{"id":1972,"date":"2026-05-07T10:13:28","date_gmt":"2026-05-07T15:13:28","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/?p=1972"},"modified":"2026-05-07T10:13:28","modified_gmt":"2026-05-07T15:13:28","slug":"fry-boy","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/2026\/05\/fry-boy\/","title":{"rendered":"Fry Boy"},"content":{"rendered":"

Denial<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cI don\u2019t want to get into it,\u201d I say. My fingers drum an anxious beat on the metal counter I lean against. It\u2019s 8pm and the sun is down behind the desert mountains, and there are no customers in the lobby. I\u2019m grateful for that right now.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cOf course.\u201d My shift lead shakes her head. It was rude of her to ask what kind of family issues are making me leave my job here at Arby\u2019s, and she knows it.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cBut I will say,\u201d I relent, then lilt my speech into the sing-song pattern of one uncomfortable with bearing bad news, \u201cthey amputated my dad\u2019s toe last week. Next they might take his foot, then his leg, and then he might be de-ead~\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0My face doesn\u2019t match my tone of voice. I\u2019m devastated. She can tell.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Her name is Danielle. She\u2019s a fellow student at the college and is about ten years older than I am. She has brown hair that grows down past her shoulders, but keeps it trussed up in a messy bun with an alligator clip on the back of her head, under her team member cap. She\u2019s the shortest one on staff but has power over all of us, like a single tiny car key that ignites the engine of our workplace.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cI\u2019m sorry, man.\u201d Danielle shakes her head. \u201cI hope it all works out. Call me if you need any\u2013\u201d she frowns. The headset piece on her ear starts blinking. There\u2019s a car in the drive-thru waiting to give us their order.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cShit, sorry. Be right back.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I nod as Danielle pats me on the shoulder and leaves me to my misery, spinning on her heel to the order-taking tablet by the window.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cHi welcome to Arby\u2019s what can I get started for you?\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0She says it in one breath, like we all do. Her tone is imitation cheery, the kind of cadence we all put on when talking with customers regardless of whatever else is going on behind the scenes. I am very familiar with the sing-song cadence of falsehood. I think we all are.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I\u2019m tired of losing members of my family. I keep up the face until she rounds the corner, then it breaks.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I\u2019m smiling.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I\u2019m smiling because my plan is working.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Anger<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I hate working here at Arby\u2019s with every fiber of my being. I would rather rip my teeth out and replace them with metal screws drilled into my gums than take another order over the shitty, staticky headset. Luckily for me, I don\u2019t have to. I put in my two weeks\u2019 notice two weeks ago, and tonight is my last shift.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I don\u2019t know why the management insists on a two weeks\u2019 notice from us. I signed on under an at-will termination contract for both parties. They could fire me without a two weeks\u2019 notice any time they wanted. A notice is a courtesy to the management, I suppose, but the management is shit at schedules and there\u2019s either a dozen of us on a dead day, or three of us against a never-ending wave of drive-through orders. I don\u2019t feel like I owe them any courtesy, especially not one they wouldn\u2019t return.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0But Christ, I need the money. I\u2019m alone at college hours from the place I grew up, and I barely have enough for my monthly rent down here, let alone gas<\/span>. <\/span><\/i>Don\u2019t get me started on <\/span>groceries.\u00a0<\/span><\/i><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I glance at the clock in the corner of the order screen. 8:17. Perfect. That\u2019s only four hours and thirteen minutes left before we close and I can leave forever. That\u2019s about seventeen fifteen-minute stretches. I can do that. I can get through fifteen minutes seventeen times. I stop my foot from restlessly tapping on the orange fast food tile. I can wait a little longer.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Every time I clock into work, I brace myself for seven hours of standing over that goddamn fryer. The oil evaporates from the vats and clots my pores and cakes into my eyebrows. It spatters erratically and scalds any exposed skin for no real reason other than it hates me just as much as I hate it. I would love to wear long sleeves at work just to add a little layer of protection, but unfortunately the area around the fryer is ten thousand fucking degrees and my face damn near melts off every day anyway, so if I was wearing long sleeves I\u2019m afraid I would simply pass away.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Then of course there are the actual orders. They come in one at a time through a tiny screen I have to crane my neck to see. I am 6\u20193\u201d. Do you know how high something has to be for <\/span>me <\/span><\/i>to crane my neck to get a good look at it? Pretty damn high.