Breakfast Sandwich

content warning: verbal abuse

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Wednesday

“I’m starving. How much longer until this bus?” the man behind me says to no one in particular.

There are eight of us at the bus stop, waiting (mostly) patiently in a morning that weighs grey and languid on our shoulders. It’s one of those summer mornings when you can feel the day’s incoming swelter and humidity, and you can already imagine your clothes sticking to you. Some people at the bus stop are in tees and shorts, others in rain jackets, tapping away on their phones in a trance.

We eight don’t know each other. Every weekday morning, we stand here (mostly) silently, maybe nodding politely if eye contact is made. It’s odd. You’d think spending five to twenty minutes with someone every day would make you closer over time. I’d like that. But that’s not the social norm. And for me, it would make things… complicated. Besides our shared bus route, we don’t know anything about each other’s lives, not even each other’s names. Actually, that’s a lie. I know a lot about the starving man behind me.

But he doesn’t know that.

“Why don’t you try their breakfast sandwich,” I turn and suggest to Kenny, jabbing a thumb toward Tango’s coffee shop in the line of buildings along the sidewalk. I draw out breakfast sandwich so it dangles in the haze. “It’s really good.” That’s not a lie. I currently rent an apartment above the shop and pop down several times a week to sit and people watch. Sometimes I ask for the sandwich on crispy hashbrowns instead of an English muffin. The oil from the fried potato patties leaks in between the egg, sausage, and Monterey Jack. Delicious.

“Hey, buddy, I don’t need your help. I just need this fricking bus to show up.”

I shrug and turn back to watch the sedans and work vans as they wait for a green light. I’ve been making contact with Kenny over the past month. Not every day, of course. That would raise suspicion. But a small smile here and there, a nod, a “good morning”, asking him to hold an empty box while I pretend to tie my shoelaces. Building a relationship with a stranger without them noticing is difficult, despite my years of practice. Someone like Kenny makes it unbearable. I’m taking it one baby step at a time, careful not to overdo it or let him catch on.

A woman to my left is the first to spot the bus approaching. Tension releases at the bus stop, dissipating slowly into the thick air, as the eight of us sigh collectively. No more awkwardly standing around together. Now we get to spread out around the bus and dissociate until our stops, each bus seat an individual world that doesn’t collide with any others.

I sit in an open seat closest to the back door. Kenny heads straight to the back of the bus, plops down in the back row, and puts his pristine, all-red Jordans up on a facing seat. I roll my eyes. An older woman scoffs at his brazen rudeness, but she just sits down in the empty spot beside his feet, holding her nose. Kenny’s weekday routine consists of heading to the shopping centre fifteen minutes down the road, where he and his posse camp out tech stores and the warehouse club to buy up as many hot products as they can—sneakers, trading cards, hard drives—and sell them online at exorbitant prices. Not as lucrative as it might sound.

I’m just headed to the bank.

The bank teller, a young guy with glasses and a curly mop of hair, works every Wednesday. I’ve been embedding myself in his head, too, over the last few weeks. He thinks I withdraw one thousand dollars in cash once a week to better stick to a budget. That might be partially true, but the primary purpose is to get him into a routine. People in routines use muscle memory. People in routines perform actions subconsciously. People in routines are easier for me to manipulate.

“Hello.” The teller nods at me when I’m at the front of the queue. I approach the desk. “The usual?” he asks, his eyes bright and friendly, ready to be persuaded.

“You know it,” I smile back.

He enters the transaction into his computer: a withdrawal of one followed by three zeroes. He steps away to collect the cash and comes back with a vacant stare and a wad of crisp hundred-dollar bills. He counts them out loud in front of me, placing them on the counter one at a time. One, two, three… Ten. That’s one thousand, but he keeps going. Twenty… Fifty… One hundred. One hundred one-hundred-dollar bills. Ten thousand dollars should be enough. Ten times the usual withdrawal, and this kid will never realize what happened. Perfect. I’ve still got it.

The teller stuffs the bills into an envelope and hands it to me. I’m not sure what will happen to him once the branch manager finds nine thousand dollars missing from the vault. Guilt rises like acid from my stomach, but I swallow it back down. Don’t worry, kid. Mistakes happen. Maybe I can help you, too, one day.

“Thanks. Have a great day,” I say and step back into the haze.

***

Thursday

I’m the last one at the bus stop this morning. I don’t have a particular goal or place to go today—I just need to keep everyone in their routines. And their routines include me, however tangentially. The others notice my arrival in their peripheral vision, not looking up from their books and phones. But a calm washes over the group. It’s always unsettling when one of the eight is missing. You start to wonder: Are they sick? Should we hold up the bus to wait for them? Are we down to seven? I worry for my fellow waiters because I’ll be moving out of this apartment soon. I’ll disappear from this particular part of their realities, onto the next adventure. But they’ll be okay eventually. Change happens. Routines can readjust.

Kenny is leaning against the brick wall, eating… a breakfast sandwich? Wrapped in white deli paper dotted with little orange Ts. And is that…? Yes. The unmistakable smell of greasy fried potatoes wafts over to me. He even got the sandwich on hashbrowns. I guess it worked better than I thought. Kenny briefly turns in my direction, and I dodge eye contact. I don’t nod. I don’t mock him for picking up on the suggestion I let linger yesterday. It needs to remain in his subconscious. I can’t help but wiggle my toes inside my sneakers in celebration. Kenny is ready to be mind controlled.

