Beatrice Bleakley
Dave is a: not paid enough and b: baked as hell, constantly.
That last one is the only good reason to work the late night shift at a Bungie’s. Nobody here cares that he’s baked as hell. They care that he punches in their midnight burger order. And he’s perfected the exact amount of stoned he needs to be to still be able to do that. It’s an art. No matter what his mom says, it’s a fucking science. Dave is broke, living in a shitty apartment, and permanently dateless but he is also, basically, a scientist.
So tonight, around midnight, Dave is watching the light patterns the colors on the wall makes when a guy comes in. He looks a little more straitlaced than his normal midnight clientele. Dave’s pretty sure he sees a priest’s collar under the battered leather jacket he’s wearing, although it doesn’t seem to fit him well. But Dave’s not here to judge. In addition to being broke, living in a shitty apartment, permanently dateless, and basically a scientist, Dave is very zen.
“Hi, welcome to Bungie’s,” he says, grateful for the script he will probably be able to run in his grave. “What can I get for you tonight?”
“Cheeseburgers,” the man answers, a little gravelly, surveying the menu. “I have been informed that you have the best fast food burgers from a reliable source.”
“Uh. Cool. Thank you.”
“So provide me… with cheeseburgers.”
“Like. Plural?”
“Yes.”
The man’s staring is freaking him out a little. “Cool. How many?”
“Seventy.”
Dave pauses. He’s too stoned, isn’t he? The day has come. Mom was right.
“Uh, sorry,” he says, trying to sound as unstoned as possible. His voice drops a couple octaves. “How many?”
“Seventy.”
“Like. Like seven zero?”
“Approximately.”
Man, this guy’s gotta stop staring at him like that. “Uh. Yeah. Sure, man.”
The man holds out a crisp bill. “Will one hundred money be appropriate?”
Oh, fuck. Math. Dave is definitely too high to do math off the top of his head. “…absolutely.” They won’t care, will they, his bosses? If he just sticks it in the register? Money’s money, right? “Do you… mind waiting?”
The man’s face twitches. It’s the most his expression has changed since he came in and it makes Dave jump. “Yes.”
Fuck. He is definitely, definitely too stoned for whatever this guy’s on. “Uh. Okay. I don’t… we don’t have seventy cheeseburgers… done. Is the thing. So if you want seventy, you gotta… you gotta give us a little time, man.”
The man’s face twitches again. “Very well.”
“What’s… what’s your name?”
The man’s eyes narrow. “Why?”
“For… the order.” The man continues to stare. “So I can… I can tell you when the order’s done.” The man sighs, and says something Dave does not understand for the life of him. “Sorry?” He repeats himself, a little annoyed. Dave doesn’t get it this time either so he just gives up, punching seventy burger guy into the machine. “Okay. Just, uh. Just wait.”
“Dave,” Mick hisses in the back. “Dave, c’mere.”
Dave sidles into the back. Mick, who is seventeen, and no less stoned than he is, stares at him. “What?”
“Dude, you’re too high.”
Fear gripes Dave. “Dude, how could you tell?”
“Dude, you put seventy burgers down.”
“That’s how many he asked for.”
Mick looks floored. “He asked. He asked for seven zero?”
“Yeah, man.”
“I gotta…” The color is draining from Mick’s face. “I gotta do seven zero burgers?”
“Yeah. Sorry.”
“Excuse me.”
Mick and Dave crane their necks to see the man is leaning over the counter.
“I would take them as they come,” he tells them.
“I.” Mick looks just as lost as Dave feels. “I got seven ready? For starters?”
“Seven will be fine for now.”
Mick looks at Dave. Dave looks at Mick.
“Fuck,” Mick mumbles. “Okay.” He grabs the seven and hands them off to Dave, who cradles them as best as he can. He returns to the counter, dumping them all in front of the man.
“Here you go, uh, Father.” You call the ones with collar Father, don’t you? Dave wouldn’t know. He doesn’t have much experience with any kind of father.
“Thank you.” The man unwraps one and voraciously tears into it, like he’s never eaten before.
“You, uh.” Dave feels like he has to say something. As a scientist. “You good, Father?”
“Why are you calling me that?” The man asks, mouth full.
“The, uh. The collar.”
“Ah. Yes. I suppose that makes sense.”
“Are you… on something? Which, that’s fine. Jesus, uh. Jesus probably gets it.”
The man crumples up the foil on his burger and reaches for the second.
“What do you know about the heat death of the universe?”
“Uh. Nothing.”
“How nothing?”
“Nothing nothing.”
The man takes a bite.
