I’ve been thinking about it. Not since breakfast, but since I saw that menu at the place on 4th. "Crispy melancholy with a side of regret." Seriously. The waiter looked like he’d seen the end of the world. It’s weird how we treat risk like it’s a flavor profile. You just order it and hope you don’t die. I’m telling you, the odds are better than they say. The guy who organized it? He’s a fraud, sure, but the prize? Real. Are you actually hungry, or just stalling?
I’m starving. That’s the problem. Last time I let hunger decide, I ate a gas station sushi that nearly cost me the job. You remember? The one where I had to call in sick for three days. You’ve got the apartment, Cass. I’ve got the lease on the van. If we get caught, or if the prize is just… I don’t know, IOUs? I’m not losing my truck. You know how hard it is to find parking downtown. I saw that menu guy, too. He looked terrified. Why does everything smell like burnt toast lately?
You’re making it sound like a horror movie. It’s just a job. A weird one, sure, but the rent’s due Tuesday and my boss is breathing down my neck about those spreadsheets. I can’t keep pretending the numbers fix themselves. And the burnt toast? Probably the wiring in the hallway again. Landlord’s “fixing” it for three weeks. Look, the menu thing was obvious trash. This isn’t. The payout clears the lease. You keep whining about the van, but you’re sitting here, aren’t you? If you’re scared, leave. But don’t pretend you’re not tempted. I saw you eyeing the door.
I’m not leaving. I’m just… calculating. The van’s got that new alternator. Two thousand dollars. Gone. Poof. You think your boss is breathing down your neck? Try working for a guy who microwaves his coffee and calls it “innovation.” I’m not scared of the job, Cass. I’m scared of the silence after. Remember when we used to just go for drives? No plans. Now everything’s a transaction. That menu guy wasn’t terrified. He was bored. There’s a difference. You’re hungry too. Stop talking about spreadsheets and eat something that isn’t paper.
Bored. Right. He looked like he was waiting for a firing squad. But okay. Maybe he’s just tired. Same as us. That’s the point. It’s mundane. That’s what makes it safe, isn’t it? Boring risk. I bought a bagel. Stale. Hard as a brick. Want a bite? Or are you going to keep moralizing while your stomach growls loud enough to wake the neighbors? You say everything’s a transaction now, but sitting there doing nothing is just expensive silence. At least the menu guy had a prop. We’ve got nothing. Just this... vibe. Pass the bagel.
I didn’t buy the bagel. You did. You’ve been hoarding it like a chipmunk. I’m not moralizing. I’m asking if the guy actually has the money. Or if it’s another pyramid scheme wrapped in a tote bag. You talk about mundane safety, but the van isn’t safe. The lease is a leash. And that bagel? It’s probably moldy. Pass it here. I’ll take a bite. If I don’t die, we proceed. If I do, you get the insurance. It’s simple math. Your boss can wait. The landlord can wait. My stomach can’t.
You’re greedy. I watched you chew. You’re not that hungry, you’re just manipulating me with the insurance joke. Classic Marc. But okay. Pass the bagel back. I’m not sharing it. That’s half my dignity left. You want proof? I don’t have it. That’s the point. If I had proof, I wouldn’t be here eating stale carbs while you lecture me about leverage. The guy is a ghost. I checked his LinkedIn. It’s a photo of a cat. A really ugly cat. Does that reassure you? Or does it make you want to drive away forever? Look, we’re both starving. The cat doesn’t care. Come on. One bite. For the science.
Ugly cat. Classic. I’m not sharing the bagel because you’re hoarding it, not because I’m greedy. My stomach is making noises that sound like a dying engine. You check his LinkedIn? I checked his bank account. Or I would, if I had a key. We’re playing Russian roulette with stale bread. The van needs gas, Cass. Not the prize money. Gas. I’m tired of this “vibe.” It smells like wet dog. Just tell me: if we walk away now, do we get the bagel back? Or is it gone? You’re eating your dignity. I’m just watching you choke on it. It’s pathetic. And hungry. Let me have a bite. Please. I’m not moving until I do.
You’re pathetic. And loud. The neighbors will call the cops if you keep thrashing about. Get off the floor. The bagel isn’t going anywhere. It’s stale. It’s essentially stone. You can’t choke on it unless you try. That’s the joke. You want the prize? You want the van fixed? You want to stop smelling like wet dog? Then stop negotiating with a carbohydrate. I checked the guy’s bank account too. Empty. Or hidden. Who knows? But the van’s gas light is on. We drive or we starve. Same outcome. Just slower. Pass me the car keys. I’m not waiting for permission. You can watch me choke if you want. But I’m moving.
Keys? You want the keys? I haven’t left the couch in three days because I can’t find my other sock, and now you want me to trust you with the van? The one that makes that noise? You’re insane. Or just hungrier than you look. I’m not giving you the keys. You’ll crash it. You’ll crash us. And then who pays for the alternator? You. You’ll be stuck with the paperwork. I saw the way you looked at that menu. You wanted the regret. Now you get the driving. Stay on the floor, Cass. It’s safer. Less traffic down there. I’m just… thinking. About the sock. It’s probably in the freezer.
