+++
The source of the helpful shortcut which got you lost, now informs you there’s an extra something in it for the driver if they arrive before 9:00.
8:47
There are two main throughways to get to the east side of the greater metropolitan area. You choose the nb15 to 95e. A 50/50 between this and side streets.
Distant hazard lights warn of an impending wreck. Naturally.
Take the emergency lane.
Exit.
Cut across the parking lot you slept in last night.
Ring the doorbell.
Laughter can be heard from behind a lurching pair of French doubles man’s voice from behind the doors, “Food’s here!”
9:02
Goose egg.
1-star.
Ratings drop.
These things happen, you’re told.
+++
From the phone, the cyborg's voice tells you that the Rueben Sandwich from earlier is complaining that their order was missing some items.
Perhaps
“The Cobb Salad says they heard the driver say something sexist as he left,” from the phone.
Doubtful... They were way out of earshot
The angelic whisper of artificial intelligence can be heard telling you that they received complaints from the Family-Size bucket of chicken. Complete with four full family-sized styrofoam quarts of various starch and sodium. And a single diet Sprite.
This health-nut, The Bucket, “claims the driver reeked of alcohol and was seen on CCTV footage urinating on the customers prized rose bushes.”
Guilty.
And they were Azaleas.
+++
You look up.
Unaware of how much time has passed.
Of what day it is. Of what difference it makes.
*ding
Back in business momentarily, until your partner makes a break for the slim crevice between your seat and the center console.
You find a quarter as you blindly finger through the remains of God knows what, finally able to retrieve your anchor from the depths.
Time to set sail.
Now, with its motion sensor provoked and angled just enough to recognize your face, the broken Home-Screen unlocks and your self imposed daily penance takes shape, greeting you with the very same smile that could always cripple you.
The only difference being now that same smile melts your heart with debilitating regret, instead of the good old-fashioned greatest feeling on the fucking planet.
Now the beautiful lips hued in blood red and at the forefront, only remind you of the last words that passed by them, as she walked out the door.
Give you a hint.
It wasn’t: “I’ll see you later honey, have a nice day.”
Close though. Nice try.
In reality. It was more along the lines of: “You need help.”
Oh, I see…
When the best part of your day blocks your number, turns out the rest of the day is pretty meh.
When your notion of faith finds the courage to leave, the rest of your life becomes a series of compelling contemplations about which endeavors seem favorable over moonlighting as impact splatter.
+++
With your daily combined gratuity and the sticky quarter, you nearly doubled your net worth.
Maybe things are looking up.
Play your cards right, you may just get to have dinner tomorrow.
Things really start going your way, you could be holding those first-class tickets to four walls and a roof.
One good run of salvation. Any day now, you say.
The odds don’t lie, you affirm.
Variance, they say.
You’ve paid your dues. It’s your time to shine.
Hot irons don’t strike themselves.
You are one roll of the dice separated from a steady diet.
Who knows, the stars really align this time and you could almost afford to die soon. How exciting.
Another red light.
+++
You can't escape it.
The new instructions suggest there is a cash tip for the driver if they arrive before 9:30.
08:57
The address is two celebrity chefs and a water show extravaganza towards Mexico.
Two designer boutiques eastbound.
If you pass the Eiffel Tower, you’ve gone too far.
The room number is even and ends in 0, making it a coin flip between the furthest from the centralized elevators, or immediately upon their exit.
Just high enough to take fucking forever, but not premiere enough to tip well.
This means parking.
This means security checkpoints.
This means eyes.
Grab hat. Remove dignity. Readjust glasses.
Twice.
You hit five out of six lights. Slightly below average.
A wins a win.
It turns out, after enough torture, your appreciation for things like sunrises and arguing about where to go for dinner, skyrockets.
After enough lunch breaks consisting of shame on rye, with a side of air, things that used to ruin your day are now pre-game calisthenics.
What once was devastating news, is now daily affirmations.
You were told that under enough pressure, the brain is sometimes forced to issue a fracturing protocol, aimed only at preserving the integrity of the machine as a whole.
A built-in defense system that is stationed deep in your subconscious.
Needs are now deprioritized, reformatted and forced at gunpoint, rather than voluntarily met because you love yourself.
Heavy use doesn’t destroy the engine, excessive friction does. Petty arguments don’t ruin relationships, excessive drinking does.
A million love letters doesn’t make the word matter. Proving it does!
From this point forward, the primary focus is distinguishing if you are dreaming and this is all an illusion. Or if the brain damage was a tad more severe than you anticipated and you’re already dead. And all this now. This could be dead you, remembering things from Hell.
Temperature difference a nonissue. You are indifferent to which is true.
+++
Arrive early to retrieve the cargo, with minimal incident.
The app illuminates in the shape of a customer chatbox.
The unsolicited counsel submits a gag order on your sobs.
Order in the court.
From the chat boxes private chambers: the Foot-Long Coney D.A. requests for the third time, for full disclosure ketchup packets. Because apparently the last paralegal asshole forgot ketchup. Check your hair as you walk by the condiments.
Three times…
Secure a single ketchup packet. Two times is warrented concern.
Three times is a declaration of War.
As of late. One time is enough for TEOTWAWKI.
+++
At the corner of Tropicana and Las Vegas Blvd, a disheveled man is arguing with the oversized head of the current entertainer who has a residence at the attached resort.
Gloriously high upon a digital billboard, overlooking the strip.
The medals of merit pinned to his winter coat sparkle in neon chaos, as he contends with the digital giant. You wonder who’s winning the debate.
You’re one river card removed from your own hot & heavy back and forth with giant God-like faces on roadside marquees.
One traffic stop short of incarceration.
One minor inconvenience away from complete disaster.
The gauge has been below E since yesterday. Yesterday feels so long ago. Tomorrow seems like it’s a lifetime away.
Baby steps, you tell yourself.
Set the bar low, you self affirm.
Seek solace in sudden impact.
8:43
The carnival food riding shotgun smells like something she would have liked.
Your all beef passenger emanates hallmarks of the Circus. Rings in soothing thoughts of your now missing acrobatic all-natural. Flying inverted through the air, wrapped in golden ribbons.
You wonder if she would recognize you. Now?
Did she towards the end?
Would she soon? With you possibly being offered as your own version of this broken man, in his makeshift showgirls’ ensemble. Bedazzled with Valor and a pair of fading Purple Hearts.
The opposite of a traditional spotlight spectacle, but surrounded by an audience who waits in anticipation, nonetheless.
Theatre in a most fantastic form: Reality.
The dizzying spectacle is trivialized by the fundamental nature of a Friday night Strip, where anything goes and all bets are on.
The insanity is outshined only by the indifference of passing onlookers. The chaos seems right at home, surrounded by the cool electric hum of a desert oasis that you’ve made into your own private purgatory.
You mull over if she would recognize you…
…would she care?
Would you…
…the light turns green. You delicately release the single red packet onto the triple digit blacktop.
Put it in park.
You watch future you state his case, but with a firmer tone. Most likely an attempt to gain the upper hand with his perceived celebrity foe.
Bold move.
Objection! Speculation.
Cars behind you begin honking in furious solidarity.
Sustained.
9:30.
Kill the ignition. Courts adjourned.
Insert the magazine.
Chamber it.
+++