“Excuse me sir! Excuse me sir!”

Vic looked up with a jolt. A construction worker in a lime green long sleeve shirt and paint-splattered faded blue jeans was trying to get his attention. The man was a mess of grey dryer lint hair erupting from every orifice and glasses so thick he could probably see through walls. He was standing with several other workers young enough to be his grandsons. They were smoking a joint. Vic had noticed the smell from across the parking lot and when he saw where it was coming from made a note not to pay attention to them. But now this fossil was trying to capture Vic’s attention.

“Sir!”

“Yes? Me?” Vic locked eyes on the elder one.

“Yes sir, you. You look like some one who is deep in thought.”

“Yes, I am. I am in very deep thought.”

“Well enjoy your evening young man.”

“I will, you as well.”

The old man received the joint, took a drag, and passed it. Vic took quick look at the rest of the old man’s company, saw they were uninterested in him, and then hurried to get into the hotel before the rain broke again.

As he settled into his room, Vic thought of the old man as one of the “prophets” he continued to cross by in life. Throughout his life he had these uncanny encounters where strangers would make peculiar comments that would then resonate with his psyche. He had crossed by people in airports, planes, street corners, museums, cafés, or anywhere he was alone. One told him about what real love meant and how it was nothing he could imagine. One told him about disarming roadside bombs in Iraq and how he had a thirty-day life expectancy. One was just waiting for him with a pair of pants that he always wanted. He was certain that the old man who spoke to him, who interrupted his solemn walk across the Best Western parking lot, was one of these “prophets.”

“I am a man deep in thought,” he said to himself.

“That’s why they sent me here.”

He had been on the road for several months and several thousand miles. He lived out of his car and hotel rooms he could afford when he had the money. Most of the money he made had to be saved for his family. He went where the jobs were and he would go until there were no more jobs.

He looked out his window and saw the back side of a Waffle House. The dumpster, a few milk crates, and a dirty mop were nearly arm’s reach from his window. The clouds were parting and a few rays were making past the Waffle House into his room. He left the curtains open while he unpacked his belongings: canned green beans, instant noodles, instant coffee, B vitamins, a laptop, a few literary magazines and paperback books. He sat at the desk and thumbed through the magazines. A short piece about a guy finding twigs in his mailbox that were actually microphones from the FBI made him laugh. If only the author knew how bad things really were. Vic had a meeting in the morning with the deputy director of the Defense Threat Reduction Agency (DTRA) in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. Just before this job he had a long stay in New Mexico talking with Los Alamos National Laboratory. Before that it was Oakridge National in Tennessee. He never got to talk to the boys in Langley but he made sure the security guards got his manuscript.

“Just keep writing those checks you alphabet bastards and I’ll tell you what you’re thinking before you can dream it up.” He looked out the window, the clouds were coming back.

“I am a man deep in thought,” he whispered. What god or devil gave him these powers he hoped never to find out.

“Oh, DTRA what did you do? What could I possibly do for you? Is there a broken arrow for me to find? Are there undeclared supplies of sarin that need to be found? Oh, I know! It was DOMANE, the Discovery of Medical Countermeasures Against Novel Entities! That’s where you screwed up. The whole world is locked up washing their hands until they bleed and all you wanted was another year of funding.”

He took a mini legal pad from his laptop bag and began to scribble.

“Wuhan Institute of Virology”

“Satellite guided microwave signals for RNA disruption”

“Hydroxychloroquine vitamin D zinc cocktail”

He stopped. A flash of lightning pierced the clouds. He had to think of something that would scare the pants off of DTRA. The pandemic was losing its sting on the public and they weren’t going to cut him a cheque for a hundred grand unless he could sell them an idea they never thought of. It had to be something that would stir up the fringes on both sides—believable, terrifying, and fundable. He added “Vaccine mandates” to his list.

“If you think vaccine mandates are bad wait until you hear about . . .” Another flash of lightning.

“CRISPR treatments for the elite. If the virus came from a lab and humans will always be susceptible to the variants, then the only lasting cure is to alter the human DNA. Of course, this won’t be available for the masses.” His mind wandered off at the horror of this idea. It was plausible. He could see the riots now.

Fat drops of rain began to hit his window. He pulled the curtains closed and turned on the TV. The satellite signal came in slow, and when he found the local news a woman of indeterminant ethnicity was describing the weather.

