Double Drive by Nina Semczuk
Today I restock cups. I pull the wobbly stacks from their box-home and release them from protective sleeves. Particles of foam linger white in my hair like flecks of snow. Molly ruffles my head and says, Nice lice. Her hand approaches my face again, knocking my visor up and setting my headset askew. In the mirror, I’m a car with an open hood.
Later, between the sausage, egg, and cheese, and the extra-large coffee, extra light and extra sweet—iced, not hot—I palm a powdered jelly and pitch it windmill style at Molly’s khaki-covered ass.
Pam calls to me from the closet she uses as an office.
Perks of being a general manager, she says, raising an eyebrow. Two bucks above minimum and a guaranteed sixty hours a week. Plus, a closet to hide in.
Take a look at this, she says.
I peer over her shoulder. Black and white camera footage. Am I about to watch myself pile six dozen donuts into a plastic bag? From last night, or last week, or really, any of my night shifts. (I am the king of Mr. Pilson’s English class. My largesse pays in pastries. High schoolers care not for freshness. Sugar absolves all.)
What is it? I ask.
You can’t tell? It’s the twins! She points. Toni and Tami, two grades above me at school.
I look closer. A fuzzy human shape crawls into a box and lies down. Knees drawn, head tucked: fetal position. The sister follows her and nestles against her. I check the time stamp: 04:37 a.m.
Pam cackles, and her laugh turns into a gasping wheeze that suffuses the closet. She pats the Nicorette patch on her arm like a good luck token as she buffets back and forth, searching for air.
Molly finds us and stands behind me. She perches her jaw on my shoulder to watch. She’s warm against my back.
The chuckleheads lost the key, Pam explains. They couldn’t go home and leave the place unlocked. Look at them, snuggled together in a twenty-ounce cup box like street puppies.
Why didn’t they call another closer? I ask. Another keyholder, like me.
She flaps her hands. Begone with your logic, she says. You ruin the fun.
We walk back to our stations: me at the drive-thru, Molly, the front counter. Molly says, Makes me think of the brothers.
The brothers? I ask, repeating her last words out of habit. But I had thought of them, too.
Something about siblings. Containers, she says, running her hand down her neck. Boxes, air. She walks away toward the stinking milk machine and starts cleaning the trap.
I hinge myself over the drive-thru ledge and stare out, remembering. Nate died a month ago. He was a regular, and my classmate. He died like his brother had two years before. I recall Nate’s glazed holes for eyes, the skunky smoke hovering between him and his buddy riding shotgun. A midnight arrival heralded by the crackle of the speaker and their giggled words: Any bagels left? Any muffins? The lonesome gasp of the exhaust as they drove away under a black sky dimmed by parking lot lights. I had envied him, his freedom.
When I’d told my mother about Nate one night after work, she sighed. That was a popular way to go back when I was in high school too, she said. For guys. It’s easy, familiar. Turn the car on, close the garage door, recline the seat—wait. She turned her head toward the kitchen window. Was he into drugs?
What’s that supposed to mean?
She kept quiet and stared at the window.
No hard stuff, I told her. He was nice, had a lot of friends. I don’t get it. I put a paper bag on the counter.
But he’s the one with the brother who also, she said, her voice tight. The same way… She moved and met my eyes. I was surprised to see hers full; on the brink.
Yes, I said. That’s right.
Their mother…she said softly. She shook her head and reached for the bag. She looked inside like it would give her answers.
When it’s a hard day, I save a French Cruller for her. For us. They are the first to sell, the first to stiffen, not like the embalmed chocolate-glazed that last for months. Crullers only taste good the day they are made.
She lifted the donut from the bag and pulled it in two.
Take it, she said, her hand outstretched, the larger piece shining. Please.
Nina Semczuk’s writing has appeared in Sinking City Literary Journal, Coal Hill Review, Sledgehammer Lit, The Line Literary Review, and elsewhere. Before moving to Brooklyn where she now resides, Nina served in the U.S. Army for five years. She is Ukrainian American and originally from upstate New York.
22 April 2022
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