#little weed frank burritoed

[gotalottalegs]

Life on the Murder Scene is such a good name for a vampire mockumentary Stupid bullshit inspired by this post from @mychemicalraymance​ Bonus btw

[reiner-is-back-bitches]

Is This How It’s Ending?~~ My First Multi-Chapter Fanfic Ever~~ A My Chemical Romance Fanfic~~ Frank Iero X OC~~

Okay, so I thought I would share something with yall. It’s my very first fanfic that wasn’t a oneshot and guess what, it’s still not finished lolol. Oh well, it wasn't all that great so I wasn't surprised when there wasn't an uproar to finish it lolol. Anyways it’s just a zombie apocalypse story with a high school setting and special guests My Chemical Romance! Lolol it’s kinda crack but I was like 16 when I started writing this lolol

This wasn't happening. It wasn’t! This had to be a nightmare, a bad fucking dream. "Run! C’mon you guys! Run!" I yelled to my friends and family running behind me. ‘They can’t fucking hear me.’ I thought. I couldn't even hear myself over all the gunshots and screams. I looked back for a split second, praying to all gods above and below, that I see everyone I cared about still behind me, and tripped. I collided with the floor, knees first, causing me to scrape both of them really bad. "Fuck!” I yelled, looking down at the mess that was my jeans knees and my own. Oh, shit!"

When I looked up, I saw one of the monsters, ‘They’re fucking zombies! Say it! They’re really fucking zombies!!!’ one of the zombies was coming right for me. The only thing I could see was its teeth. I imagined them ripping me up, tearing my skin from my bones in a single bite. All I could see was my blood splattered everywhere; on the zombie, on me, my clothes soaked in it, puddles forming around me. This was it. This was how my life, my world, was ending…..

(((***)))

It started off like just an average day in Idalou Texas. Cars were honking, hookers were walking, ice heads were knocking on the dealers doors, dying to get another hit. I sat up in my bed and stretched, yawning loudly. ‘That’s why I stopped dealing ice.’ I thought to myself, with a small grin on my face and sleep in my eyes. ‘These fuckers are up before Jesus and the Mexicans.’ I stood up and stretched again, hearing a sound I was so used to, it’s like fucking air: my parents were fighting. They were my alarm clock, every fucking morning at 6:00 a.m., I would here the spectacular show of Jonathan and Molly trying to oust scream each other. I also haven’t called them ‘Mom’ or ‘Dad’ in two years.

I lit a cigarette and heard something I have never heard before; objects being thrown. ‘This little spat is getting worse.’ I said aloud. ‘I’m surprised I haven’t heard fucking gunshots.’ I laughed nervously to myself, and then stopped. Images of my parents shooting each other in a fucking gunfight began to run through my mind and it kind of freaked me out. Especially since I dipped the cigarette I lit in a small baggie of coke before I fired life into it.

I shook my head and put out my smoke, before walking to my small locker like closet to get dressed. I heard Molly yell from her room all the way on the other side of the house, “Roxy Von Diaz! You better not be fucking smoking in my fucking house!"

"Mind your own business, Molly. Get back to shout-fucking Jonathan!" I yelled back. She started yelling at Jonathan about how I get that shit from him. Yep, we’re a big happy family. Madea ain’t got shit on us. I got a The Bunny the Bear shirt, my marijuana print bandana, a pair of black skinny jeans and my favorite pair of Gorillaz Converse high tops.

I turned to my iHome and pressed play. Music began to blare out of my speakers and I proceeded with my morning. I turned on my straightener and undressed. Throwing my jams onto my bed, I went and turned on the stick of incense that was sitting in a small metal dragon I got for Christmas years ago. I then proceeded to light four more sticks all around my room and reached for my pile of clothes. I learned a long time ago to dress fast if you want more time to yourself in the morning.

After I was dressed I proceeded to where my straighter was waiting and did my hair; straightening, styling hairspray and more went into getting me ready for the day. After my hair was to my liking, I wrapped the marijuana bandana around my head, grabbed my mirror and make up bag, and plopped back onto my bed.

I turned to the side and knocked on the wall, where the small door leading into a small hiding spot opened. It was a small hiding spot I had found the first week I moved to this idiotic town. I then realized when I found it, that I found it for a reason and would use it to the fullest. I pulled a pink Phillies tube from the hiding place and opened it. Pulling the blunt from the tube, I stood up and started doing my makeup. I always loved how my make up comes out when I do it stoned.