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0And the orders <\/span>never stop<\/span><\/i>. Any time I think I\u2019ll have a break for a few minutes, there\u2019s that damn <\/span>BEEP BEEP BEEP <\/span><\/i>and another order flashes on the screen. Oh, what\u2019s that? You want ten mozzarella sticks, forty chicken nuggets, six large fries, twelve jalape\u00f1o poppers, and eight more large fries of the <\/span>other <\/span><\/i>type of french fry we carry? And you want them immediately or you are going to scream at me until you are red in the face? Until spittle froths from your mouth like a firehose, washing away any fucks I gave in its torrent? Great, I\u2019ll get that right out for you! Right after I kill you and then kill myself.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0And then there\u2019s the coworkers. God. The coworkers. Any hell can be weathered in good company. Unfortunately my company is comprised mostly of forty-year-old burnouts and small-town teenage boys who scream \u201cfaggot\u201d at the top of their lungs and make jokes about fucking each other. They are unaware that I myself routinely have sex with other men, and if they knew I\u2019m afraid they would dunk me in that fryer face first. Who knows what they\u2019d do if they found out that he\/him isn\u2019t the only set of pronouns I use?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I apologize. Danielle is good. She\u2019s a good person. She\u2019s probably the only reason I\u2019ve stuck around this long. But I can\u2019t stay for her sake. Every time the fryer scorches my arms, every time a customer screams in my face, every time a coworker says something that makes me want to hide in a bulletproof room, the misery has been accumulating. And now it\u2019s heavier than I can bear.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I have to get out of here. I\u2019m tired of having no power, I\u2019m sick of having no choice. I\u2019m so over being stuck in this drudgery simply because \u201cthis is the way things have to be.\u201d I don\u2019t want to waste my life being miserable.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I\u2019m sorry Danielle, but I\u2019ll do whatever it takes.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Bargaining<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0One thing about me is I am a compulsive liar. I haven\u2019t been diagnosed as such, but it wouldn\u2019t surprise me with how often I do it. Friends and siblings call me on my bullshit when they see it coming, but I still pull the wool over their eyes all the time. Lying is easy. You just have to twist the truth a little. As long as nobody gets hurt, it\u2019s fine.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I lied to Danielle. My dad had skin cancer on his head once upon a time and it scared the hell out of us, but thank god it was very treatable and he\u2019s fine now. He did have his toe amputated, that wasn\u2019t a lie, but that was his choice. It had broken when he was a teenager and healed weirdly and always gave him pain. Now in his mid-forties, he\u2019d had enough of it. No point in prolonging misery after all, so chop chop went the surgeon.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0My dad isn\u2019t dying, but my coworkers don\u2019t have to know that.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I\u2019m not sure why I lie. I\u2019m not sure why I\u2019m lying now about a sick family member to ease my slide out of Arby\u2019s. I don\u2019t have to. I could just walk out and never come back again, but there\u2019s something in me that hates letting people down.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I\u2019m going, whether they like it or not, but I\u2019d prefer it if they thought I was going for a good reason. I don\u2019t want Danielle to think my leaving is somehow her fault.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0And I <\/span>am<\/span><\/i> going for a good reason. Just not a socially acceptable one. As soon as I signed on here I was expected to stay through hell or high water in order to keep the job, and a single day at the fryer has me going through both several times over. I can\u2019t stay here any longer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cIs everything okay?\u201d Danielle asked back when I first told her I was thinking of quitting.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cThere\u2019s some family stuff going on at home,\u201d I say. It comes slick and natural from my mouth, as if I\u2019d practiced it a hundred times before. I put on a pitiful face and don\u2019t make eye contact. \u201cI might have to drive between here and Salt Lake City a lot. I wouldn\u2019t really have much time for work.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cMmm,\u201d she nods. \u201cI hope everything works out.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cMe too.\u201d I say, knowing full well that it won\u2019t, not as long as I\u2019m in control of the narrative.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0One good way to lie is by making it a personal issue that you\u2019re uncomfortable talking about. Nobody will pry for the details you don\u2019t actually have if they\u2019re worried you might start crying, and a sick family member is always a convincing alibi.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Another good way to lie is by incorporating as much of the truth as you can. I knew the details of my father\u2019s amputation well. They unraveled from my mouth like yarn from a ball, knitting a convincing story on my needles of false witness.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Things might be different if Arby\u2019s paid well. It doesn\u2019t. I make fourteen dollars and fifty cents an hour here. That\u2019s double minimum wage, which would have been fantastic once upon a time, but that time is far behind us and my rent and groceries eat through paychecks like I\u2019m tossing them directly into the bubbling oil.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cHey, how much do you make here?\u201d I asked her late one night, back when I was still a few weeks new to the job. We\u2019re bagging an order together, and she\u2019s been chatting away about the cafe she wants to open one day for the past half hour.