Tuesday Tom and I are closing. Once the front door is locked and all the machines are silent, we go to the back area where the vending machines are and target the Gatorade machine, the one with the little plastic doors. It’s my job to insert the money and count “three, two, one” while I enter the code. When I get to one, Tom seizes the top of the machine, his foot in the slot, and shakes.
Tom wouldn’t be bad on his own, but he’s illiterate and he owes me. Every month I have to sit him down and walk him through his bills. Sometimes the balance is so sad I lie. Then I call Con Ed and read them my credit card number.
Our boss calls us The Brains and the Body. “Put you together, and you’re almost a complete person.”
We manage to clear out a whole row of blue Gatorade in one go. We shove it in a duffle bag like drug money and use it as a mixer to drink at the beach. It’s a cold winter. Lake Michigan is walkable. We go out as far as the ice will hold his weight. Tom shuffles his foot across the surface. “I wonder if this is how Jesus did it,” he says.
