There he was again. Like some kind of helpless soul stuck in the same day everyday, he had returned. He was dressed in different clothes, but his beard, hair, facial expressions and tone was a constant. It appeared that he had no up or down days, everything to him was at a constant sorrow. He would park his silver car in the same parking spot, the one closest to the entrance of the door. Then he would open up his car door and step out, peer across the street at the hospital, and squint as though he noticed something interesting. From here he'd slam his door and then put his keys into his left pocket. As he passed through the doors my manager Jim would howl 'Evening! How are you?' The man would nod and say the same thing he had said since I first started working here: 'I'm drawing like a pencil.' Then he would step up to the counter and order the same thing, a large number one with pickle onion and tomato only. And I would make it perfectly for him to inspect seconds later at the table he would sit at, directly in the middle of the dining room.
I would be standing over the counter at my sandwhich station or doing a trash run when he would show up. The same routine everyday and with that the same thoughts would scatter my brain. What compelled this man to eat here every single night? Could his taste buds really be craving the same sandwhich each and every afternoon? Was it some kind of obsession with Wendy's hamburgers that erged this man to eat here? Was it, maybe, his job? Was it so stressful that he needed to come to the same place to get the same 'Evening! How are you?' statement? Or was it something bigger? Was there some kind of plot behind this unchanging routine? There I stood staring at the man from behind my sandwhich station, looking at him take a bite, wipe his chin, abnd then take another bite. I stood wondering and thinking to myself. Then, from behind the yelp from one of managers, Aulbrey, came from behind. 'C.T., full store trash run, 15 minutes... Can you handle that?'