Paul steals, and doesn’t hide it well. They just can’t exact the moment it happens when they scrub the footage.
Centaurus is in big broad letters over a modestly arched midwestern bridge (there’s not much highway to cross, four lanes+ ramps). Paul has not seen enough outside of Ohio to know if this is an Ohio thing. The population funnelling food desert is labeled just the same as a spontaneous truck stop exit on the 71. Outer space words Centaurus and Andromeda signify an incoming collage of dopamine triggers. The towering parking lights presiding over the empty spaces.
Paul’s not going to the Mall.
Heading the opposite direction, each restaurant’s attention to detail rises. Inspired folks give in to the convenient location of an old strip’s skeleton. Everything given a bricky bistro facelift.
Even the Tire place has a patio.
Paul rolls through another brand new round-about. Muscle memory minds the curve. His eyes fix on the man made pond next to his workplace’s parking lot. Does it do anything? He’s looked at it hundreds of times; it might be serving its purpose.
———
In tears: “I’ll be fine. I’ve just been exhausted. There’s a lot going on with my friend and I haven’t really been sleeping. Using a bit, yeah — it’s mostly just getting to be”
Paul doesn’t plan on getting to bed.
“We just see you sleeping til 6 AM. Then you leave,” Jeanie perplexes. “This morning the TV has a hand sized glitch in it. We’re looking through the footage, there’s nothing really that we can see besides you being here so late.”
“I don’t know.” Paul knows. Jeanie knows. Paul knows Jeanie has a dead boyfriend who’s a bit like Paul.
———
Another emptied, ineffectual energy drink tossed into the back seat. Paul makes sure to throw back 200 mg down before even getting there. The server’s area is three computers, a soda machine, a ton of plastic cups, and the manager-on-duty’s office. Most of the cup space is taken up by the time night shift comes through.
The servers are already in the chatty head space. All veterans of the turn-and-burn experience. You arrive tired-eyed and indifferent. A gear clicks in their heads after stumbling over the first table greeting — then it’s off to the races, punishing the POS screen, talking to themselves and each other. Cursing, moving quickly.
Paul feels like this is more and more relatable the older he gets, being a 90s kid. Either everyone has worked a service gig off and on throughout their lives, or the service industry is extremely limited to the people Paul has gotten to know over the years.
“Paulie!” Festival Mike calls Paul pulling a bar key out of his wristband. “You good bro?”
“I am good — what’s up with you, Mikey?”
“Nat shit, you want to be on early?”
“Lemme hit a cigarette real quick then I’ll let you go.” Paul is always able to smoke cigarettes super fast. In fact, everyone here can smoke the fastest cigarettes. It is always a ‘quick ciggie.’
“Don’t they get mad at you for cutting up their shirts?” Mike is probably going to say yes.
“I like how it looks. It’s still the uniform,” Paul shrugs. “I did it before asking and don’t have enough to pay for another two shirts. It’s genius.”
Mike looks over the cut hem of Paul’s work uniform mildly. Shrugs also.
Paul returns to the negotiation.
“I’ll even leave you one on the bin for when you leave.”
Mike, easily bought as a shape of camaraderie: “Alright, bet,” and leans back over to a sole person to see what they’re watching on their phone.
———
Paul’s not grabbing a cigarette. Paul doesn’t do a lot of what folks expect him to do. Folks like Mike cheers it on. Mike is a fun guy.
He grabs the denim he just took off and heads out the door he just entered through. There are three massive panel windows that look out over the path Paul takes toward the dumpsters the team smokes near. He fumbles around with items stored lonely in the inside pocket that he usually procures effortlessly. He fumbles until passing the third window and unsheathes the hand with no prize.
Julia, Brock, or David?
Julia.