Lish McBride - Hold Me Closer, Necromancer

I stood in front of todays schedule still holding my skateboard, still drenched from the ride over, and still desperately wishing that I hadnt dropped out of college. But wishing wouldnt erase Sam from the counter slot and rewrite it under the grill slot. No matter what, my job kind of sucks, but on the grill it sucks less. On the grill, you dont have to handle customers. Something about the fast food uniform makes people think its okay to treat you like crap. Personally, Im always polite to anyone who handles my food. There are lots of horrible things that can be done to your meal before it gets to your plate.

Maybe I could switch? No, the schedule told me Ramon worked grill today. Nothing short of fifty bucks and a twelve-pack would have made him switch, and I didnt have either of those. I groaned and leaned my head against the wall.

Someone walked in after me and slapped me on the shoulder. Shouldve stayed in school, he said.

I recognized Ramons voice without opening my eyes. Not surprising, since Id known Ramon since sixth grade. I wasnt shocked by his lack of sympathy, either.

You didnt drop out, and yet youre still here, I said, rolling my head to the side to look at him.

What, and leave my man Sammy all alone? What kind of friend would that make me?

A smart one.

He laughed and tossed his black hoodie on the coat hooks, trading the sweatshirt for an apron. I did the same, but with much less enthusiasm.

Ramon was the only person who called me Sammy. Everyone else called me Sam, even my mom, except when she was pissed and did the full-name thing.

I signed on to my register slowly, glad that nobody stood at the counter waiting to be helped. While the manager, Kevin, counted and checked my till, I stared at the pictogram of a burger nestled between similar representations of shakes, sodas, and fries on the front of my register. I wondered why humankind seemed so dead set on destroying all of its accomplishments. We draw on cave walls, spend thousands of years developing complex language systems, the printing press, computers, and what do we do with it? Create a cash register with the picture of a burger on it, just in case the cashier didnt finish the second grade. One step forward, two steps backlike an evolutionary cha-cha. Working here just proved that the only things separating me from a monkey was pants. And no prehensile tail, which I wish I had. Oh, the applications.

My name is Samhain Corvus LaCroix, and I am a fry cook. I tried to take some pride where I could. If I was going to be a dropout loser, then I was going to be the best dropout loser. That pride came with some complications because it always depressed me to spot anyone, short of a manager, working fast food over the age of eighteen. I didnt look in any mirrors until I got home and out of my uniform. It was better that way.

There you go, Sam. Kevin shut my till and wandered off. We had a bet going to try and guess what it was he did in his office. Frank was pretty sure he was into some sort of online role-playing game, Ramon thought he was planning to take over the yakuza, and Brooke was convinced that he had a crippling addiction to romance novels. These all sounded plausible, except for Ramons, though he insisted he had proof, but I didnt think Kevin could be that interesting. He probably just slept. Kevin also had the misfortune of sharing his name with my biological dad, so Ramon referred to our manager as the Lesser of Two Kevins. I slapped on my name tag and settled in.

I had my mom to thank for my name. My dad took his sweet time showing up to my birth, and in an uncharacteristic moment of spite, she named me Samhain just to tick him off. Apparently my dad wanted to name me Richard or Steve or something. But Mom got there first, and since I happened to be born on the happy pagan holiday of Samhain, well, there you go. Im just lucky I wasnt born on Presidents Day. She might have named me Abraham Lincoln, and there is no way I could pull off a stovepipe hat.

To retaliate, my dad started calling me Sam, since he said Sowin which is how Samhain is pronouncedsounded funny.

Their divorce surprised no one.

The Plumpys crowd was in a lull, so I watched Frank, the other counter jockey, triple-check his condiments, napkins, and the rest of his fast food accoutrements. Frank was younger than me, and so he still had a little enthusiasm for his work. Brooke, Ramon, and I had all started a pool on how long it would take for this place to suck the life out of him. If he cracked next week, I got ten bucks. Brooke had this week, and she was doing her best to get Frank to break early.

Brooke left her station at the drive-thru window and sauntered over to the milkshake machine. I wasnt much older than Brooke, but she was young enough and tiny enough that Ramon and I both spent more time protecting her than ogling her. Not that we couldnt do both, really. I just felt a little dirty after. But I couldnt help my programming, and Brooke looked like a cheerleader in a dairy commercial: bouncy blond ponytail, clear blue eyes, and a wholesome smile that could turn any guy into man-putty. Frank didnt stand a chance because, although she tended to be a sweet girl, she could be devious when she wanted something. I probably wouldnt get my ten dollars.

Brooke finished pouring a large strawberry shake, snapped the lid on, and turned to look at Frank while she took a long sip from the straw. He ogled. I watched as she slid her hand over and flipped the machines off switch. Frank manned register one and was responsible for the milkshake machine. He missed the tiny movement, his eyes intent on her lips as they wrapped around the straw. She sauntered back to her station, and I wondered how long it would be until Frank noticed the machine was no longer chugging behind him. If she kept on the offensive, Brooke would have him in tears before the weekend.

After about two hours, a dozen surly customers, and a minor shake machine malfunction, I decided to take a quick break. Frank could mop up shake mix and man the counter. Sure, the mess might make him crack early, but if I helped him, hed never learn. And really, wasnt learning more important? I saluted him and hopped over the mess, stepping out back with Ramon. On the way, I grabbed my broom and the doorstop so we could leave the back door open in case someone needed to shout for us.

Ramon had quit smoking a year ago, but he never let that get in the way of a good smoke break. I had never smoked in the first place, but that didnt keep me from taking one, either. And since the rain had finally vamoosed, nothing stood between us and a decent game of potato hockey.

It is a relatively straightforward game. You get a medium-sized potato and two brooms, designate the goal areas, and youre ready to go. Today Ramon defended the garbage bin by Plumpys back door, and I defended a shiny silver Mercedes because, according to Ramon, it represented the privileged white aristocracy of America trying to keep the Latino man down.

Our duel, Ramon said, spinning his broom like a bo staff, will represent the struggle our nations currently engaged in.

Please, we both know youre just going for home team advantage.

You wound me, Sam. I cant help it if your crackerlike oppression gives me the better playing field. He did a quick hamstring stretch. Suck it up.