It's Not A Side Effect Of The Cocaine, I Am Thinking It Must Be Love

chapter four- ways to go

"Yeah, yeah, how much?"

"Two twenty-nine at the window." I could hear the laugh in his voice, and there were a couple things I wouldn't let myself think. I groaned and leaned back against my seat, pinching the bridge of my nose. It felt like I was getting a headache. I lifted my foot off the brake and pulled up to the window. Pancho grinned at me through the glass when he saw me pull up. The headset was slipping off his head and he made a face and pushed it back into place, adjusting it a little so it would stay on. It seemed like he was in an especially good mood today. I couldn't figure out why, and it was kind of bothering me. Maybe he was just happy it was Friday? Maybe he liked his job? The thought crossed my mind that he was glad to see me, but that was stupid. He saw me every day. When he opened the window and took the five I handed him, pressing a few buttons with a look of concentration, he kept talking. "So, I never got to finish my story, but y'know, the cat turns out to be this fuckin' raccoon! And, man, this is one mean-ass lookin' raccoon."

I sighed a bit as I watched him press buttons, but decided it would be easier to indulge him than to argue. Besides, the raccoon had now become mildly interesting.

"So this god damn raccoon is like, walking toward me," he rambled on, pausing to sniff, "and I'm thinking, 'oh man, this is fuckin' sick as shit' but also 'oh shit, it's a fucking raccoon'. So I'm like, trying to get away, but I also still wanna see it..."

He was still talking, but my mind drifted elsewhere. I kept focusing and un-focusing on his funny little facial expressions as he talked; he was so animated. Either he was really bad at making change and shouldn't have a job working a register, or he was taking a long time on purpose so he could tell his story about the raccoon in the middle of the road, which I was supposed to be listening to.

"...takes the french fries and-" he stopped mid-sentence, realizing I was spacing out. "Hey! Are you even listening?"

He seemed so upset about the fact that I hadn't been paying attention that I decided it was better just to lie. "What? Yeah, yeah of course."

"Okay, cool. So, he takes the french fries and-"

"Hey, um, maybe you could finish telling me at home or something? There's people behind me and they look kinda pissed," I said. This was both true and an excuse to get home and knit before Pancho finished work. "Not that I'm not interested, because I am, but..."

Pancho sighed and handed me my change. "Yeah, sure, alright." He looked a little dejected, but I couldn't just stay there and listen to him talk for another ten minutes. He'd get fired, the other cars would get mad, and the whole thing would be a disaster. "Have a nice drive home, see you soon!"

I waved a quick goodbye to him before I pulled up to the second window. I got my fries from the next window, and as the teenage girl snapping her bubblegum handed me the bag and got the cup out for the drink, she asked, "Was that Pancho taking your money?" When I sighed and nodded, she frowned. "Sorry. He's been telling, like, everyone that story today. Heard it, like, five times." The soda machine made a weird noise and she pounded her fist on it. As she waited for the machine to start working again, she continued talking about Pancho. "Yeah. He's, like, such a lonely little guy."

I blinked. "Lonely?" It's not a word I would have thought to use to describe him based off the week he'd been living with us and in past meetings dedicated to me selling him cocaine.

She nodded thoughtfully, twirling a straw between her fingers. I imagined the cars behind me hated me right now, but there wasn't a lot I could do. "I don't know, there's just, like, something about him that's just kinda, like, sad all the time. He looked pretty excited to be talkin' to you, though. Usually he, like, only gets that excited when he talks about the dudes he's living with." She continued and frowned at the soda machine, which still making choking noises, and punched it again. This time, a slow trickle of Diet Coke started to pour into the paper cup. The girl tucked a strand up hair under her McDonald's visor and snapped her gum again. "This machine is, like, worse than my ex," she muttered before raising her voice again to talk to me, "Sorry this is taking so long." I sighed and rubbed the back of my neck. I just wanted to get home. But then, of course Pancho was working at McDonald's, and of course the soda machine was jammed and of course this employee wouldn't stop talking about Pancho either.