An Outburst

A single ceiling fan circles overhead.

Gloria and Gérard are no longer hungry. Joe has already slapped a few pink pieces of roast beef on top of some bread and is now applying liberal globs of mayonnaise. Beads of sweat gather on his face as he presses poorly sliced tomatoes into a soggy piece of lettuce. Gloria watches a clump of sweat drop from his nose like a falling H bomb, obliterating the sandwich's palatability. Gloria's face twists in slow motion as she turns her head toward Gérard. Joe sneezes out a fine mist of sweat and snot right over the pickles; mustard gas. "There's no way I'm eating that," she says.

"Don't worry, I'm not paying for them. We'll go somewhere else."

"Hey, Joe," Gérard says, tapping his hand on the counter. "Forget the sandwiches and the milkshakes, we've got to run."

Joe stops moving, but keeps his back to them. Slowly he straightens, stiffens, turns his face slightly so that one stone eye peers out at them over his shoulder. He gnashes his teeth and the muscles in his jaw bulge. "You mean to tell me you just had me make these sandwiches for nothing," he asks, still with his back turned.

"Well, no...now that they're made, they'll be ready for the next person who orders one, right," Gérard asks.

Slamming his fist down onto the cutting board Joe says, "I haven't had a goddamn customer all day."

Gloria looks worried. Her eyes tell him she wants to leave. Gérard doesn't want her to feel intimidated, but there's something unsettling about the situation. The air seems heavier, hotter. The ceiling fan whooshes loudly as it cuts the air, lending the scene a heartbeat. It's clear there is something wrong with Joe. His back, above the apron tie, is soaked yellow with sweat. There's a white plastic sign by the register, folded like a paper tent, which reads: the customer is always right. Something flashes over Gloria's eyes.

"Have you considered installing a working sink in the bathroom; washing your hands before you make sandwiches; flushing the toilet bowl," Gloria says stepping forward. Gérard wishes she hadn't phrased it that way. She's always had a way of quickly escalating potentially aggressive situations. She's got a kind of molotov cocktail mouth.

"Don't YOU tell ME," Joe screams, whipping his body around. "You come in here with your liberal bullshit and tell me how to run MY business? I've been working here for 30 years," he yells. "We never had to wash our hands; no one got sick then; we were stronger, had resistance to disease. Then you weak yuppies with your weak stomachs and weak immune systems come along. You tell me I have to clean up because you can't fight off a microbe on a piece of shit! Get out of the fucking gene pool, no one needs you - you are human pollution. I'll be damned if you think you're leaving without paying."