“Clear skies this evening and sunny going into the weekend.” Thunder broke overhead and the image pixelated. Vic looked at the assorted canned goods he had organized on his dresser and decided to go spend some U.S. government greenbacks.

He ducked out with his copy of Hegel’s “Reason in History” from the Library of Liberal Arts. In less than thirty paces he was under the awning of the Waffle House. He snaked around to the front entrance just as a full deluge was unleashed. Inside two groups of construction workers were eating. One group of bright orange t-shirts and one of neon green long-sleeves. The oranges were gathered around the cash register. They were stretched thin and the cleanest thing they touched that day were the white receipts they were patiently waiting to pay. Behind the counter was a young black hidden behind a hat, apron, and powder blue surgical mask. His eyes were sincere when he said,

“I’m sorry for the mix up, what was your order again?”

Off the clock and completely calm, the nearest orange explained.

“Okay that’s right.” The black worked the register like a savant.

“And you had the pancakes, bacon, coffee, and a Mountain Dew?” he asked the next orange, who nodded politely.

In the far end of the restaurant, in a booth bordered by mountains of dirty plates, near the edge of the counter seats, were the greens. They were hardy and alert. The stains on their clothes were different from the oranges. Vic headed towards the edge of the counter seats to sit by himself. Closer to the greens he could feel the rhythm of their conversation. They were planning the next day, week, and project. They must have worked something highly skilled or extremely dangerous because they were in concert with each other.

“He tried to take half an hour from me,” said the youngest looking.

“We’re not going to let that happen,” said another.

“I already talked to him about that,” stated the third. And the fourth closed the issue with,

“It won’t happen again.”

A forkful of hashbrowns, a drizzle of maple syrup on the eggs, slurping the last of the Mountain Dew from the too-much ice, and a gulp of coffee later.

“When’s the contract go out?”

“Wednesday.”

“We’ve seen a draft.”

“It’s got everything we want.”

Vic took a seat, took out his book, and started to read but was quickly interrupted by the young waiter from the cash register. He had hurried over and said something unintelligible from under his mask. He looked apologetic. Vic didn’t understand a word. The waiter mumbled again.

“No, it’s okay, I’m in no hurry,” Vic said. The waiter looked at him for a moment and then left to tend to the oranges. Vic didn’t care. How could he possibly care about anything that some burger punk waffle jockey in an apron had to say? He had the attention of The Regime. He was followed, watched, tailed, bugged, and x-rayed from space by the alphabet soup MK Ultra nightmare machine and was still getting away with six figure checks he quickly changed into LINK, moved to a hardware ledger, and droned to Switzerland where his wife and children were waiting. He didn’t care how long it took, or if the stove exploded, or if they were two minutes from closing, he was going to get some dirty cheese burgers and some bubbly sugar water because he needed a break from this pedal-to-the-floor red-line life of lying to the government. He picked up his book and resumed reading.

Several minutes passed before he looked up again. The oranges were heading into the rain and the greens were heading to the counter. The young waiter from the register was free at last to attend to something else. He strolled back over to Vic carrying a laminated placemat menu, his eyes more cordial and less serious than before. Before he could hand it over, Vic placed his order.

“Two cheeseburgers, with pickles and onions, and a Sprite.”

The waiter scribbled the order without hesitation.

“We’ll get right on that.”

He scurried to the stove where the cook was aggressively scrapping it clean, handed over the order, and shot back to the register where the greens were waiting to pay.

“Gentlemen, how was everything?”

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Okay.”

“I didn’t order extra bacon,” as the oldest looking one pointed to his receipt.

“This says I had four waffles, I only ordered two.”

“I only had hashbrowns and coffee.”

“Can you break a fifty?”

Vic looked over at yet another wave of bad orders that needed to be straightened out. It made him glad he didn’t have to deal with such things. He turned back to his book and tried to forget everything but what was in his hands.

After several more pages of reading and pondering how Hegel or any philosopher ever got the balls to describe the nature of the universe without any objective facts to back them up, the food arrived. It was exactly as Vic had dreamed it would be: hot, greasy, compact, a little crispy, a little sour, and, with a tall glass of pop, a little sweet. Vic glanced around. It was just him, the waiter, and the cook. He noticed the cook only briefly when sitting down, but now he was taking the stage.

