You Should Just Tell Someone

“Hey! Welcome to Rinky Dinks! Are you having a fantastic day?”

The girl behind the counter reciting this ridiculous chant with the same enthusiasm over-and-over again seems nice enough. She has soft brown hair, pulled into a messy braid that hangs over her shoulder. Her hazel eyes catch the sun through the window, and the flecks of green and gold illuminate the whites of her eyes against the stark contrast of her iris. The freckles on her cheeks, scattered with no rhyme or reason, serve only to compound her innocence. She can’t be older than sixteen or seventeen. Her bottom teeth are crooked, but it’s easily hidden beneath the widest smile I’ve ever seen. She’s genuine. Untouched by the worries of life outside the register where she works. She could tell me the fucking sky was purple, and I’d probably hesitate to correct her.

But asking me if I’m having a fantastic day? That’s a loaded question. It puts the pressure on me to agree, because why wouldn’t I? Why would I tell her anything other than what she wants to hear?

It’s actually unfair, and the angry pit that never seems to exit my stomach no matter how many times I take a shit starts to hum.

“No, diner girl, I am not having a fantastic day.” The words have a bite to them that sinks into her cheeks and causes them to fall. Her eyes drop to the counter. I guess I could have read her name tag - Ashtyn. Of fucking course her name is Ashtyn.

“Oh,” she begins, “I’m sorry to hear that.” She stifles the discomfort I’ve caused and says, “Well, let’s see if we can make it better. What can I get for you?” The smile settles back onto her face.

The humming gets louder.

“Is that really what you want to ask me, Ashtyn?” The customers in line behind me shuffle their feet. This is as inconvenient for them as it is for her.

“Well, I don’t really know what to say.” She’s being honest, and I can appreciate that. “I just want to take your order and see if that helps.”

God fucking damn it. The nerve of this girl.

“It won’t help.”

“Oh.” She’s starting to crack. The service worker façade is spiderwebbing, and it’s coming down quickly.

“I think it’s shitty that you ask people if they’re having a fantastic day.”

“Well, it’s part of the script,” she quietly explains, “It’s what I have to say. I’ll just take your order.”

“It’s a shitty script. It puts the pressure on everyone to agree with you. That’s why they put you up here. Because you’re cute and young, and no one wants to disagree with the cute, young girl. It's a cardinal sin."

The humming has turned into a roar.

Someone leaves the line behind me, but I don’t turn around.

“Do you want me to get my manager?” She’s whispering now.

“No, I don’t want to talk to your fucking manager.”

“Then, I don’t know how to help you.” She’s stopped smiling.

“Good. Now you’re getting it. Now you’re starting to understand.”

“Understand what?” It’s the first time she’s looked at me in a few sentences. I want her to fight back.

“Understand that you can’t help people. Your fake bullshit kindness isn’t helping anyone. Taking orders doesn’t help anyone. Reading from a bullshit script at a place that pays you seven dollars an hour isn’t fucking helping anyone.”

“Dude, she’s just a kid.” The voice from behind me sounds skittish. Like I might pull out a gun from my jacket and start demanding money.

“I don’t give a fuck,” I say, without looking back, “And you shouldn’t either.”

I’m met with silence on all sides.

“To answer your question," I continue, unprompted, "I am not having a fantastic day. Do you want to know what kind of day I’m really having?”

She doesn’t look up.

“I’ll tell you – I’m having a fucking horrible day.” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop them. It's the first time I've said it out loud in months.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” She’s shuffling her feet, probably praying someone will come to her rescue.

“No, you’re not. Stop doing that. Stop pretending to be nice. Tell me what you really want to say.” I slam my hands down on the counter and lean over.

“I…I don’t know. I don’t under-understand what you’re asking me.” The stutter in her voice tells me I’m pushing too hard.

The roar rises in my chest.

“Yes, you fucking do. You’re clearly in high school. You’ve had enough social interaction at this point in your life to know what the fuck I mean.”

“I think I’m going to go get my manager.” She starts to back away from the counter.

“It’s going to be a real hard life for you if you think you’ll always have someone above you to swoop down and save you from the assholes of the world.” She stops backing away. The words settle on her shoulders, blanketing her in a truth she didn’t ask for.

I don’t even know if there are still people behind me anymore, but I say it loud enough for them to hear. I say it loud enough for the entire fucking diner to hear.

“You’re making me uncomfortable.” I can see her eyes losing their shimmer as the tears start to swell.

“Good. Be fucking uncomfortable. For once in your life, be uncomfortable and tell me what the fuck you want to say.”

