Explosions Take Place

By Joseph Goosey

I work near a fountain. All the customers names are replaced by four digits. My job is to stand at the front door and record the digits who enter. They traipse in and out all afternoon even on Tuesdays. Old people carring bags of air. If their eyes start to roll back, says my supervisor, duck into the bathroom real quick to ensure you're not the one responsible with the EMT arrives. They're really more similar to expired fruit than they are to any kind of person you know. Young kids who will never grip a knife handle at least not with the same enthusiasm they will grip their cock or surfboard, skin in. You'd think they'd have papers to write, clients to please, briefings to attend, burgers to flip, toddlers to clean, but you guess they don't then try not to dwell on the subject because that's when explosions take place in locations you'd rather remain intact. They spit their four digits into the holes provided. My holes. I have to say thank you. I need enough when I leave this place for a burrito or something else solid.