A year later Kafka died

Moira put on her apron, signed in to her register, and prepared for the least busy day of the year. Her heart thrilled because she was finally old enough to participate in this most sacred of secular events. A moment later the doors opened and the customers started trickling in. The first one up at her counter was an old man in a parka, perpetually rubbing his hands.

“Welcome to McDemocracy’s. Can I take your order?” Moira asked, beaming at him.

“Yes, hello,” he said with an earnest grin. “I’m really hankering something, but I’m not sure what.”

“Do you have any preferences? Hatred perhaps, or fear? Those are two of our best sellers.”

“Oh, fear sounds nice.” He sniffed. “That reminds me, you guys used to have this thing, a long time ago, but I haven’t seen it on the menu for a while.”

“Sometimes the favourites come back,” Moira said. She dug out the seniors menu and handed it to him. “Perhaps you’ll find it here?”

He scanned the menu, running his finger along it and mumbling as he went. Then his face lit up. “Oh! There it is!” He looked at her with such unbridled joy, like he had just discovered presents under the tree – it made her morning. She was making a difference in people’s lives.

“The spectre of communism,” he said reverently.

“Very good, sir,” Moira said grinning. “Your candidate is Tom Thompson.”

“Yes, he sounds good. Is he popular?”

“Not at all, sir. He’s largely seen as out of touch.”

“Perfect!”

It was perhaps an odd choice, perhaps not her choice, but it was a voter’s choice and that’s what made it count. The next customers in line were a youngish couple, somewhere in their thirties. They walked to the counter joined at the elbow.

“Welcome! Can I take your order?”

The couple smiled at each other, their eyebrows flickering with excitement.

“We’re feeling vaguely uneasy about the future. And there’s this budding sense of, like, guilt I guess,” said the man.

“Yes,” said the woman, “and we’d like to double down on those.”

“So more unease and more guilt?” asked Moira.

The couple looked at each other again, first in shock and then in giggle.

“Oh no,” said the man, “more unease but less guilt.”

“Of course, sir,” Moira said. “And what kind of guilt is it? Is it white guilt?”

The couple tittered and shook their heads.

“Oh, goodness, no,” said the woman. “We’re over it. No, we mean like, guilty about the environment. We’re trying for a baby, and, well, you know. We want there to be a planet for our kids.”

“Right,” said the man. “But we also like our trucks, so you see our problem.”

The manager at yesterday’s meeting had gone over just this scenario, so Moira knew exactly what to do. “I think you might find something here.” She reached under the counter and handed them the salad menu.

“Oh, these are nice,” said the man, just as the woman said, “Ooh, look at that one. That one would make me feel good, like I was actually doing something.”

“Right,” said the man. “But we wouldn’t actually have to do anything. Looks like a winner to me, honey. What do you think?”

The woman showed the menu to Moira. “I just have one more question. I see a lot of promises here, but I’m on a diet.”

“Not to worry, ma’am,” Moira said. “They’re all empty.”

“Perfect!” they said in unison. “Looks like John Johnson is our candidate.”

Moira preferred some meat on her promises, but she didn’t begrudge the couple their choice. The next customer was a big middle-aged guy in a greasy green sweatshirt, who grimaced and kept rubbing his belly.

“Hello! Can I take your order–”

“–Yeah, hi,” he interrupted. Then he winced and hissed through his teeth. “Listen, the crap you guys have here keeps giving me gas.”

“I’m sorry to hear–”

“–It all tastes like crap. The bathrooms are filthy, and they smell like – well, they smell like crap, too. There’s garbage everywhere, people keep stealing my stuff, and everything’s way too expensive. And the chairs aren’t comfortable, and they’re all falling apart anyway. Everything is falling apart. It’s like each year I’m paying more and things just get worse.”

Moira waited a solid three-count to make sure he was done, before responding. “I’m so sorry to hear that, sir. It sounds like you’ve had a bad run.”

“You betcha.”

“I’m sure we can sort this out. What kind of candidates have you typically been voting for, sir?”

“Oh, Ron Ronson, all the way,” he said. He patted his heart. “I’m a Ron man, just like my dad.”

“Ron, every time?”

“Yup. Six elections and counting.”

“And things keep getting worse?”

“Yup.”

Moira bit her lip. “Have you tried not voting for Ron Ronson?”

He frowned and scratched his belly. “What do you mean?”

Moira sighed. “How about this, sir. What are you really looking for in a candidate?”

“I want stability! I don’t want things to keep sliding away. I want to feel safe.” He rubbed his belly and looked pensively at the ceiling. “I want somebody to hold me, and tell me it’ll be all right.”

“Well–”

“I got it!” he shouted. “I’ll vote for Ron Ronson!”

“Sir, but – why!?”

“He’s the stable choice. And I’ve voted for him before, so he’s got to be doing something right. Thanks kid!”

Moira gave her head a quick shake and took a deep breath. She didn’t need to understand their choices, just accept them, after all. She shook off the last of her confusion in preparation for the next customer. And her heart sank.

A guy with a briefcase in one hand and a bundle of papers under the other arm approached. He set his case down on the counter and his papers spilled all over the place.

“Hello, sir. Can I take your order?”

“I have a lot of questions,” he said. “You see, I’ve been doing a lot of research.”

The line behind the man groaned, and Moira looked pleading into the air. Her manager said there was always at least one crank every year. Just part of the job.

“Certainly, sir. What are your questions?”

“I want to know what the candidates mean with their road policies.”

