Cardboard Cut-ups part two

What to do? Well you still have that wonderful car, so why not hit your favorite burger joint: Taste Buds. You, ah who are you trying to kid, your old man discovered this little hole in the wall about ten years ago. You’re so excited about the burgers soon to be filling the bellymeats that you don’t even remember blowing out the pilot light on the gas stove.

“The best burgers without a doubt!” You shout to no one and everyone as you shift into third. Your mind wanders, as it is wont to do, and you begin to think about work today. You were on the seven to three shift, which is unfortunate because you are by no means a morning person. The lack of rest was not the worst of it however. The worst was when your adipose, brainless, Dutch Nazi of a Supervisor sent you up to the 44th floor to take away some poor suit’s access card. Poor bastard, you think, the guy’s boss didn’t even have the stones to tell him he was fired. You continue to grumble about this to yourself for a few more seconds before arriving at your destination.

You tell the owner you want the usual. Dave, or as he is known to most, Maybeyouveheardofhimdave. Grunts at you and axes you just what the hell the usual is supposed to be. You order a double bacon and cheese avec pomme de terre frites. You happily polish off an entire bottle of catsup with your fries which taste perfect, as usual. You glace at your plate in betwixt delightfully greasy mouthfuls of meat, and bun, and cheese, and condiment, and you notice an ever expanding pool of grease, or as you like to call it, Dave’s Secret Sauce™ forming where once the stood a mound of fries.

You look around the tiny café and notice a guy you met a couple of weeks ago at the Underground Pub. He’s an artist named Corey and he is sitting in a booth in front of you chomping on great lomticks of fries and complaining to a Chilean looking guy sitting across from him.

“Look at this shit!” Corey says, bits of fries and spittle flying from his mouth, “Three songs by that talentless skrag Madonna!” He’s pointing at a small, personal juke-box item which is bolted to the wall beside him.

“Oh the humidity!” His Chilean friend says.

It’s getting later. You notice this by the clock on the wall. Corey and his friend have gone. You think it kind of assholeish that he didn’t even say hello to you, but then again, he probably didn’t even recognize you.

Who cares? Not you! You have a car, even though it’s not yours(this little fact matters nothing to you). You have the ultimate in freedom now! You begin to love your freedom, you relish it. You relish it like a good meaty burger. Much like the Taste Buds burger you just consumed. Still the best damn burgers on the goddamned planet. This you know for certain. At long last you pay the bill and take your leave. Nothing shall get in the way of your freedom now. The world is your oyster, and you shall want for nothing.

You step outside and just down the street a big red fire truck blasts by, horn and sirens whaling as it speeds through the intersection.

You decide to stop by you friend Dean’s place for a brewski before the rest of your life begins. You walk into the dingy basement suit (the door is unlocked) and as you move through the darkness you think you hear sniffing. You call out:

“Yo! Dean-o! Come check out my new car!”

You step into the main living area and are disgusted by what you see. Sitting cross legged in the middle of the room that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in the last seventy years, is your friend Dean weeping for lost beer.

He stares, hunched over an empty cardboard beer case, salty tears forming a dark puddle in the bottom. He seems to be calling the beer “Connie.” You think it strange that you’ve only seen him this emotional over one thing before, and that was an empty rye bottle.

“It’s the only friend I have,” he says, “It won’t ever let me down.”

You are forced to wonder about Dean’s sanity before you slip away out the door, unnoticed, towards your new and exciting life.