“I think you should leave.” There’s a quiet confidence behind her words. I’m impressed.

“Thank you. Jesus fucking Christ, thank you.”

As I turn around, I realize there are still three people in line behind me. They’re all looking at me with their eyes wide, horrified at what I’ve done to this poor teenager. Every single one of them will take their turn at the counter and offer their sympathy. She'll be just fucking fine.

I push past them and go to my car, letting the door slam behind me. Even from this distance, I know they’re all still watching me. Waiting for me to leave. Waiting for the dark cloud that follows me to slide across the ceiling.

The shitty part – shittier than making the Rinky Dink girl cry – is that I don’t really know why it was a shitty day. I never know.

As I turn the key in the ignition, the soft glow of my dashboard floods the darkness. Looking into the rearview mirror, I can see the agitation in my jaw. I shouldn’t have done that. The Rinky Dink girl didn’t do anything. I should’ve just given her my order. I didn’t have to acknowledge her question. I didn’t have to try and rob some of her innocence. I wouldn’t have anywhere to put it, anyway. Even if I had snatched every drop of goodness from her, it wouldn’t fit into me.

All I wanted was a goddamn burger. And I couldn’t even do that right.

I could go to a different diner, but I think it’ll just end the same.

I drive home without bothering to turn on the radio.

Once inside, I grab a TV dinner from the freezer and set it in the microwave, pressing the appropriate numbers. The roaring has reduced back to a dull hum. Reflection hits me like a ton of bricks, and I sink into the couch in embarrassment.

Why did I do that? Why do I always do that?

My phone lights up beside me. MOM CELL flashes across the screen. I don’t want to talk to her. I don’t want to talk to anyone.

Except, that’s not true.

The truth is – I’m dying to talk to someone, I just can't.

But, I like to believe if the Rinky Dink girl had asked me why I wasn’t having a fantastic day, I would’ve told her. I would've looked at her, and all her pungent innocence, and said:

Ashtyn, I am so angry that it blurs my vision and dulls my senses. Simultaneously, I am so fucking sad that getting out of bed every morning makes my bones hurt. I can’t find happiness in anything anymore. My job is meaningless and pointless, and I’m only there so I can heat up the microwave dinners I’m living off of because I’m too damn lazy to cook. The anger and sadness I feel are only rivaled by the overwhelming self-loathing that feels like an itchy sweater I can’t take off. I wake up out of sheer convenience most days, and I can’t even cry because that would require being fucking hydrated and I haven’t drank a drop of water in days. My phone is full of missed calls from my mom because she’s the only person stupid enough to continue checking on me. Everyone else had a meeting and decided to give up about a month ago. And I wish I could tell you there’s some catalyst for this, but there’s not. I’m not dying of a terminal illness. My girlfriend didn’t leave me. I didn’t catch my wife in bed with another man. I didn’t lose my job. Nobody died. Nothing remotely exciting or interesting or life-altering has happened to me, ever. I just woke up this way one day, and I never changed. The end. So, I can’t tell you why I’m not having a fan-fucking-tastic day because I don’t even know. I just know that I’m not, and I won’t have one tomorrow, and I’m not sure there are any good days left for me. I think I ran out of good days, and I missed the chance to renew my subscription. I think this is just who I am now. And it’s shitty and it’s hard and it’s not who I want to be. And if I could remember the last time I woke up feeling normal and refreshed and happy, I’d sell everything I own for the time machine to take me there. I’m desiccating, Ashtyn. I’m turning into a fucking zombie, and I only wish the process was faster so I wouldn’t have to feel this way any goddamned longer.

And when she stood there, shocked and silent, I would've said:

I don’t blame you for not having anything to say. I don’t expect you to fix it or make it better or try to ease my pronounced suffering. I have zero expectations for myself or anyone else around me. The only, and I repeat, the only thing I want is to be in a bank when the robbery happens. I want a drunk driver to slam into me at the intersection. I want to be struck by lightning or impaled by falling plane parts from the sky. I want the shooter to come to my job. I want my brakes to suddenly fail as I’m taking a sharp turn over the bridge. I want it to fucking stop. Because I can’t make it stop. I can’t do it myself. That’s shitty and my mom would be upset and my sister would blame herself and my friends would say too many nice things at the funeral. I can’t do it myself because I’m scared that I’d mess up and live an even more handicapped life than the one I’m living now. I can’t do it because I don’t fucking want to. But I want it to be done. And that doesn’t even make fucking sense. It’s so stupid that I can’t even say it out loud. So, instead, I just have to sit here and think it nonstop. I just have to hope that whatever kind of god exists will finish playing with me and put me out of my fucking misery sometime in the near future. Then, I can stop being mean to Rinky Dink girls and I can stop dodging my mom’s phone calls and I can stop waking the fuck up every goddamn day.