I held the blunt in between my lips and popped open my purple eyeliner. I laid out a thick line and inhaled the blunt. I finished appliying gracious amounts of eyeliner and returned its head. I took the blunt and ashed it in the seashell ashtray right next to my bed. I returned the blunt to its rightful place, and took out some black eye shadow. After my mighty feat was over, I put the blunt out, stuck it back in the Phillies tube, and put the tube in my pocket.

It was now showing six thirty on my alarm clock, and smiled triumphantly. ‘I am such a fast bitch.’ I thought to myself and proceeded to grab my jacket and get my brother and sister ready for school. My sister Lia is a year younger than me and Mark is four years younger than me. They hated the fighting as much as I did, but I only hadn’t left because of my family, Lia and Mark.

I walked into my sister’s room and jumped on her bed. “Lia, it’s time for school. Get up, get dressed and tell me what you want on your breakfast bootyhole.” My sister threw a pillow at me and let out a great big fart.

“You know what I want bitch.” She replied as she rolled over in her bed as I fought to suppress my laughter.

“I got ya, sister.”

“Thanks, DooDoo.” I closed her door and walked to the other side of the house were Mark’s room is located. I opened the door and saw my brother on his Xbox. I called out to him but didn’t get a response from him. After trying and failing five times, I looked around the general vicinity I was in for something to throw at him.

I found on his desk a pile of pennies, perfectly stacked. I smiled and scooped them up into my hand and chunked the pennies at him and watched them shower down upon my brother’s head and T.V.

“What the fuck?!” He yelled into his headset. He turned around and saw me standing in his doorway, my arms crossed and a smirk on my face. “Oh, it’s just you Von. Why are you standing in my doorway? I was in the middle of a serious deathmatch.” My brother and his fucking games, I swear to god he’s going to want to be buried with that thing.

“You better hope Jonathan and Molly don’t hear you use those words. There would be even more yelling around here.” I walked up to my brother’s huge game chair, and leaned back on it, causing it to fall over backwards. My brother gave me an annoyed look and picked the chair back up.

“Roxy, you think I give a shit about what my parents here me saying? I heard most of it from them, anyway.” I sighed and looked at my watch, seeing it was only six fifty. “Anyways, what’s up big sister?”

“I just wanted to know what kind of burrito you wanted.” He sat back in his chair and put his headsets on.

“Whatever you’re getting, please.” He returned to his friends and I walked out his room. I stayed at his door and him talking to his friends. “Huh? Oh, that was just my sister. No, Roxy. A dub? For when? Friday? Yea, alright, I’ll talk to her before then, just remind me ok?” I shook my head, thinking about how I was dealing weed to my brother’s friends over his Xbox live account.

I walked from his door and into the kitchen, seeing Jonathan and Molly taking a break from their usual life to make some coffee that Jonathan stole from an important factory he helped clean yesterday in Lubbock. I used both hands to flip both of them off, and continued to the front door, where I walked out, giving a great big sneeze as I stepped into the cold winter air.

‘Shit,’ I thought as I tightened my jacket around my small form as I walked to the sidewalk. ‘Most likely Jonathan and Molly got their flu shots, so they’re probably taking Lia and Mark today after school.’ I took off down the street, toward a little restaurant I always get my munchies from.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my best friend in the whole world, Luis finish up a drug deal, and make his way towards me.

"Hey slut. Wait up." Luis yelled after me and I stopped, pulling the Phillies tube out of my back pocket. I had it successfully lit by the time he caught up with me. “Ooooh girl, you better let me hit that after you.” I smiled and handed the blunt to Luis, giving a wave to a passing cop. The cop then busted a bitch and headed back towards us. He pulled up behind us, and I went to meet him halfway.

“Officer Lucas, good morning.” I pulled my hand out of my pocket and shook his, placing a fat dub into his hand.

“Roxy, how are you this morning.” He then placed his hand into his own pocket, releasing the bag of weed, and replacing it on the steering wheel.

“Not too bad, sir, heading off for a little breakfast before school. You know how it is.” I extended my hand.

“Oh, yes I sure do.” He took his hand out of his pocket and shook my hand, slipping me a twenty dollar bill. “You have a good one Roxy Von.”

“You too, Officer Lucas.” He drove away and Luis gave him a small wave. I met back up with Luis and took the blunt from him. “You want breakfast, I’m buying?”