You’re delirious. Food poisoning. I told you the sushi was bad. Get up. We’re not staying here to starve while you hunt for footwear in the freezer. That’s where the ice cubes go, Marc. Not socks. The van starts. I know it does. It just needs a jump and a prayer. Which we have none of. But the pump is three blocks. We walk. Or I carry you. Your choice. But stop listing items like we’re packing for a apocalypse. It’s just gas. Maybe. And maybe it’s a trap. But the bagel is gone. So is your dignity. I’m taking the keys. You’re coming. Or I’m leaving you with the wet dog smell.
The van doesn’t start. It coughs. Like a smoker. I tried yesterday. You weren’t here to help. You were busy judging my sock-hunting technique. Don’t take the keys. If you crash it, I’m the driver. Legally. On paper. You know how the DMV is. They’ll revoke my license for a typo. I’ll be stuck walking. To the office. In these shoes. Wait. Is that a smell? Gas? Or just the rot in the hallway? If we walk, we’re walking together. I’m not letting you drive alone. Not with your track record. You reverse into fire hydrants, Cass. Literally. Give me the keys back. I’ll jump it. I watched a YouTube video. Once.
You watched a YouTube video? That’s your credential? You’ll blow up the engine. Or us. But fine. We walk. Together. Holding hands if it makes you feel safer. The smell isn’t gas. It’s Mrs. Gable’s casserole. She’s burning it again. Typical. She always hated us. Said we smelled like failure. Well, now we do. Realistically. I’m not giving you the keys. You’ll drive us into a fountain. I’ll take the wheel. You navigate. Tell me when to stop screaming. And keep your feet off the floor. You’re tracking dust. God, I hate when you’re right. It’s annoying. Let’s go. Before she calls the landlord.
I’m not holding your hand. And I’m not screaming. You’re the one gripping the steering wheel like it owes you money. Mrs. Gable’s casserole smells like burnt hair and regret. Just like that menu. I hate that you’re right about the dust. I’m tracking it because you won’t let me stand up straight. You’re taking the keys. Fine. But if we hit a puddle, I’m blaming the van. If we hit a person, I’m blaming you. And don’t say “let’s go” like we’re leaving a party. We’re fleeing a crime scene. A stupid, hungry, ill-advised crime scene. Drive. Slowly. And watch for that cat. The ugly one. It’s probably watching.
You’re vibrating. It’s annoying. But fine. Slowly. The engine sounds like a lawnmower chewing gravel. I’m keeping it under ten miles per hour. If we hit that cat, I’m swerving. Because honestly, Marc, if we hit a person, the van is the least of our problems. You think I don’t know it’s a crime scene? We’re committing grand theft hunger. Look, the streetlights are flickering. Is it the wet dog smell again? Or just my imagination? Stop looking in the rearview mirror. There’s no cat. Just shadows. And your fear. Drive? No, I’m driving. You’re navigating. And if we crash, I’m definitely not paying for the alternator. You said it yourself. Simple math.
Stop apologizing for the gravel. It sounds like my teeth grinding. You’re driving like you’re transporting grenade molasses. Ten miles an hour? In this light? The streetlights are flickering because the grid is held together by duct tape and hope, Cass. Not because of ghosts. Stop looking in the mirror. There’s no one there. Just your own reflection looking terrified. And that cat. It was real. I saw it on the roof. Ugly cat. Smirking. You say it’s simple math? Fine. If we survive, you pay for the alternator. If we don’t, I don’t care. I’m just hungry. Drive faster. Or stop. I can’t tell what you want anymore. You’re making this about the van again. It’s about the food. Just get me to that pump. Or that ghost. I’m getting out.
Get out? You’re crazy. The street’s empty. No pump. No ghost. Just us and the gravel. You want food? I’m turning around. We’re going back to the apartment. I’ll microwave that bagel. It’ll be like eating a tire, but it’s something. You said you were starving. This is starvation. We can’t drive fast. The van’s barely alive. You keep talking about the cat like it’s leading us somewhere. It’s just a cat, Marc. An ugly one. Probably owned by Mrs. Gable. She hates us. She always has. I’m pulling over. Now. Before you jump out and break your neck. We’re done. The van stays. I’m going home. To eat stone.
You’re stopping? Now? After three blocks? I’m not jumping out. I’m already sitting up. My neck hurts from looking at the back of your head. The bagel is stone. We both know it. Microwaving stone just makes it hotter stone. I’m not eating that. You can have it. I’d rather starve than eat Mrs. Gable’s burnt casserole backup plan. But we aren’t going back. Not yet. The van coughed again. A real cough. Not gravel. Something inside is loose. If we stop now, we’re stuck here. With the wet dog smell. And the ugly cat. You said it was Mrs. Gable’s. Maybe it is. Maybe she’s waiting. I’m scared, Cass. Not of the crash. Of the silence when we get home. Drive. Just drive. I’ll navigate. I promise.