Milkshake

The day Patrick first donned the uniform (which, he noted, smelled faintly of pot), that dude was there in the drive-thru. He ordered chicken McNuggets and asked to have the bones removed. Upon being informed that they were boneless, he replied “I know what you put in those things” and proceeded to sit in his car in front of the window, pull each nugget apart, and inspect them for solid bits. He held up the line for almost fifteen minutes. Patrick almost cried from frustration.

And he kept coming back, too, almost every day. Last week, he ordered fries and sent them back twice, claiming they were “too soft” even after three rounds in the fryer. Two days ago, he asked for a smiley face to be drawn on his burger in ketchup. Yesterday, he asked for a dick to be drawn instead.

Today, he wanted a milkshake.

“What’s the catch?” Patrick asked through the intercom. Just a vanilla malt? This guy was totally up to something.

“No catch, Patty-cakes,” he said. “A vanilla shake, hold the backsass.”

Patrick groaned, ruing the day Pete spotted his name tag, and cut off the connection. That asshole was up to something, for sure. Nevertheless, he soldiered on, ensuring that everything was perfect so there was no possible way he could complain.

Ice cold, frosty, condensation wiped off like the douchebag was the goddamn Queen of Sheba and Patrick his lowly condensation-wiper…it was truly a work of art.

The Queen pulled up to the window. “Yo, Saint Patty,” he said, dark eyes dancing through stupidly moppy bangs. He held out a crumpled ball of ones.

Patrick took his money, rolling his eyes, and then handed him his milkshake.

The guy pretended to flinch as he touched the cool Styrofoam. “Brr, I’ll catch frostbite.”

“What do you want me to do about it?”

“Warm it up?” He flashed a dazzling smile.

Patrick flipped him off with his free hand and let go of the shake.

“So severe, Pattikins.” He took a sip and giggled. “I saw that coy little smirk. You know I’m cute, don’t deny.”

Patrick might’ve blushed a little, but before he could convince him that it was a grimace, not a smirk, the guy flashed him another perfect smile. “See you tomorrow,” he said before flipping on the radio full blast and cruising off.

Patrick shook his head and turned to his coworker, some scruffy dude named Joe who listened to his iPod and played air guitar when he thought no one was looking.

“What’s that dude’s deal?” he asked. “Does he get off on giving service staff ulcers?”

Joe looked up from the fryer and pulled out an earphone. “Who, that guy? Name’s Pete. He’s a friend of a friend. Used to come around and bother the shit out of me. Guess he’s busy now, he’s never around.”

“Really?” Patrick said. “Seems like he’s here every day. Bothers the shit out of me now.”

Joe’s expression brightened. “Oh, he likes you, he probably just comes around during your shifts.”

Patrick yelped. “What?”

“Granted, I think Pete likes everybody,” Joe mused. “But he must have particular fun messing with you, which means you’re his favorite.”

“Whatever,” Patrick muttered, turning back to the intercom/register and trying to get Pete’s crumpled ones to stay in the damn drawer. A little voice in his head asked him if it’d be so bad to have Pete as a suitor; he answered it with yes, yes it fucking would be, because Pete is fucking bananas. What would make him think Patrick was worthwhile, anyway? He could practically hear him now— “Oh, yeah, the way you wore your headset was sooo sexy, you had me at ‘May I take your order’.” What the fuck did Pete see in the guy who handed him his Big Mac?

Out of curiosity, he asked Joe as they closed for the night.

“You’re the resident Pete expert,” Patrick wheedled. “What do you think?”

Joe thought for a few moments. Presently, he replied, “Maybe he just likes your voice.”