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cWell, we\u2019re not really supposed to talk about that,\u201d Danielle looks around before giving a conspiratorial grin, \u201cbut I make fifteen dollars an hour.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0My hand squeezes the sandwich I grab a little too hard. She doesn\u2019t notice.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cFifteen?\u201d I repeat after a moment. \u201cBut you\u2019re a shift lead. You\u2019ve been here for seven years.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cYeah,\u201d She laughs wearily. \u201cBut it\u2019s better than fourteen-fifty.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I don\u2019t reply. I am beginning to understand a lot about this place. It doesn\u2019t matter if I\u2019m as skilled with my grease-coated tongs as a surgeon is with a knife, that I always wear my rubber gloves to protect from germs, that I scrub the dishes with water that boils my hands every night to make sure they\u2019re clean; nothing will ever be good enough.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I want to say I don\u2019t care, but that\u2019s wrong. I do care. That\u2019s why I\u2019ve concocted this whole stupid lie about a dying father instead of just quitting up front. I don\u2019t want to look Danielle in the eye and tell her I hate it here. She\u2019s a good shift lead and cares about the people under her, and she\u2019d think it was her fault somehow if the machine crumbled under her watch. If I\u2019m miserable, god only knows how she\u2019s feeling after seven years of this drudgery.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0The part of me that cared about doing a good job at Arby\u2019s died that night, and now I\u2019ll happily leave the place behind. I have enough money saved up for two month\u2019s rent, plenty of time to find a new job. I\u2019ll pass Danielle on campus occasionally and exchange grim-faced pleasantries to keep up the lie about my dying father.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0And it will work. I know what I\u2019m doing. I\u2019ve done this a hundred times before.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Remember what I said about incorporating as much of the truth as possible?<\/span><\/p>\n

Depression<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Early 2020 my parents named me the caretaker of my dying aunt Carmen. It was stage four colon cancer. Terminal. It had been stage four when she was diagnosed five years ago, and stayed stage four throughout. She\u2019d gone through dozens of operations and hundreds of rounds of chemotherapy, enough to kill someone several times over. But Carmen always hung on.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Until her husband Carl called to tell us that her liver failed. She went septic. The entire extended family flew and drove in migrations across the country to Bonsall, California, to be with her, her husband, and their two daughters while she died. Miraculously she summoned up some last shreds of that signature Carmen strength and hung on, though she was still bed-bound and needed assistance.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cWe want you to stay behind and help take care of Carmen,\u201d my dad told me, pulling me into another room with my mom while our large Mormon family prayed and sang hymns around my aunt\u2019s bedside. \u201cCarl has work all day, and the girls are too young. Someone needs to be with her. They need help.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I wanted to refuse. I\u2019ve never liked being around medical equipment and am squeamish around even the smallest amount of blood. Back in high school I helped plan a blood drive with the student government. The representative from the organization came to us to talk about the process. I passed out, then woke up and threw up in a trash can. I hadn\u2019t even seen a needle.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I had no idea what \u201ctaking care of\u201d Carmen would mean. I didn\u2019t know what I\u2019d do when things got bad for her again, didn\u2019t know what I\u2019d see while by her side day and night. But I\u2019d heard of the operations. Of her midsection cut open and her clotted liver removed, transplanted with a healthy one that would give out in another year or so. Just the thought of it made me feel faint.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I had the absolute worst constitution for the job. But I was eighteen, the oldest grandchild on both sides of the family. I had been through a year of college. I was responsible. Carmen had been dying for five years, but she was running out of time. They needed help.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Before her diagnosis, Carmen\u2019s family lived close to us in Utah. We saw them all the time. Carmen always came to family performances to watch me and my sisters sing and dance on stage, and cheered louder than anybody. She hosted pizza parties for us and her daughters where we would watch movies and make holiday cards with her large rubber stamp collection. She\u2019d play games and sing songs with us to cheer us up when we were sad. She had bouncy, curly blond hair and big blue eyes full of life, and a smile that lit up any room. She loved her family more than anything.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0For an instant as they described what they wanted me to do, I imagined myself being the one to find Carmen\u2019s body after she had passed in her sleep. My stomach twisted as my blood chilled, and I almost threw up again.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cWhat do you think?\u201d my mom asked. She was Carmen\u2019s only sister. Her best friend. She had that hollow, pleading look in her eyes\u2014the same one she\u2019d had every time another call came from family members with bad news. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to if you don\u2019t want to, but it would really help the family. She needs someone around to make things easier for her.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0How could I refuse?