Shitty drunk, and stoned, I clawed for my phone. Then stumbled through my Face ID, nearly too twisted to be recognized by the one thing that knows me best. In my younger, more fashionable days, I would have called this crossfaded. Now though, balding and grey, with lines chasing each other across my face, it’s just shitty.
“I need something to eat… Fuck. What’s even open at 3 am?”
I found the Postmates app and mashed my thumb around until it finally sprung to life. “There’s got to be something. Come on.” I scrolled up and down. Closed, Closing Soon, Closed. “Of course, Jack n the Box. God save the queen. One Munchie Meal please. Curly fries, obviously. Boom!”
PAYMENT – I shuffled around for my wallet. It flopped open before spilling out of my hand and onto the carpet. I reached down to grab it and dropped it again just a few inches off the floor. “Third time’s the charm after all.” I pinched my eyes where the nose meets the forehead and attempted to attend to bureaucratic matters.
DELIVERY INSTRUCTIONS – I scrolled through a list of addresses, each with their own special care instructions. The notes, written carefully and dutifully, perfectly captured each and every moment. The benders when I got back. The first night at her place. Pancakes and Sunday mornings. And of course, that one thing I don’t talk about in that place I never really liked anyway. “Jesus Christ.” It was time to craft new instructions that would forever capture another moment. “Text me when u get here. I come up to street.” Perfect, can’t have the Postmates guy know I live in my mom’s basement.
The phone bounced on the couch cushion next to me, and I packed the bong again. A long inhale, and I pulled up the guide on the TV. “I do love having cable…” A few hours later, I woke up to a flurry of text messages and a couple of missed calls. “Ah, fuck.” I tripped down the hallway and through the bathroom, rubbing my barely open eyes as I made for the front door. I tugged at my forehead and checked my phone. It was nearly 7 am. I cracked the door slowly, trying not to wake my mom or the dog, which would also wake my mom. It creaked gently as I just slipped through. The bag was soaked with morning dew. I grabbed at it quickly, only to rip the far side. “Fuck.” I headed back in to begin unwrapping my fast-food mummy.
The burger and tacos were rescued, but tragedy struck as the fries were lost. The salvage was gently placed onto a paper plate and then into the microwave. It dinged, and the dog barked before jumping off my mom’s four-post bed. A pause as the pup stretched, and I could hear the tags on her collar jingle back and forth as she bounced down the hallway.
“Peter!” “Peter!” ::sigh:: “Yeah” “You OK?” “Yeah.” “OK.”
She went back to sleep, and I descended again. The cheese inside the newly soft tacos burned the roof of my mouth. The dog stared up at me as the morning news described how that Wednesday had started. “Dammit. I forgot to get the burger without mayo.” A half-used napkin was certainly not the tool for the job, but it would have to do. I scraped at the top bun, then threw the napkin toward what remained of the bag. I watched as it just hit the side and landed on the carpet with an inaudible splat. A long sigh as I hung my head and looked over at a dirty coffee machine.
The Works of Peter C. Knochel 