Another burgershop short:

It's the beginning of something...

-------------------------------------------

She stops, tongs in one hand, half full bag of chips in the other.

“Why?”

She’s new, but new is no excuse for idiocy. I’m elbow deep in burger mince and the customers are rowdy. I don’t have time to tutor the girl on probation. “Just bag them.” I roll and knead. Two more patties are ready to go.

She stares at the bag, the paper beginning to shine oily and translucent. Her hands are rock-steady. “But why?”

I flip the patties in the grill. I placate a customer, who turns to tell everyone behind him that the store has gone to shit since I took over. “Because the guy’s been waiting for ten minutes. Bag them and hand them over.”

She stares a moment longer, and then fills the bag. “It’s not like he’s going to eat them.” She passes the chips over the counter and a young man with a goatee and leather jacket snatches it and vanishes. The bell on the door rings as he leaves; for a moment air rushes in, cool and moist from the rain. Then it closes, and all I can smell is vinegar and burnt beef, the sweat and frustration of hungry men. It’s like Singapore, so humid that the breeze drips down your face.

New girl is packing more chips. I can’t remember her name, but at this rate I won’t need to. Three strikes policy. “Two more bags for the Arnold order.” I assemble burgers with sculptural precision, knead the raw meat.

The chips are held in front of me before I can react. She looks at me with eyes glazed, a slack jawed junkie expression. There is salt trapped in her long, heavy lashes.

“It’s a waste,” she says. “He’ll be dead before he gets home. He doesn’t stop at the intersection. Back wheel gets clipped. The car keeps going. Chips get cold. Sign says Monday.”

“What?” My hands have gone numb, buried in bleeding mince, ears buzzing with the roar of the deep fryer. I must have misheard. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” she says, and her eyes go bright and clear. She blinks, as if waking up. “I’m fine. Those burgers are burning.”

I swear, shake off the mince, turn to the grill. Flip, flip, flip. I forget the girl. She’s only a cog on a great churning machine of bacon and chickensalt.

The morning paper spouts political rhetoric. I check my stocks in the business section, relaxing when I can see none have fallen below panic levels. I have two coffees with breakfast – one decaf, one strong. In my bowl are oats for fibre, tree nuts and dried fruit, a sliced banana, soy milk, a dab of honey. Midday passes. I do fifty pushups, fifty situps, another fifty pushups. Check the bathroom mirror – no change from last week. I shower for the second time.

The clock says I have to open the store in half an hour.

I change my shirt, affix my nametag, gel my hair. Throw a book in the bag for the tram ride – Tess of the D’Urbervilles, parking ticket for a bookmark. I lock the back door, double check the sliding bolts. Out the front door, lock the deadbolt, rattle the door to make sure it’s secure. Adjust my nametag; it reads MARK, SUPERVISOR. My shoes are polished to a mirror shine. I shave with a straight blade to baby softness. If it wasn’t against uniform policy I’d wear a tie.

The tram comes in five minutes, so I run.

The tram is late.

The tramstop is on the sidewalk, a faded pine bench with no sun shelter. The early afternoon is achingly hot, like sitting in a rotisserie. Even the flowers have given up, hiding their wilting petals. There is nobody on the street; everybody is sheltering in the air conditioning.

I take out Tess, but I can’t keep track of her misfortunes. A stack of local newspapers have been left by the bench, still cabletied, yellowing and curling in the heat. I pry one free, flip through. Somewhere down the street is the rumble of the tram, trundling through the suburbs. The lack of punctuality is infuriating.

The cover story is on the redevelopment of local parkland. I don’t care. On the second page is a tragedy. There is always a tragedy on page two. Child tips boiling water, house fire, drowning at the beach. Today’s tragedy is a motorbike collision, one dead. Young male, unidentified as of printing. Deemed to be an accident. The man was sober. Injuries to spine. Corner of Welsh and Monday.

There is something I remember. Something I overheard, or an echo of a dream.

The tram pulls up and I step on. All the seats are free. Normally I punch my ticket, but today I don’t see the need to reward tardiness.

The tram passes identical houses of red brick and slate tiles, well manicured gardens collapsing under the weight of summer. University Road swings by, and then Roulade. Monday Road is next. I open the newspaper.

The crash occurred around 7:20 pm.

We pass Monday Road, and I see the streetsign. Black on green, bold square lettering. Then it is gone.

I remember.