“Hell yea, bitch!” Luis gave me a hug and I laughed, as we continued walking to Dixie Dog. Once we got there, I went and ordered three sausage, egg and cheese burritos and one potato and cheese burrito. We walked to the small patio area on the right side of the building and sat and smoked a cigarette.

“Oh, some of my customers want some of that green.” Luis told me, as he handed me a small stack of pieces of scrap paper.

“Oh, really? Why’s that? Your supply not up to stuff?” I grinned at Luis and he grinned back. Luis was too smart for his own good. He cooked his own supply of crystal meth and dealt it to the meth heads that reside here. We have a friendly competition going on against his meth and my weed.

We started it two years ago and for all of those two years, we had been at fifty percent even. Our drugs created harmony. After I picked up my burritos, Luis and I headed back to the house. “So, I heard a little commotion when I was in the alley. Jonathan and Molly were fighting, yea, but there was another noise. Where they throwing shit?”

“I guess they are now. That shit surprised me earlier to. Today is just weird.” Luis hit the blunt and got really excited about something, and choked. He coughed for about five minutes, with me rubbing his back for three, before he finally talked.

“We’re getting new students.” I scoffed to myself and looked at Luis in disbelief. “Five of them, all the way up from New Jersey.” I laughed because he said it like Nu Joisy.

“Who the hell would want to move to this wack town?” Luis shrugged his shoulders and passed me back the blunt.

“I don’t know jefita. All I know is that they’re coming here today.” I sighed and put out the blunt, roaching it and walked into my house.

“Luis, can you get Mark and Lia while I fill these orders right quick?” I asked him as soon as we got to the kitchen.

“Sure,” He headed to Lia’s room first and I headed to my room. I closed my door, and went over to my bed. I pulled a huge sack of weed from my hiding spot, and proceeded to fill these orders. ‘Ok,’ I thought. ‘A dime for Marcus, a dub for Craig and a QP for Danielle, damn Danielle needs to ease up on my product.’ I exhaled softly and walked to the living room, where Lia, Luis and Mark were waiting for me. I smiled at them and nodded, signaling them that we were ready to go.

“Shotgun!” Lia and Luis shouted together as they ran out the door, followed by a chuckling Mark. I followed them outside and closed the locked door behind me. If only I had checked the news that morning, if only I had just turned on the fucking T.V., I’d probably would’ve been more prepared for what I saw that day. ~~~~~~

*******Breaking News*******

We interrupt this program to bring you a very important announcement. Fabilar Companies have informed us that there had been a very critical mistake in their distribution of the flu vaccine. It appears that people whom have got their vaccines are dying and then coming back to life. The people injected are dying approximately 24 to 36 hours after injection.

If you got your vaccine, please report to the nearest hospital for assistance. I repeat, if you received your flu vaccine please report to the nearest hospital. Now, we return you to your…what are you doing? Sir, you’re supposed to be behind the camera. Sir you can’t be up here, we’re filming live. No, stop get away from me! Aaahhhhh, it’s biting me! Somebody help me! Shut the fucking cameras off and save me! Oh my God! They’re infected! They’re all fucking infected! No, no please! Aaaaaaauuuuuuuuggggggghhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[reecesfleeces-blog]

Chaplain of the Lot

Some guy once said religion is the opiate of the masses.

The sun rose on a Tuesday morning in the summer of the year two-thousand and twelve. She rose and floated low in the sky, nudged the people to wake up.

The light came in at an angle through the large showroom windows of Joe Capini Honda and the tables in the middle of the showroom floor cast long shadows. The sales manager, a man with pale blue eyes and a well trimmed white beard, who went by the name Roger, stood in the front office, looked out its floor-to-ceiling window, saw the sun floating in the sky and sipped his coffee.

The first employee to arrive at the dealership was Ryan Delotte. Ryan had just graduated from high school and planned on working through the summer, making a little money and enjoying his foray out into the world. He was somewhat short, at least relative to the salesmen who all seemed to be giants, and he was a bit gaunt. He had a pierced lip and ear, but he only donned the jewelry away from work.

The dealership proper was composed of two buildings: in front, facing a busy road, was the showroom and beyond this was the finance and automotive service building.

Ryan parked in the employee lot, a place in shadow and sandwiched between the showroom and the finance building. He jingled his keys as he locked his door and meandered to the side entrance. The side entrance was locked and so he continued to the front. He saw Roger through the front window and smiled and waved.