“It is theorized,” he tells him, through a mouthful of burger. “That one day, the universe will reach a state of maximum entropy. All energy will move into spaces with less energy.” He takes two more rapid bites. “Heat will no longer flow. No more energy can be produced.” He takes a third, massive bite, and wads up the foil. “Once that happens, the universe dies. Once all that remains is heat, nothing that’s left can survive.”
Fuck. Dave is, officially, regretting the joint. “Oh, yeah?”
The man grabs the next burger. “Mmhm.”
“When, uh. When’s that gonna happen?”
“Unclear. This presupposes that the universe is infinitely expanding.”
“Is it?”
“Nobody knows.”
Psychedelics, yeah? Gotta be. “Okay. So the heat death of the universe… means cheeseburger time?”
“In a strictly linear sense, perhaps.”
Dave tries to reevaluate the guy. His pants are scuffed. There’s dirt on the knees. “Did… did you fall? Maybe hit your head?”
“I hit nothing. But I see very clearly.”
“That’s… that’s good, I guess.” Dave watches him reach for another burger. “Did… did God tell you to order all those burgers? Cause, uh. Cause I don’t think He should be doing that.”
“There were no cheeseburgers in the Garden, you know.”
“Yeah. Makes… sense.”
The man leans in conspiratorially. “I always thought Eve got something of a raw deal.”
“Yeah. So does my mom.”
“I know.” The man is singleminded. He doesn’t fidget or shift. He just keeps eating. “She was in such pain during childbirth, you know. She didn’t know what was happening. Nobody explained it to her. She thought God was finishing the job. She kept begging Lord, was my sin so great?” The man finishes his burger. “It’s the sort of thing that stays with you, you see.”
“Right. Right.” God, does Dave wish Mick was out here with him. “I could see that.”
“It didn’t seem fair. Especially as I have always suspected that Eve passed the test.” The man bites into his burger. “It is unfair to rig a game.”
“What… does Eve have to do with the, uh. The heat death of the universe?”
“Everything, don’t you think?”
“I got six more burgers,” Mick says. Dave picks them up and brings them over to the counter.
“The same is true of Abraham and Isaac, of course,” the man continues, as if Dave never left. “In reverse. Abraham failed that test. I know he did. What would be the point, if he didn’t? What’s the point of any of it?”
“Um.” Dave’s sweating a little. “I don’t know, Father.”
The man licks a bit of ketchup off his thumb. “You seek a familiar term in an unfamiliar world.”
“Doesn’t everybody? I guess?”
He snags another burger. “It does become a habit, doesn’t it?”
Is he making a nun joke? Probably not. This guy doesn’t seem like a joker. “Yeah.”
“What do you think of games?”
“I, uh. I play a little LEGO Star Wars, sometimes.”
“I meant the sort that God plays.”
“I don’t… know what sort of games God plays. I’ve never… I’ve never even been in a church for services.”
“No. Me, neither.” Dave’s brow furrows and he opens his mouth. “Job, you know. Job was a game. Between him and Satan. That’s the sort of game God plays. He plays with lives.” The man nails him with that intense stare, biting into yet another burger. “Do you believe that’s right?”
Dave swallows.
“I dunno that it’s my business to question God,” he answers, not entirely sure of what he’s saying.
“You don’t think we must question everything?”
“I don’t… question everything. I know that the sky’s blue, most of the time. And grass is green, most of the time. So… why shouldn’t I know that God knows His business?”
“You believe God has a plan, then.”
“I dunno. I hope so, I guess.”
“More burgers,” Mick says. Dave takes an armful and returns to the counter.
“Hope,” the man mumbles, chewing thoughtfully but not slowly. “I have seen much hinge on hope.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Hope… is not enough.”
“I mean. It’s gotta be, right?”
The man grabs another burger. “Do you believe in the heat death of the universe?”
Dave doesn’t know what the right answer is here. “Yeah, I guess. It sounds plausible.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“As much as anybody else, I guess.”
“Then do you believe that when the heat death of the universe comes, it will kill God, as well as everything else?”
“I.” Dave swallows again, taking a deep breath. “I don’t think God’s part of the universe.”
“No?”
“No. I think… I think God’s somewhere else.”
“Hm.”
Dave thinks about asking the man what he thinks, then decides he doesn’t actually want to know. “Yeah.” The man takes another burger. “Father, should you be eating all those?”
“I think we are all building cathedrals. I think we are all, even atheists, praying.”
“…cool.”
“Do you pray? Out loud?”
“No. Uh, no, sir.”
“I have never understood the point, if you believe He’s always listening. I have never seen the wisdom. Surely He already knows.”
“More burgers,” Mick says. Dave, mechanically, fetches them.
“Perhaps it comes down to peace,” the man mumbles, through meat and cheese and bread. “Perhaps it is simply that I have never known peace.” He looks up at Dave. “Have you known peace?”