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I stayed by Carmen\u2019s side all day and night for nearly two months in southern California as the COVID-19 pandemic ravaged the country, while Black Lives Matter protests raged in the streets and distant older relatives huddled in fear of \u201cANTIFA agents,\u201d not knowing what those words meant. The whole world was suffering. It changed in more ways than I could understand at the time, and I wasn\u2019t sure what it would be like when my time with Carmen was over. I wasn\u2019t completely sure I would live to see that day.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I slept on the couch next to her hospice bed in the living room for an uncertain and tumultuous six weeks, never more than a dozen feet away, bringing her food and drinks and lifting her out of bed to go to the bathroom or running for the barf bowl when attacks came in the middle of the night.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I changed the soaked gauze wrapped around her middle almost three times a day. I made sure she took her pills. I massaged her legs, bloated with so much milky pus below the skin that any pressure left an indent in the puffy flesh for hours. It was the only way she could feel anything in them. After a good massage, the imprints of my fingers made her legs look like a storm-tossed ocean.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I attached vacuum suctioned plastic containers to the little white rubber pipe leaking blood and ammonia straight out of Carmen\u2019s distended stomach, trained at the hand of visiting hospice doctors in the right order to unpack and attach everything so it remained completely sanitary. We leeched gallons of evil fluid from her body with them as often as we could, anything to ease her pain, even if I had to secretly throw up in the bathroom later.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I brought her the cannabis oil hidden in the cupboard under the bathroom sink at three in the morning.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cIt was a gift from a friend,\u201d Carmen told me, applying it to her neck and forehead. \u201cIt helps. But it\u2019s better if nobody knows about it.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0It was nothing, just a little marijuana extract. But it had been hidden well and deep within the cabinet for a reason. It was against Mormon values. It was too close to a recreational drug to have any pharmaceutical worth in the eyes of The Lord. Her husband wouldn\u2019t like it. Her children wouldn\u2019t like it. Her parents, my grandparents, living in a town only twenty minutes away, wouldn\u2019t like it. Even though she was actively dying. Just wanting a break from the pain.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0But Carmen\u2019s suffering was a mark of her virtue, like Jesus on the cross. To ease her suffering with The Devil\u2019s Lettuce would strip her of that honor.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0She didn\u2019t lose her hair during chemotherapy, somehow. It was still blonde and curly, though the color was dull and the curls thin and limp. Her blue eyes clouded with the yellow onset of jaundice around the edges. She didn\u2019t smile very much these days.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0It was dark in the house, one of those many quiet early moments spent with the dying woman. I looked up, half expecting to see her daughters and husband looking over the edge of the balcony at the top of the stairs, watching this elicit conversation take place. But of course, it was empty. Just us and the marijuana.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cOkay.\u201d I said. I would keep the secret.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I didn\u2019t notice much change in her after the oil was applied, but who was I to tell her what worked for her pain or not? That mind-numbing agony for five years straight, turning something as simple as a sentence into a breathless battle. It wasn\u2019t fair. If the oil dulled her senses and brought her out of her condemned flesh for even just a minute, who could dare deny her that?<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I went to church with her, my uncle, and my cousins on Sundays. We\u2019d sing the hymns of relief and salvation, and my tongue would curl every time the eyes of the congregation turned on my aunt in pity. People would come up to Carmen and tell her she was a saint, that her pain on earth meant an eternity of heavenly grace above. They practically worshipped her with prayer and platitudes.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I wanted to throttle them.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Carmen died a few months after I left. She was the strongest person I\u2019ve ever known, but nobody can take that kind of torture forever.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I\u2019ve seen someone go through hell before. I\u2019ve had real family emergencies where we drop everything and drive the twelve hours to California. I\u2019ve said those excuses and mumbled apologies for my absence hundreds of times. That\u2019s why I\u2019m good at them. That\u2019s why I know they work.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0That\u2019s why I swore I\u2019d never let myself get anywhere even close to that kind of misery, not if I could help it. And I know it\u2019s nothing compared to what Carmen went through, it\u2019s a shitty fast-food job versus an unbearably painful terminal illness. I know that better than anybody.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Carmen didn\u2019t have many chances to change her circumstances, so now if I have the chance to make things better, I\u2019m gonna take it. If I have any power, I\u2019m gonna use it. For myself and for others. I don\u2019t care if God wouldn\u2019t approve of my methods for relief.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I don\u2019t care if I have to lie.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