The humming gets louder – louder than the chime of the microwave in the background.

Mom tries to call me again. This time, I answer.

“Hey Mom, sorry I missed your call. What’s up?” The saturated bullshit in my own voice makes me want to puke.

“I was just checking on you. How was work today? I tell you, my work day was crazy. So, Lisa, you remember Lisa right?” She drones on for about five minutes, but I don’t hear anything else. She always does this. She calls me to hear herself talk.

The humming gets louder.

“Anyway, like I said, I just wanted to check on you. How are you doing?” She pauses here, like a good, polite person would do.

“Well, Mom,” I begin, “I’m doing about the same as the last time you called.” It’s the nicest way I can think of to tell her I want to fucking die.

“You sound better,” she lies, “You sound good.”

“Well thanks Mom.”

“Honey?”

“Yeah, Mom?”

“You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you?”

Another loaded question. Just like the fucking Rinky Dink girl. Now, I’m roaring. I’m roaring, and I can’t hang up and I can’t say what I want to say, so I just sit there with the phone pressed against my face and my eyes closed so tight they may never open again.

If I answer truthfully, I’m an asshole who should’ve told her sooner.

If I answer dishonestly, I’m an asshole who lies to his mom.

What a fucking choice.

“Are you still there? Did I lose you?”

Yeah, Mom, you lost me, and you didn't even notice.

“I’m still here, Mom,” I say through clenched teeth and my tight jaw, “I’m sorry. Yes, I would tell you.” Asshole who lies to his mom, good choice.

“Oh good,” Her relief is palpable through the phone, “I knew you would. I just wanted to check. Zack said he hasn’t heard from you. So, I just wanted to check. But I knew you’d tell me. You can always tell me anything.”

“I know, Mom.”

“Okay honey, well you get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow.” It sounds more like a threat than a promise.

“Okay, Mom. Bye.”

I slam the phone into the coffee table so hard the screen cracks. Pieces of glass scatter under the pressure.

The roar isn’t getting any quieter and the microwave is still beeping.

I should call her back. I should call her back and say:

No Mom, I am not okay. You asked me what’s wrong – everything. Everything is wrong and I don’t know why. And I am so damn confused because I can’t figure it out. I want to know. I want to be able to pinpoint the exact day everything fell apart for me, but I just don’t know and I am so fucking angry I just broke my phone. And the worst part is – it’s coming out. I’ve kept it hidden for so long, but it’s starting to erupt out of me and onto everyone in my path. I yelled at the Rinky Dink girl today. Last week, I yelled at the guy riding his bike on the sidewalk when I was trying to check the mail. Tomorrow, I might yell at you. But it doesn’t make me feel any better. It never does. And telling you all of this now doesn’t make me feel better. Nothing makes me feel better. Nothing is okay. Nothing is going to be okay at this rate, and if I could stop this fucking train, I would. But I can’t. And you can’t. No one can. It’s barreling down the tracks at a rate so damn fast, when the crash inevitably comes, it’s going to be a natural fucking disaster and I just hope you’re nowhere me when it happens. And don’t worry, Mom, I’m not suicidal in the typical sense. I mean, I wouldn’t be upset if I died, but I’m not actively trying to make it happen. So, if nothing else, find a little solace in that. And I wish I had something better to say. I know I should've told you sooner. But here we are.

And then I’d hang up the phone before she could say anything because the only thing worse than being a piece of shit who makes other people feel like shit, is having to listen to them feel sorry for you in spite of it.

But I don’t call her back.

Because my phone is broken, and I don’t even know if I could.

Because the microwave won’t shut the fuck up, and I’m not even hungry.

Because I can’t tell anyone. And I know I should tell someone. But I can’t, so it’s my cross to bear and I’m tired of dragging it behind me.

My food is cold, but I eat it anyway. I brush my teeth in the dark. I go to sleep.

When my alarm goes off, it doesn’t even matter because I’m already awake.

I text my boss through the cracked screen to let him know I’m sick, and he sends a “thumbs up” in reply. No one is going to notice my absence.

I don’t lay in bed.

The roar never settled.

I get up.

I get dressed.

 And I decide to go look for a fucking bank to stand in.