Crack Attack: A Collection of One-Shots and Other Disturbing Shit

Headlights (An Ode to Chipotlan)

The clock on the wall right outside the break room counts down the minutes until it's time to go home. Only half an hour left until closing and every minute that passes makes the hope in my chest swell just a little bit more. Tonight might be a quiet night. Maybe the siege is over. Maybe he finally went back home. Andrew snaps a plastic container of pico de gallo shut in the walk-in freezer and moves on to counting the packages of tortillas. The hum of the air conditioning and the ticking of the clock are the only sounds in the building after a hectic evening of serving soccer moms and their rowdy kids and the occasional pot head who just happened to wander by. Once you've worked night shift, you remember these things for the rest of your life, especially the customers you know by name. It's 11:33 – only twenty-seven minutes left to go before I can go home and put my feet up and dream of other things.

At 11:41, my heart sinks like a chunk of lead in the middle of the sea. Our peaceful night is gone. It's amazing how quickly things like this can burn you out and make you wonder if it's really worth getting out of bed tomorrow afternoon. I should just take out the student loans and pay my dues some day in the incomprehensibly distant future. We see that dark silver car pull up to the spot in front of the door at twice the speed it has any business going. We know he's back, with his messy blonde up-do and his thick Steve Irwin accent and his sky blue eyes. Pretty soon he'll be applying for citizenship so he can live down the street from our restaurant. He'd live above it, if he could. He's got those dark blue swim trunks on like he thinks they hide something. They don't hide anything.

He isn't even inside the restaurant yet and I can already see his headlights from here. Not the ones on his car, either. The ones that poke out of his t-shirt that I'll have to try not to stare at when he comes to the counter to order his chicken burrito with black beans, brown rice, sour cream, cheese, medium salsa, and guacamole on a flour tortilla with a side of chips and two containers of guacamole. He looks around nervously and speed walks up to the front door and nods toward me in silent, solemn recognition as he lets the glass door fall shut behind him. Kirstie is nowhere to be seen and Andrew would rather count the beans in the industrial-sized cans in the back room than serve him. It looks like this is getting to be routine.

His friends aren't with him tonight. Maybe Andrew was right – maybe he works at that adult film place down on Barron Street. His last name is "Power" and he looks like a porn star. And nobody gets this excited about a burrito and chips. He might be trying to psyche himself up for his next job. He doesn't act like this when he comes here with his friends in the daytime. I wonder if they all work together at the studio. That could explain the cameras and the awkward laughter and the way the other two always hang all over each other. Lucky for him, he doesn't seem to mind being the third wheel.

I put the tortilla on the mini grill to warm it up and he stands over by the register with his iPhone out, scrolling through Twitter like he thinks he's somebody. Maybe he is somebody. He's leaning forward against the counter and it leaves next to nothing to the imagination. He already has a burrito in his pocket and he's not afraid to show it. He's just the right height where his bulge drags across the counter when he walks and Kirstie can't help but stare from the kitchen whenever he comes in. She doesn't serve him anymore. She goes on break every time she sees his headlights flash through the front window. Andrew caught him digging for gold in front of the beans a few months ago, and now he pulls his "I'm the shift manager and you'll do what I tell you" card whenever I even think of telling him I don't want to do this anymore. I'm trapped here with him almost every night I work for a month at a time, and it's not worth a dollar above minimum wage without vacation time or benefits to put up with this shit. I can't unsee it. Yu Ling from the other shift always gets a good laugh out of it and she swears she's going to get a picture of him counter surfing someday and post it on Facebook. The rest of us... We're just glad we haven't had to wipe up any "sour cream" yet. That's enough for us.

I suppose I should be grateful he doesn't eat here, in case we were wrong about him being a bottom model. It seems like a longshot that he'd be anything else, with his looks and his suspicious behavior. I just can't think of another reason for someone to act like this in a public restaurant five, six, seven, eight times a week. I hurriedly finish his order and wrap it in a shiny silver wrapper and slide the container of chips and the two bowls of guacamole into a paper bag that seems to make three times as much noise as it should. I don't know how long he's been watching me now, but I can see his eyes locked in my direction as I put the warm burrito on top and pass the bag over the counter to him.

He already has his bottomless prepaid card out to swipe through the card reader – I'm beyond grateful that I don't have to touch it. His manager must pay him partially in Chipotle gift cards, either to launder the money or because they get them for a bulk discount. He slides his famous confetti gift card back in his wallet and pulls out a couple of one dollar bills and tosses them in the tip jar. I don't want to know where he gets all of those, and I'm not about to pull one out to play Sherlock Holmes to find out. Maybe Mr. Shift Manager can figure it out someday when he counts them up. I put on the widest, fakest smile I can and he nods and silently walks away, his sleepy blue eyes briefly locking with mine in... is that understanding? Dear god. What does he see in me?

I think it's time to go home.