Poesy

deep fried balls

I hate this job. Honest to Batman, this job is the Bane of my existence. Becky, the owner, is a real crotch. Since when is eating one French fry out of someone's basket considered theft? It's a friggin French fry. One that they never even knew they had, might I add. Some may even say that this place owes me a few free potato sticks. I've blown through, like, a thousand bottles of shampoo since selling my soul to Becky's Burger Bar.

Not to mention, the place is in need of a serious makeover. I like the seventies as much as the next Donny and Marie fan, but somehow the flaking orange and brown vinyl upholstery doesn't really translate into Grade A dining. Maybe if Becky didn't spend all the money on hair bleach and rhinestone encrusted fingernails, she could afford this place a facelift.

There is, at least, one positive to my hair smelling like deep fried balls every day.

Humphrey.

Humphrey is this eleven-year-old kid and before you go all, whoa whoa whoa. Aren't you like seventeen? Why are you so pumped to see a little boy? let me explain.

He comes in here every Saturday, in all his dorky glory, and orders a hamburger, fries and a strawberry milkshake. He sits right at the burger bar and listens to me blabber on about my disdain for most natural human behaviors. I steal all the fries I want from his basket and never once has he asked to speak to the manager.

He just gets me.

"Hey, loser." Humphrey strides toward the bar wearing pants that are about five inches too short and a dusty old sweater. His dirty blonde hair sticks out in all directions. A camo messenger bag hangs at his side.

I honestly love how this little kid always manages to look like his wife just divorced him and now he can't figure out how to use the washing machine. I'd call his style "had a rough year". In reality, he probably just doesn't give a crap about clothes. Yet another thing I like about him.

"Hate to break it to ya kiddo, but my shift's almost over."

"Hate to break it to ya Poe, but I'm only here for the food," he says, plopping onto the stool.

I grab my heart as if he wounded me. "Ouch Humph. What crawled up your high waters?"

"Ha. Ha. Very funny." He rolls his brown eyes at me.

"Alright. Seriously, what's up?" I scribble his order onto my pad and clip it to the spinning metal thing that brings the orders to the cook. I don't know what it's called.

"If you must know... I got dumped."

I start to giggle then correct myself when he glares at me. Oh, we're being serious. Okay.

"You got dumped, by who? By that one girl? The one with the face?"

"What face?" He tilts his head in confusion.

A couple weeks ago, he brought a girl with him. He wouldn't even talk to me. He just ogled at her the whole time. It was as awkward as you'd imagine two preteens on a date would be.

"You know... her face." I scrunch my nose and show him my best crazy eyes.

"Why are you like this?"

"You know what I'm talking about," I say with a wink just as the bell behind me dings.

Pulling his basket from the window, I swipe a fry and place it in front of him. I chow on its salty deliciousness as I get to work, making his milkshake.

"You're too good for her anyway," I shout over the whir of the blender.

"I know that. I just wanted to be the dumper, not the dumpee."