Moira glanced at the clock, ticking away glacially, her lunch so impossibly out of reach.

The man continued. “Tom Thompson says he wants to expand our road network and reduce congestion. But John Johnson says he wants to extend our road system and minimize traffic issues. Then Ron Ronson wants to expand the road network but also minimize traffic issues, which sounds like the best of both worlds, but then there’s Don Donson who wants to exacerbate our road infrastructure and mitigate vehicular delays, which I understand worked very well for France. But then even Sam Samson has a great idea by looking at the problem from a different angle, where he wants to downsize jams and upsize municipal en-roadening. And Ben Benson, well, he says it doesn’t make sense to spend money on new roads if we can’t even afford to fix the old ones, but that doesn’t make any sense to me. And Jen Jenson is even worse, not wanting to spend on new or old roads.”

Moira felt her pulse begin pounding at her temples. Were roads this important? She hadn’t even considered it before, but this guy came armed for war, and the other customers were starting to grumble. On the other hand, maybe a customer who was interested in the details was a good thing.

He pulled out a bunch of pie charts and pointed to them. “I’ve done extensive analyses, but there are discrepancies, and we’re going to comb through the data until we resolve them.”

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly. She looked at the pie charts with dread, but then suddenly an idea occurred to her – something her manager had brought up in their morning meeting.

“Say, sir, you seem really passionate about the condition of our roads.”

“Oh, yes indeed. More than anything else.”

Moira smiled. “Would you say… it’s the single issue you’re interested in?”

“Hmm,” said the man, gripping his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “Why, yes, I suppose I would. I want to feel like I really put the effort in. You know, be real passionate about at least the one thing.”

Moira rang the single-issue voter bell, grinning wide, and the whole line of customers cheered. “I have just the thing for you!”

She handed him the dessert menu, and his eyes almost immediately lit up.

“Yes, I see now! Sam Samson it must be! Thank you!”

It felt good to see the line moving again, as everyone deserved a turn. But still, she felt a pang of disappointment. What if he had been interested in more than just the one issue? What if he had been truly informed? Maybe she could have learned something from him.

The next guy rushed up to the counter and snapped her out of it. He had a five o’clock shadow and his eyes darted manically.

“Hello–”

“Tax cuts!” he said. “Just give me the tax cuts!”

“Um, okay sir. Are you a property owner?”

“No.”

“Do you own a business?”

“No.”

Moira pursed her lips. “Are you employed?”

“No.”

“Do you have children?”

“No.”

Moira drummed her fingers on the counter.

“Do you shop?”

“No.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Don’t have any money because of all the taxes – which, no, I don’t pay. Come on, there’s got to be something! I’m tired of everyone stealing from me.”

“Well, maybe,” Moira said. She reached for the cheese menu, but then grabbed the wine menu and he snatched it from her. His eyes skittered over the page and then stopped dead.

“Whoa whoa whoa,” he said, woodpeckering the menu with his finger. “What’s this?”

“That? It’s a tax rebate. Some candidates promise to return tax money if they get elected.”

“Oh, jackpot,” he said breathlessly. “Jen Jenson, you just got a vote. Thanks!”

Moira shrugged. The customer was always right, after all, though she wondered where the money would come from. The next person up at the counter was a woman not much older than she was. She was tall and squinted up at the panels behind Moira.

“Hello! Can I take your order?”

“Yeah,” she said, drawing it out. “I’ll have the Big Mac meal, with a Coke and an extra order of large fries on the side.”

“Oh, sorry, ma’am, we don’t sell that here. You’re looking for the restaurant just a block down the street.”

“Oh, cool. Thanks, dude.”

And so the day went for Moira, with a long, slow trickle of citizens doing their civic duty, more or less, and the occasional person looking to get their parking validated. By the time her shift ended at eleven PM she was thrilled to see Nina take her place, because she was utterly worn out. She hung up her apron with a limp arm and shuffled for the door.

And that’s when Ricky entered, holding a big soda cup. While her dress-code was casual-plus-apron, the people who worked at the Burger Autocrat across the street all wore crisp uniforms, polished jackboots, and of course an assortment of armbands.

“Heil, fellow wage slave,” he said.

“Hiya, Ricky.” He looked much too relaxed for a work day, and the constant sips from his straw grated on her, as management didn’t allow staff to drink on shift. She stifled a yawn. “Come to gloat?”

“I’m just saying,” he said, “elections are a lot easier when you decide the outcome first, and then do the busy work. It really is a better system.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know.” Then she closed her eyes and rolled her sore neck, and flexed her aching muscles, and for a moment was lost in the simple pleasure of a good stretch. When she opened her eyes, she saw the Burger Autocrat across the street was on fire.

“Ricky, your job is burning.”

“Hmm?” He turned, took a sip. “Ah, well. When it’s good, it’s really good. But people get really into it. And then when it’s bad…”

“They burn the house down.”

“Yeah. Oh well.” He turned back to her. “That’s a tomorrow problem. Say, you want to catch a bite?”

“Sure, why not,” Moira said.

“Did you vote?”

For just a moment her eyes widened. She looked back to the counter, where Nina was already swamped with the undulating customer line, and her shoulders fell. “Nah,” she said. “Too tired. Can’t even think straight to reason out a candidate.”

“Well, who do you feel like voting for?”

“Food.”

“Fair enough,” said Ricky.

He tossed his cup in the trash and helped her put her coat on, and then they left together, hand in hand.