He liked Roger, Roger was kind to him. When he gave him the job, it was with utter faith.

Roger had shook his hand, looked him in the eyes, and said “it will be boring sometimes, stressful sometimes, but I think you can handle it.”

The job was small, but he was proud of it. He complained to the salesmen when they smoked cigarettes together, “fuckin’ four sales this morning, that’s four fuckin’ cars I got to detail in like half an hour. Calm the fuck down with the sales, huh?” But he loved it. He loved it as far as he knew that he loved anything. The part of the job detailing cars was even pleasant, these were new cars; mostly it involved removing the window sticker, taking it through the car wash, wiping the dash and hitting the tires with “tire shine”.

He stepped into the building and noticed it was much cooler inside than out. The cool and the smell of new tires enveloped him.

He said, “Mornin’ Rodge.”

Roger said back, “mornin’ Ryan.”

Ryan proceeded to the back of the showroom, poured himself a little styrofoam cup of coffee, walked back to the front office and sat on Roger’s big desk, sipping coffee.

Roger said, “have a good night, last night?”

Roger had this sort of trust with everyone that worked at the store. He knew everything everyone did, and so long as it was irrelevant to the smooth sale of cars, he judged not in the least. As it turned out, Ryan had a party he went to last night.

Ryan smiled, said, “oh hell yeah.”

Roger lifted his eyebrows, “girl?”

Ryan smirked, said, “girls”, and laughed.

Roger smiled, “hope you didn’t get too drunk.”

Ryan was a little more serious, “no sir, not in the least.”

Roger said, “that’s good,” he looked at his watch and said, “hey look, I need you to put up the balloons.”

Ryan nodded, hopped off the desk, and walked back through the showroom to the back office. The back office was a bank of six small desks, each with a phone and dividers so that salesmen could call their customers without polluting the main showroom floor. In one of the corners was an upright-standing large helium tank, and on the nearest desk was a spool of red ribbon-thread and a package of balloons.

It had been a learning experience when this first happened. Before he arrived, the salesmen took turns “doing the balloons.” All of them were better at it then him, and he marvelled at the idea that it could be so well done. They would have 50 balloons done and tied up in ten minutes. They taught him to start the knots of ribbon before filling the balloon. You cut fifty lines of string, start the knots, and lay them out across the desks. Then you fill the balloons, attach the string — finish the knot on it — then let it go. It floats up to the ceiling, and eventually the whole room is filled with balloons.

With great care he gathered the fifty dangling red strings and began the process of moving outside. Moving this assembly through doorways was yet another skill he was still mastering. It was a good thing that it happened in the morning, and that it was before other salesmen got there, because he was sure it would be an enjoyment for the salesmen to watch him struggle through this.

Ryan made it outside holding the great mass of balloons. For the hell of it, just because it was who he was, he found a particularly ugly balloon, dark green that clashed with the red ribbon, pulled the ribbon from the bunch, and let it go. He watched it float away, thirty seconds there, up, up and away. It tickled his stomach.

The sun was up a bit higher now and the road across from the dealership was gathering traffic. Down the road was a McDonalds, and its drive-thru lane was packed with breakfast customers.

As cars whooshed by, Ryan took the time to tie three balloons to the side-view mirrors on the front row of new cars. It was slightly difficult to hold some forty balloons while tying the another handful to the mirror, and even the very gentle wind tangled the balloons considerably, but in a few minutes he had mostly accomplished the task. There was sweat running down his neck when a salesman, Frank, drove up toward him and stopped, rolled down his window.

Frank said, “‘ey Ryan, gotchu somethin man.”

This lit up Ryan’s heart and he beamed, said “nice, nice.”

The salesman said, “you on balloon duty, huh?”

Ryan looked at him, feeling his own sweaty face.

The salesman looked up and down the row, saw he was nearly finished, and said, “ay I guess you started last night huh?” and he burst into laughter.

Ryan blushed.

The salesman continued, “aight man, well come see me when you get done.”

Ryan tied the last wad of balloons to the last car in the front row and knotted it about fifteen times. He looked back on the row of cars, each with its bundle of balloons gently waving in the air, and was thoroughly satisfied with his handiwork.

He found Frank, who he considered he best friend among the sales staff, in the back office, unwrapping a breakfast burrito and sipping a 32oz Coca-Cola. He had, in fact, three burritos.

