Will Musgrove

The cashier, whose name tag reads Barbara, scans my items, a two-liter of Coke and a Milky Way, my usual. It became my usual once I discovered the total, $6.66. Barbara, wearing a faded Looney Tunes T-shirt, won’t say the amount out loud like she does with every other customer. Instead, she stares at me as if I’m summoning a sugar-powered demon. The number never fails to get a reaction, unlike the fact I’m dressed as a cell phone. I pay and grab my stuff off the counter, which is made difficult by the big white gloves velcroed to my…

On break, he spoke to us through the order box. The sun warming our necks, we tossed French fries to seagulls and smelled the electric static on his breath.