Motherfuckers. The lines still round the fuckin block. I’m halfway through my second shift, and I’ll be damned if I’m staying a second past midnight. They come in here staring straight past you, talking to mid-air, like I’m not even standing here. “Hello! May I take your order?”
Some watch on their screen, some their glasses or that fuckin visor deal. There’s young and old, men, women. The only thing they’ve got in common is that I’ve never seen em step foot through those doors before, and I betcha they won’t again.
Yeah, I followed it too at first. I’m fifth generation. It’s our story. I mean the shit that was going down around here in the sixties. It changed things, man. But it’s just like any other show, fuckin soap opera. Opium for the masses.
Every week they show up to shit all over someone else’s shop, or park. One week the scene played out in this guy’s driveway. I hope he got paid well for that.
It’s the noise that really starts to get to me after awhile. Everyone talking to thin air all at once. It’s like they know it’s not actually Peter Sinclair. They know that their speaking to a computer and that really the scene can only play out how the scene’s gonna play out, but one after another, they act all dumb and starstruck.
And it’s not like it’s just tonight either. This is just the beginning. They’ll be trickling through here for years. The latecomers, binge watching the series all over the neighborhood. Those guys, the ones that miss the first wave—totally absorbed, in a trance watching one scene after another–they make the best marks.