“Cheap dirty Mexicans not tipping and leaving a mountain of dirty dishes. Cheap mothafuckas!” the cook let rip. The waiter looked on distressed at the cook. Vic looked straight ahead at the tiled wall, not thinking, not caring, but only enjoying being there. In this brief moment he became a simpleton completely disconnected from the white-knuckle game of defrauding the United States government. He was nothing but a grease stain in a grease stain. If he was bound to that greasy counter, he would consider himself a king of infinite burgers if not for those dreams. Too many nights he closed his eyes only to see the grand caper falling apart and a thousand long knives coming for his throat. But not at that moment. At that moment, there was only the joy of a hot tasty meal that someone else prepared.

Vic looked out the window and saw a BMW turning into the parking lot. Then an SUV turned in. Then another SUV, and another followed. Suddenly there was a small parade taking a snack break detour outside the window. The waiter and the cook were stunned.

“Shit!” exclaimed the cook, “I bet it’s a bunch of kids! Fuck man where’s the next crew? Ain’t our shift up?”

The waiter, upset as well, had a plan.

“I’ll just tell them we’re only taking carry-out orders.”

“Shit!”

Vic took a long drag of soda, leaned back on his chair, and watched the doors. Out from the cars their parents paid for, came the youth of America. Vic could remember a time when people used to say that “children are the future.” Now time has stopped and there is only consumption. He starts to feel his age when he remembers when “youth” and “optimism” went together. Those two haven’t gone together in years. Half a dozen dead-eyed children of the grave came through the doors while the rest of the caravan waited in the safety of the cars. They looked hungry for a glimpse of adventure—not a real adventure of course, but a glimpse of one. They wanted to hide behind laminated menus, hold their phones over the booth, and see someone who was free of the cage. They just wanted to capture a few moments of something “unscripted,” something “real,” but most importantly something that would make them love the cage they lived in. They needed to look at the outside world and be scared of what could happen to them if they were to leave their cage. They loved their cage and needed to know that the cage loved them; it’s for their protection, it would never harm them, of course it loved them. So, there they stood, a failed generation, looking for some fun at Waffle House off some stretch of the American Autobahn in the middle of a thunderstorm. And you know what? The Waffle House was all out of fun.

Before the low testosterone leader with the weak jawline could even say a syllable, the waiter cut him down.

“Only to-go orders,” said politely.

The cook had his back to the crowd and focused on the stove. The caged birds tried to sing a few notes to understand the situation and were calmly rebuked with a reminder that

“We’re only doing to-go orders.”

The waiter’s voice made Al Roker sound like Method Man. The cook fought back a laugh. He couldn’t believe it was actually working. He covered his mouth and dashed into the storeroom. The birds looked around. Vic picked up his second cheeseburger and looked down at the birds, thinking to himself,

“That’s right crackas, you heard the head-nigga-in-charge, ‘only to-go orders’. Ignore the Jewish/Muslim/Turkish/Italian/French/Canadian/Native American citizen who is clearly eating in-house and was served by the waiter who is—yes you are correct—is refusing to serve you because in case you forgot China destroyed the world, Trump won, and Epstein didn’t kill himself, did you get all that? Are you having fun yet? Did you take enough pictures? Did you generate enough free content for your gods?”

They started to piece something together; something that told them they weren’t going to find fun here. Vic took a quick look at the Meryl Streep of Waffle Houses who had his best “I don’t make the rules, I just got to follow them” look on. The birds were beaten. They departed, filed back in their cars, and fluttered on down the highway.

The cook peeked out of the storeroom.

“Shit it worked. Thank God! Where the fuck is the next shift?”

“I don’t know I just want this day to be over.”

With an empty plate, Vic moved towards the register and fought back his grin. He knew he wasn’t one of them. He knew that the joke they pulled wasn’t for his amusement, but for their survival. Yet he hoped that they could share the punchline with him, that he could be part of the fun that just happened. The waiter rang up his check,

“$12.07”

“For two cheeseburgers and a Sprite? Holy God that’s expensive,” Vic thought. He paid and tipped. He looked at them, hoping to make eye-contact long enough to smile at their joke with them, but they didn’t look at him. The two behind the counter talked about their plans for the evening, tomorrow, the week, and the rest of their lives. They made it all seem possible. All they needed to do was to do it. Vic tucked his book into his raincoat and caught a glimpse of the menu he didn’t bother looking at. He was stunned. He had been overcharged by about 100%. He tried again to look at the waiter and the cook, but they couldn’t even see him now. They were lost in lard-vapor dreams and Formica aspirations. Vic tried one more time, and realized he’d become a blur to them. After a while Vic went out, left the Waffle House, and walked back to the hotel in the rain.