“My mom’s kitchen,” Dave answers truthfully, because he is too frightened to do otherwise. “She likes to play Joni Mitchell while she cooks.”
“Mm.” The man grabs a burger. “I imagine it is good to know peace. I imagine it feels how an easy rain smells in the middle of the day.”
“It doesn’t rain much here,” Dave says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.
“As I understand it,” the man agrees.
“Father, do you need me to… call someone?”
The man takes a final bite. “There is nobody to call.”
“Your, um. Your parish? Or… or a hospital?
“Dude,” Mick hisses. “Dude.”
Dave creeps up to the window. “Yeah?”
“Dude, are you keeping track of how many burgers I’ve made?”
“Am I-“ Dave gives him an aghast look. “Dude, do you not know?”
“Dude, it is so many burgers.”
“I have consumed twenty eight,” the man says, seemingly unhindered by their volume. “You have forty two to go.”
Mick gives him a despairing look. Helplessly, Dave shrugs. Muttering, Mick returns to the kitchen.
“These are very good,” the man tells Dave.
“They’re alright,” Dave answers, a little winded. “For the price.”
“No.” The man balls up his foil. “They’re very good, I assure you. I’ve never had anything like them.”
“I’m… glad you like them.”
“It is strange to like anything.”
“Yeah. That’s true.”
“I liked the Judean Date Palm. Very much. But that’s gone now, too.”
“It… sucks when things are gone.”
“It only means they mean more when they leave, I suspect.” The man wads up his foil again. “So I’ve heard. I feel every wound as though it were raw.”
“More burgers,” Mick drones. Dave gathers them up, pauses. He stares down at them before making a sort of exhausted decision, even with weighing the chances that this guy’s gonna deck him for saying it.
“Father,” he says, not that he really believes he’s a Father, at this point, only out of a lack of what to call him. “I don’t… think this is good for you. I don’t think any part of this is good for you.”
And he drops them on the floor. The burgers, sloppily wrapped on account of the volume and the late hour, tumble across the grimy tile.
“Dude,” Mick mumbles, appalled.
The man gives him a good, long look. Dave braces himself. It’s fine. It’s not the first time he’s been punched.
The man leans across the counter, and crooks his finger. Against his better judgment, Dave leans in.
“David McCluskey,” the man tells him, seriously. “Your mother loves you. Even when she fights with you, she loves you. You are her only son. Her only child. You know the sky is blue, most of the time. You know the grass is green, most of the time. Know that your mother loves you, always.”
The man turns, leaving Dave frozen behind the counter, and walks out the door. The bell over the doorway rings, jarring in the abrupt silence.
Dave doesn’t move a muscle.
“How many burgers did he eat?” Mick finally asks.
“Lots,” David croaks.
“Christ.”
Dave looks at all the little balls of tin foil on the counter, and swallows.
“Can you-“ Dave clears his throat. “Uh. Sorry. I’ll… I’ll clear all those up, can you just- I’ll be back in five.”
“Yeah, man,” Mick answers, looking a little bowled over.
Dave disappears out the back door into the parking lot. The fresh air is diluted by the smell of the dumpster and it’s almost a relief. With shaking hands, he pulls out his phone. She picks up on the fourth ring.
“Baby?’ Mom mumbles. “Aren’t you at work?”
“Yeah.” Dave’s breathing heavy. “Yeah.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.” Dave stares into the distance, into the woods out behind the Bungie’s, like maybe if he does long enough something’ll stare back. “Yeah. I, um. I love you, you know that?”
There’s quiet on Mom’s end.
“Do you want me to fly out?” She asks.
“No.” Dave rubs his eye furiously. “No.”
“I will.”
“I know.” He clears his throat again. “I’m fine. I’m just. It’s been a long night.”
“What can I do to help?”
“No, I just… I just needed to hear your voice.”
“Okay.”
“I can’t stay. I just… thank you. For picking up. For everything.”
“I want you to sleep in tomorrow, okay? I’ll send you a couple bucks for coffee.”
“Okay.”
“Call me when you wake up.”
“I will.”
“And I love you, too.” Her voice turns decidedly affectionate. “And lay off the reefer, a little.”
“Okay. I will. Bye, Mom.”
“Bye, baby.”
Dave hangs up the phone, because if he doesn’t right then, he never will. He looks up at the inky sky, at the glittering stars, at the constant moon.
And then, taking a deep breath, he walks back into the Bungie’s, closing the door behind him.
BEATRICE BLEAKLEY is a writer, and that’s all these is to be said about that. She has previously been published in Assignment Literary Magazine and Kennings Artistic and Literary Journal. If you like her work and enjoy silly nonsense, you can find her @beableakley.bsky.social.