Acceptance<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0It\u2019s past midnight now in the Arby\u2019s kitchen, my last day on the job is almost over. I\u2019ve mopped the lobby and the back and the bathrooms, cleaned out the fryer, washed every dish in the sink by hand and taken out the garbage. My coworkers have cleaned the back line and counted the till, respectively. I tap my pin into the tablet and clock out. The receipt printer buzzes as it dispenses an account of my hours for the day, seven and a half. Thirty minutes was deducted for my meal break.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0That translates to one hundred and eight dollars, and seventy-five cents. I\u2019m not sure what it would be after taxes, but I know it\u2019s about two tanks of gas, or a couple grocery runs, or a good chunk of my rent. I\u2019m not sure what I\u2019ll have to put it toward yet. I\u2019m not sure if it was worth the seven and a half hours of my life spent at the fryer.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0For a moment, I wonder just how much money in medical bills and ambulance rides it took to keep Carmen alive for those five years. I remember the thousands upon thousands of dollars my grandparents spent to keep Carmen alive for a year, a week, an hour, even a <\/span>second<\/span><\/i> longer. I wonder how much money it would have taken to keep her alive until today. I know they would have paid it.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I wonder just how much money a life is worth. I get the feeling I don\u2019t want to know the answer. I shake my head and stuff the print into my pocket with all the others.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cAre you sure about this?\u201d Danielle asks from behind me as I walk to the exit. \u201cWe can hold your resignation for a while, just in case things get better.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cThank you, but I\u2019m not sure they will.\u201d I shake my head. I look down. I wait a beat, then continue. \u201cIt\u2019s looking pretty rough back home.\u201d\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0For a moment, I\u2019m ashamed. I don\u2019t want to let Danielle down. I didn\u2019t want to let Carmen down either. But Danielle gives me that understanding half-smile with a half-cocked nod of her head, and it seems all is well. One day, I hope she gets out of here too.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cWell, let me know if you change your mind. Normally we don\u2019t take people back if they didn\u2019t give a two weeks\u2019 notice, but you were always a good worker. We\u2019d make an exception for you because of the circumstances.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cThank you.\u201d I give a weak smile, then open the door. \u201cSee you around.\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I don\u2019t mention that I <\/span>did <\/span><\/i>put in my two weeks notice, that it sat on the desk in the office in the back for two whole weeks but was never touched, and was slowly buried by more important papers. She\u2019ll find it in a month when the pile is worked through, or maybe not at all. It\u2019s not my business anymore. I\u2019m no longer a piece of an uncaring machine. Thank god it\u2019s not my business anymore.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0There is no virtue in needless suffering. We\u2019re not here to be miserable. I think I get that now, seeing so much of it firsthand. Certainly no one is more virtuous than someone else just because they suffer more, but that\u2019s how it feels, sometimes. Why does our society value pain more than people?\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0That\u2019s what it takes to make money, I suppose. To put your shoulder to that eternal grindstone. No pain, no gain.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0That\u2019s what it takes to be like Jesus, I suppose. He who suffered for all of us up there on the cross. He who took on the entire weight of mortal sin so the rest of us wouldn\u2019t have to.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0There\u2019s nothing wrong with admiration for someone who\u2019s going through a hard time, but pain itself is nothing to respect. It\u2019s nothing to revere, nothing to glorify, <\/span>especially <\/span><\/i>if it\u2019s avoidable.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0We\u2019re all suffering all the time and all of it sucks. You can\u2019t always prevent the pain, but you can ease it. You can seek relief. It\u2019s okay to chop off the toe that\u2019s hurting you. I don\u2019t regret the things I\u2019ve done to make it easier for people, myself included.<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0The glass door closes as my coworkers echo their farewells. I am alone in the parking lot. The moon was full a few nights ago, but is now a waning gibbous, still casting plenty of light over the dark streets. I take a breath and step off Arby\u2019s property and over to my little black sedan.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I never look back.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I think Carmen would approve.<\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Denial \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cI don\u2019t want to get into it,\u201d I say. My fingers drum an anxious beat on the metal counter I lean against.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[1],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1972"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1972"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1972\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1974,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1972\/revisions\/1974"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1972"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1972"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/sagebrushreview.org\/wordpress\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1972"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}