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“Speak English. I can't understand a friggin' thing you're saying.”
“Seven-fifty!”
The car pulled to the window. I took money from the driver, and I handed him the bag. He looked into the bag and shook his head. “There's only one fries in here.”
“Fred,” I yelled into my mouthpiece, “you shorted them a fries.”
Fred ran over with the fries. “Sorry, sir,” he said to the guy in the car.
“Have a clucky day.”
Fred was a couple inches taller than me and a couple pounds lighter. He had pasty white skin that was splotched with grease burns, pale blue eyes, and red dreads that stuck out from his hat, making him look a little like the straw man in The Wizard o
f Oz. I put him at eighteen or nineteen.
“Cluck you,” the guy said to Fred, and drove off.
“Thank you, sir,” Fred yelled after him. “Have a nice day. Go cluck yourself.” Fred turned to me. “You gotta go faster. We have about forty cars in line. They're getting nasty.”
After a half hour I was hoarse from yelling into the microphone.
“Seven-twenty,” I croaked. “Please drive up.”
“What?”
I took a sip of the gallon-size Coke I had next to my register.
“Seven-twenty.”
“What?”
“Seven fucking twenty.”
An SUV pulled up to the window, I reached for the money, and I found myself
staring into Spiro Stiva's glittering rat eyes. The lighting was bad, but I could see that his face had obviously been badly burned in the funeral home fire. I stood rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to speak.
His mouth had become a small slash in the scarred face. The mouth smiled at me, but the smile was tight and joyless. He handed me a ten. His hand shook, and the skin on his hand was mottled and glazed from burn scars.
Fred gave me a bag, and I automatically passed it through to Spiro.
“Keep the change,” Spiro said. And he tossed a medium-size box wrapped in
Scooby-Doo paper and tied with a red ribbon through the drive-thru window.
And he drove away.
The box bounced off the small service counter and landed on the floor between Fred and me. Fred picked the box up and examined it. "There's a gift tag attached.
It says Time is ticking away.' What's that supposed to mean? Hey, and you know what else? I think this thing is ticking. Do you know that guy?"
“Yeah, I know him.” I took the box and turned to throw it out the drive-thru window. No good. Another car had already pulled up.
“What's the deal?” Fred asked.
“I need to take this outside.”
“No way. There are a bazillion cars lined up. Mann will have a cow.” Fred reached for the box. “Give it to me. I'll put it in the back room for you.”