Frank said, “one’s ham, one’s sausage, one’s… I don’t know what the fuck, oh yeah, bacon.”

Ryan sat down next to him and Frank asked, “you want one? Got it for you.”

Ryan looked at the burritos sitting on the desk and said, “yeah.”

Frank slid the burrito over to Ryan’s desk. Ryan was in the process of opening the burrito when Frank took the first bite of his own, then immediately spit it out.

“Yuck, man.”

“What?”

“Shit sucks.”

Ryan sat there looking at his own burrito, it looked just fine.

As he was contemplating eating it, Frank took the remainder of his own burrito and threw it in a trash can nearby.

Ryan took a bite. It tasted just fine. Pretty good. Eggs, sausage, potato, cheese. It could use salsa. He said, “what’s wrong with it?”

Frank looked at him, almost in disbelief, then said, “you mean to tell me you can’t tell what’s a shitty burrito?”

Ryan shrugged and continued to eat.

Frank took a package of cigarettes out of his slacks, flipped it open, took one out and put it to his mouth, said, “you want one?” and Ryan nodded. Frank handed him a cigarette.

“And that’s not aaaall,” he said.

Ryan was chewing the burrito, trying to finish quickly now that they were preparing to go for a smoke break.

“Check this out my man.”

Frank turned the cigarette package on its side and out fell a tiny ziplock bag, the kind that would normally hold a button. Inside was a single nug of weed.

Ryan’s heart lifted. He’d asked Frank if he could score for him two weeks ago, just a few days after he started working.

Frank waved it under Ryan’s nose and said, “how’s that shit smell, man?”

Ryan nodded and said, “yeah.”

Frank said, “tell you what, I got a piece in my car if you wanna hit it.”

Ryan continued to chomp down the rest of his burrito, swallowing, mouth full with his last bite, he said, “fuck yeah.”

Ryan stood up, balled up the wrapper for the burrito and threw it in the can. Frank said, “hey you want this other burrito?” Ryan shook his head ‘no’.

“Ah, fine, I’ll try to pawn it off on one of these other retards.”

They left out the side door and stood beneath a wide awning. Outside was another salesman already smoking. His name was Carl, and Carl was old and grumpy as hell. He hated working here, and, indeed, had worked here for so long that virtually all of his business was repeat customers. He saw two or three a week, customers he had last seen maybe five years ago, and each time, without fail, sold them. At this point, he simply showed up.

When Frank saw him, he tilted his head back in a gesture of recognition.

“‘ey Carl, you have breakfast yet?”

Carl removed the cigarette from his mouth and as he spoke smoke came out of his mouth, “no. Don’t eat breakfast.”

Frank said, “‘ey well look, I got an extra breakfast burrito. I’ll sell it to you for a dollar.”

Carl glared, “I’m gonna have to pass, Frank.”

Frank shrugged, pulled a lighter out of his pocket, lit his cigarette, then handed the lighter to Ryan.

“ey man, you know breakfast is the most important meal of the day. How can you expect to sell cars on an empty stomach?”

Carl dropped his unfinished cigarette on the ground, twisted it out with his foot and went inside through the side door.

Ryan looked over to Frank and laughed, said, “fucking asshole” and laughed again.

“It’s cause he don’t eat breakfast.”

Frank turned, motioned with his head for Ryan to follow him, and started walking back toward the employee parking lot.

Out from under the awning, the world was a nice gold color. The cement of the lot was tan, and when the morning light fell on it, it gave off a welcoming vibe, said “you are here.”

Cigarette hanging out of Frank’s mouth, sweat glistening on his bald head, he said, “it’s fucked up we got to wear pants and you don’t.”

Ryan shrugged, but since he was behind Frank it was a useless gesture.

They approached Frank’s car, a relatively new Chrysler sedan. Frank clicked the keyfob in his pocket, pulled open the driver’s side door, and sat. Ryan waited at the passenger side, Frank clicked the keyfob again, and Ryan opened the door and sat down.

Frank pulled out an aluminum foil pipe from his driver’s side door. He had fashioned it by rolling up a sheet of ~5” wide aluminum foil into a tube, then bending it at the end to form a bowl. He glanced down at this pipe, then glanced around the parking lot. He turned it over in his hand, emptied the bowl of ashes, rolled down the window and dropped the ashes out.

Then he handed the pipe and cigarette package to Ryan, fastened his seatbelt.

He said, “you get that shit ready,” and with a gentle dinging noise, turned on the car.

