
THE FAST-FOOD REBELLION and THE LARPER by Will Musgrove
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.
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.
They looked for the seller. They were sometimes lurking near the booth, watching as you handled the crockery. Watching as you flipped through the records.
The girl came out, banana in hand, and the guy from the back followed, loosening his fruit-stained apron, gaping at the climb.
Then there was nothing left to sell. The blood bank told us we needed to give our veins a rest. Should we try pickpocketing, we wondered.
Momma’s bones are broken in so many places that the images look like fins in their oceanic blue-black glow. She’s lost so much lately.
We think about shaving and razors and haircuts and the whole fashion of manipulating the body into approved shapes. We wish our teeth were sharper, stronger.
I listened to their conversation and paced a circle around the fire. Drank my beer. I didn’t know who Dayna was but something sounded heavy and neglected in the other guy’s voice.
Sometimes, we talk. Sports, TV—that sort of thing. Every so often, he invites me for drinks, but I always make up an excuse.
You ain’t never punched nobody before. But you know how it’s done. You’ve seen enough movies.
Like the Ship of Theseus—was it the same skateboard if the deck was different? In my mind it was part of a lineage.