the note to read it.
So you won’t have no money anymore :]
Shame burns in Dream’s heart as the note’s sentiment unfurls within his chest, yet a flame of hope has ignited beside it as well. Of course $1,000 will not solve everything, but it will be helpful to satisfy his most urgent expenses. Dream slides the note into his pocket, then he pulls the gloves off of shaking hands.
The employee has mopped enough tonight. All he can think about is going home and planning the most efficient way to use these much-needed funds. As he empties the mop bucket and washes his hands, he realizes something else, too.
Dream never said goodbye to George. Unlike the anger that used to flare in his gut whenever he thought about the unusual man, now the employee experiences remorse. Without exchanging phone numbers, email addresses, or social media, how will he find a chance to thank his customer for the generous tip? Dream is surprised at how disappointed he feels at the idea of never seeing George again.
The employee turns off the overhead lights, he sets the alarm, he locks the main door, and he hurries out of the restaurant. An evening breeze sweeps past him, ruffling his curly hair. Approaching his car in the darkened parking lot, Dream inhales fresh air… then he slows down. Halfway across the greasy asphalt, the employee pauses to look back. The fast food restaurant looms against the night sky, its sign darkened and barely visible. Tomorrow the restaurant will reopen, it will serve thousands of hamburgers and cheeseburgers, then it will close for the night. Whether or not a particular employee keeps working here, that process will repeat again and again and again.
Maybe something bad will happen and Dream will lose another job. Maybe nothing bad will happen and he will resign voluntarily. Maybe George will come back to see him, they can learn to trust each other, and everything will be okay.
“I don’t know. Because you’re hot?” The other man’s words echo in Dream’s mind, weaving through his consciousness like tendrils of ivy. “I don’t think I have a ‘love language’.”
You do, Dream disagrees silently. Their love languages may be different, but at least he understands how to translate between them now. No matter where he goes, George always manages to find him again. Tonight will not be the last time they see each other.