They drove out of the lot, down the road a little ways, and turned into a neighborhood. As they did, Ryan unzipped the little package, took out the marijuana flower, broke it into pieces, and put the pieces in the pipe.

After passing a ways through the neighborhood, Ryan tried to hand Frank the pipe, but Frank said, “nah man, you start it,” and handed Ryan his lighter.

Ryan looked around, saw houses and no one else, bent down, lit the lighter, felt the heat from it on his forehead, and inhaled, pulling the flame through the aluminum foil pipe. He sucked through several times before it started burning well.

Holding the smoke in his lungs he passed it to Frank. As he held it out, there was a coil of smoke coming from the bowl, Frank said, “you hit it too hard man,” and still looking toward the road, pulled the pipe to himself and gently sucked on it, stopping the bowl from emitting this smoke into the car. Then he took a hit, light, as though it were a drag of a cigarette, rolled down his window and exhaled, then took another light hit, gentle, so that it soothed the bowl, tempered the cinders, and exhaled through the window again, then passed it back to Ryan.

Ryan already had a feeling of giddiness. He could tell that while right now there was little effect, it was going to blossom into a very nice high. He put the lighter to the bowl, gently inhaled, rolled down the window, and let the smoke out.

He tried to pass it back to Frank, but Frank said, “nah man, I’m good.”

By the time they returned to lot, Ryan felt stoned. His eyes were red, and he knew he was going to have trouble acting normal. As he left the car, he kinda stumbled, and had to stifle a giggle. Frank went to the backseat, pulled out a bottle of Febreeze, sprayed it through his car, then sprayed it into a little mist cloud in front of himself then walked through it.

He had taken out a cigarette and was holding it in his mouth when he said to Ryan, “c’mere man”.

He sprayed Ryan with the Febreeze up and down, then pulled him by the shoulder so he’d turn around, then sprayed his front.

Frank put the Febreeze bottle back in the back seat, went to the front seat, grabbed a couple starlight mints and a bottle of visine. He stood beside the door, and said to Ryan, who was standing looking like an idiot at the front of the car, “ey, keep the rest if you want.”

Ryan thus opened the car door, withdrew the pipe from the passenger seat and stumbled over to his own car. He was having trouble unlocking his car door when he heard Frank say, “ey man, stop fucking around.” He succeeded, opened the door and stowed the pipe beneath his front seat.

Frank was standing along the backside of the building in shadows, holding a bottle of Visine up and squeezing drops into his eyes. Ryan came up alongside him and Frank handed him the bottle of Visine. Ryan tried to do the same thing, but flinched several times and Frank had a look of disbelief, mumbled “jesus christ.”

Ryan finally handed the bottle back to him, and it looked like he had been crying he missed so many drops. Frank told him so and laughed.

Frank then took out two cigarettes, handed one to Ryan and said, “here, smoke this cigarette.”

They stood there, behind the painted cinderblock back wall of the store, and smoked in relative silence.

After they finished, Frank handed him a mint, looked at Ryan and said, “good?”

Ryan half-laughed, unwrapped the mint, mouth hit with peppermint, and said, “yeah.”

When they returned to the showroom, all the salesmen had arrived. Frank made eye contact with one of the salesman, a massive polar bear looking like guy, and shouted, “hey, buddy!”

Ryan was having trouble walking normally, told Frank he had to go wash the cars, and left out through the front door.

Beyond the first row of cars with the balloons was the second row: the second row of cars was composed of the “premier” cars for the day. These were the ones that would be test driven and given walk arounds for new customers. The next part of Ryan’s job was to run these cars through the car wash.

He came up to the first one, a mid-sized SUV, and squinted at the number on the sticker in the top-right corner of the windshield. He said to himself, “five two two two six, five two two two six, five two two two six,” and walked back inside, turned into the main office where the key machine was. Roger was at the computer and without looking over said, “should already be halfway done with those cars, Ryan.”

Ryan muttered under his breath as he punched in the numbers, “five five two two six.”

The digital display said, “no such key.”

He punched it in again, this time getting it right, the machine whirred, and out popped a box with a key inside it. He turned to Roger and said, “sorry, Frank made me get breakfast with him.”

Roger turned in his chair, raised an eyebrow and said, “did he get me anything?”

Ryan said “uhh” and Roger turned in his chair, leaned back and shouted, “Frank! Get in here!”