“Hey, doofus!”

Seven of us turn to Kenny to see who his latest victim is. His cold blue eyes are staring dead at me. I shouldn’t engage today. Too much interaction can impair my access. I raise my eyebrows.

“That’s a stupid necklace. It suits you.”

Instinctively, I reach up to my pendant: a brushed gold snake that winds around in a spiral labyrinth. Inherited from my great-grandfather, who was considered an avant-garde hypnotist. I wear it most of the time. The spiral pendulum is a useful backup in case I need quick access to someone’s mind. The old-school methods of hypnosis can still come in handy. I continue to ignore Kenny until the bus shows up.

I spend the morning at the park. It’s much cooler this morning, so lots of people are out enjoying the temporary relief. Elderly couples stroll through the park holding hands, parents push strollers while singing to their babies, a group of high schoolers play poker on a picnic blanket. Their laughter carries across the park to where I sit, alone on a wooden bench. A yellow Frisbee lands with a whoosh on the grass at my feet, closely followed by a border collie, who grunts as he scoops the disc up into his mouth. He looks up at me, Frisbee hanging off his teeth, and offers it to me. I pat his head as his owner calls him, and he takes off.

Surrounded by the bonds of others, I’m left empty. My heart echoes loudly in my chest. My ability to control minds gets in the way of having any sort of real relationships. Basically, the moment a bit of trust forms, a gateway opens to the other person’s thoughts, emotions, and memories. Sometimes I get access when a person just recognizes me—it depends on their personality and if they have any walls up. And once I have access, I can manipulate their mind however I need. It’s impossible to build any natural connection when I know everything about someone almost immediately. How am I supposed to ignore that? Once you know someone’s secrets, you can’t forget them. And there’s a slippery slope between controlling minds and becoming a supervillain, so I try not to use it selfishly. It’s an ability—not a power. It’s certainly lonely, though. Maybe I should get a dog.

I take a pen and a small journal out of my back pocket, flip to a fresh page, and write in all caps: YOU DESERVE BETTER. I rip the page out carefully, fold it in half, and tuck it away.

***

Friday

They’re late. I try to focus on my breathing, slow it down. But this has to happen today. I can’t stretch Kenny’s hypnosis over another week. I check my watch: three minutes until the bus’s scheduled arrival. Hopefully it’s running behind.

On Fridays, there are nine of us at the bus stop.

“Kenny, slow down!”

Kenny comes stomping around the corner, followed by a woman pleading for him to wait. Her high heels don’t fit quite right and are evidently cutting into her toes as she stumbles down the sidewalk, trying to clip her hair up with one hand and pulling a trolley in the other. Phew. They’re here.

“We almost didn’t make it because of you!” Kenny screams at his fiancée.

“You didn’t even let me finish my hair,” she says quietly. “We can catch the next bus.”

“No, we can’t! We need to be there at opening to score product. Wake up earlier. Our livelihood depends on it. I can’t believe you.”

“You know I’m trying to find a job.”

“Oh, really? Who would hire you? I’m not getting you a ring at this rate.”

His taunt is met with muffled sniffles.

On Fridays, when there are nine of us at the bus stop, seven of us pretend to ignore the yelling. As a matter of fact, today’s display is pretty tame. But if Kenny treats Rose like this in public, what are things like at home?

“Hey,” I call to Kenny. Other waiting passengers side-eye me, probably hoping I’ll land a fist in Kenny’s nose. Not quite. “How was the breakfast sandwich yesterday?” Hypnotic trigger phrase activated.

“Kick rocks, loser.” He glares at me, but his visage slips into a blank look.

I feel a rush of air, like someone opened a door too quickly. The junk heap of Kenny’s memories threatens to drown me, but I coast through, looking for a few specific items. I make some tweaks, get out, and slam the door behind me.

Kenny’s consciousness snaps back, and his eyes dart warily between all of us.

“Don’t be mean, Kenny.” Rose tugs on his arm.

He suddenly jerks his arm away from her with a look of disgust. “Do I know you?”

She stares in disbelief, then laughs. “What are you talking about?”

“Who are you? Don’t touch me.”

Rose is about to burst into tears. She doesn’t know I’ve erased his memories of her. She likely thinks this is Kenny’s callous way of dumping her. I pull her aside and hand her an envelope. She opens it, unfolds the small leaf of paper with a rip down the side, reads it, then peeks inside the envelope to find a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills. Tears well along her bottom eyelids, and she whispers, “Thank you.” She strides down the street as the bus approaches, never to see Kenny again.

Kenny boards the bus, but I hang back on the sidewalk. My bus-stop friends—okay, they’re still strangers—watch me, confused, as they follow Kenny. I nod to them as if to say, “It’s okay. I’ll miss you.” I wait for the bus to depart, then head into Tango’s one last time before moving on to my next assignment.

As I bite into my breakfast, I can’t help but chuckle. While in Kenny's mind, I made sure that he would currently be on his phone, updating his product page to show that all of the scalped items, once double or triple retail price, are now free.

And the nine of us truly are strangers once more.