Sometimes Max would be in the flow. He pick up burgers with ease. Fill orders quickly, and Linda would be smiling. When he was like this Max would be humming to himself, sometimes he would mouth the words to the songs. Sometimes it would just be a melody. He tried for a long time to try to figure out this feeling, was it two sips of a RockStar and one hit on the one-hitter? Or Two hits on the one hitter, and one sip of the RockStar. But after a year of this, he just settled that it comes and goes, music helps, but sometimes it can be distracting. He notices himself moving into it when someone rings the bell and he doesn't mind. He's happy.
On days like this time didn't matter. At the end of the shift he's still singing, and he feels at peace.
Other days the clock moves slower than all get out, and he's gone through every combination of one-hitter and RockStar and he's too high or too stoned to do anything.
Cleaning when he closes though, there's something about that. The hot water on his hands, the smell of fake lemons. That always brings him back down to
earth
. Scrubbing, the before and after from grime to shine his old manager would say. Taking it all in. Something to be proud of he thought.