Frank half-slid into the doorway of the office and had a huge smile on, he seemed to have been in the middle of telling a joke and said, “what is it, boss-man?”

Roger said, “how come you got breakfast but didn’t get me anything?”

Frank’s smile expanded, he looked up to Ryan then back to Roger and laughed, “you think I’m gonna forget you?”

Then he dashed off to the back office.

He returned wielding the burrito with pride, “now, I wasn’t sure which was your favorite, how do you like, uh, bacon?”

Frank placed the burrito on Roger’s desk, Roger opened it, took a bite, chewed, then his chewing slowed. He pulled out a trash can from under his desk and spit it out.

He said, “that’s worst damn burrito I’ve ever tasted.”

Then he turned to Ryan and said, “how come you aren’t washing the cars?”

Ryan left, and as he went out the front door, he heard Frank slap Roger on the back and say, “Rodge, we are going to sell some cars today!”

Ryan drove the SUV, smelling entirely of brand new car, by the finance building, and onto the back service road. This service road was shared by three car dealerships, and along this road was a body shop, a couple reserve lots — where the new shipments were held — and, most importantly, the car wash.

He drove up to the keypad, pressed on the square metal buttons, “3, 1, 2, 4”, and pulled around to the tunnel. The first drive through the car wash was perhaps the holiest experience of the day. The sun was fairly strong by now so that the tunnel felt like a cool enclave.

He pulled up to the tire grooves, set the car to park, and lay back in his seat while the machine did its work: rinse, water streaming down the windows, soap, the spinning cylinders with lapping fingers, wax, green, yellow and red in blurred stripes, sweet smelling, then rinse again. The machine retracted its tools and it was time to pull forward through the air dryer. Slowly, slowly emerging out from this enclave and entering the world anew with a wonderfully clean car.

He pulled up in front of the showroom, saw that it was busy with salesmen on the phones — it was too early for walk-in customers so they could call from their showroom desks — and came to the next car in the row.

He repeated the routine: check the window, repeat the number to himself, get the key, drive to the wash, return. He repeated it again, and again, and on the fourth time through the high was leaving and he was feeling a bit tired, so he stopped, got another little styrofoam cup of coffee, and went to the side of the store to see if anyone was on a smoke break.

…

Sure enough, there congregated were four salesmen: the big polar bear guy was telling a story from the era when he worked at a custom shop in Chicago, he told these tales beautifully, that they worked on Porches and Ferraris and Lamborghinis. Somehow Ryan could only imagine that he worked at a shitty lot in some suburb.

“Anyway, it was a red ferrari, it was Michael Jordan’s. Now, he didn’t come in the store, he had an agent bring it in, but the license plate said MJ 23 and it had dark tinted windows.”

He scratched his head with his cigarette-empty hand as if he were trying to remember exactly how it went, his voice was soft and he meandered on: “I had to take it to another one of our shops, and driving on the highway everyone slowed down around me, trying to look in through the windows, and little did they know, it wasn’t Michael Jordan in the Ferrari, but me.”

He grinned, took a drag from the cigarette, looked around from person to person, seeming disappointed by the tepid reaction, lifted his eyebrows, and said, “he had a Porche too, a sweet setup; a black turbo.”

He continued to talk and Ryan nudged Frank, who was standing in amazement, and Frank responded by throwing his hand out as if he was sweeping away a fly.

Ryan sighed, went back through the building, prepared the fifth car for a car wash. This time, however, he stopped on the way to the car wash in the employee parking lot, sat halfway in his car, legs still facing out, retrieved the pipe from under the seat, a lighter from the cupholder, and took a deep hit.

He let out his breath and the smoke coiled around the footwell, the pedals, of his car. He leaned out, waved his hand to ward off the smoke, returned to the still-running uncleaned burgandy sedan, and proceeded through to the car wash, listening to the radio at very loud volumes.

He was determined now to make it through the rest of the row of cars before his high went away. Boom, wash, boom, wash, boom, wash.

He parked the final car in the row, closed the door, stood away and looked at all the cars facing the steps to the dealership. Beautiful, shining, spotless. A bright point of light was reflected in each of the roofs of the vehicles. Ryan, shielding his eyes from the sun, looking like he was giving a salute, turned and went in the showroom.

At this point, Frank had got himself a customer, Ryan was familiar enough to understand that the man wanted to buy the van, but he was in the delicate act of maximizing his gains by choosing accessories. He could drive away with the van today if it were just the van he wanted, but he was going on a roadtrip Friday and he wanted the luggage rack. He needed to know how long it would take to be installed, and Frank was in a gleeful back and forth with the man.

This sort of information went through Ryan’s head unimpeded. It was the daily rhythm and the song and refrain of the days. People came in, full of anxiety about being sold, and were eased into it. He imagined that, in their younger years, the salesmen must have been pretty good lovers. Been very good at easing her tension: no, no, honey, yes, it’s okay to say no, we can lay here and relax, and then they start rubbing her shoulders, and finally she gives in, just barely, leans back into him, and he kisses her on the neck. It’s smooth sailing from here. The man buying a van was well into the process of love, would be willing to spend a hundred years in the dealership, and the salesman was giving him all the peace of the world.

Ryan sat in the back office, legs propped up on another chair in front of him, and sent text messages on his phone. He wanted to let his girlfriend know that he had some weed and that he was going to save it for them tonight and that they’d have a wonderful time.

It was at this point that there was a knock on the open door.

It was Roger.

“Ryan,” he said, “did you wash the burgundy Accord this morning?”

Ryan turned from his chair and looked at Roger, he said, “yeah?”

Roger smiled, and said, “I thought so.”

He said, “come with me.”

Ryan stood up and walked out of the room. Roger held his hand lightly on the small of Ryan’s back and led him out to the side entrance door.

Ryan said, “where are we going?”

Roger responded, “finance building.”

The walk from the side entrance to the finance building was changed from the morning. It was high noon now, the sun was directly overhead and the tan cement was so bright it seemed white. The sky was so clear Ryan expected a buzzard, or maybe a hawk that fly across and cry out, ba-kaw!

He heard his own footsteps, tennis shoes on pavement: contact, contact, contact.

As they approached the finance building, Roger took the lead and opened the door for Ryan. They walked down a hallway, and Roger stood by an open door, made a motion for Ryan to enter and sit down.

Roger closed the door behind him, looked at Ryan with his soft, gentle, pale blue eyes.

Then he looked down at the floor and said, “let me ask you Ryan,” looked back up, “why do you think we’re here?”

Ryan said, “huh?”

Roger said, “I mean, why do we come to the dealership?”

Ryan felt that he understood the right answer, he trusted Roger to ask questions honestly and in earnest.

“Well… to make money.”

Roger nodded, “Close. To sell cars.”

Ryan was vaguely confused.

Roger put his hand on Ryan’s shoulder, gave him a concerned look, said, “and do you know what makes it hard to sell cars?”

Ryan looked up and shook his head “no”.

Roger smiled, “when they smell like weed.”

Ryan frowned and felt very small.

Roger patted him on the back, looked Ryan in the eye, and said, “you need to be more careful.”

Roger turned to leave the room, but in the doorway he spun on his heel, and then said, “Ryan, do you know the difference between working to make money and working to sell cars?”

Ryan shook his head.

Roger nodded, “The difference is… you work for money if you need something: if you need a house, if you need food — whatever.”

Roger took a moment to compose himself, then said, “But what if you have enough money for food and shelter and security and all that?”

Ryan said, “you buy stuff.”

Roger said, “exactly, you buy stuff, you work for stuff not for money. And why do you buy stuff? Because you want it. What is the opposite, what must it be like to want nothing?”

Ryan thought about this, he assumed that to want nothing must have meant pure bliss, but now he could see that it was much more a kind of depression. Apathy, pointlessness. Even a preacher wants for the salvation of his congregation.

Roger saw the conclusions being reached in his head.

He nodded, “and so, what do we do here? We sell cars. We give people meaning.”

Roger took a second, smoothed out his shirt, and said, “It’s bullshit that people think meaning is a singular thing, like, ‘oh if god just sent me a message then I would know exactly how to live my life’, no. It’s a collection of things, it’s about girls,” and he raised his eyebrows at Ryan, “and it’s about good food, and it’s about many, many things. We give people a small chunk of meaning too, a pursuit of a nice car, the bliss of taking ownership, and the several years thereafter where they have pride for it.”

He smiled at Ryan, turned to leave the room, and in the doorway he stopped and knocked on the frame, looked at Ryan, said, “people are fulfilled, so long as they want.”

Roger left the room, and as he was on his way down the hallway, he stopped at another door, leaned in, looked at the finance guy at his computer and said, “look alive! Frank’s about to sell a van!”