“You gotta help me, man,” he said.
“What’s up?” I said.
“This guy walked into Ben and Jerry’s a couple weeks ago and ordered a Hillary Rodham Clinton shake. Like it was the fuckin’ Starbucks secret menu. Looked exactly how you’d think he’d fuckin’ look, too.”
“You’re kidding.”
“So I’m like—what the fuck does that even mean? I’m mortified. It’s my second week, Marty. I turn around to glance at my coworkers and they’re all looking at him like he’s a regular.”
“You gotta switch locations.”
“But I have to say to him—because it’s my fucking job—sorry, sir. Could you explain to me what exactly I need to put in that? And he goes: ‘One scoop vanilla, one scoop Oatmeal Dream Pie, and one scoop lemon sorbet. Extra whipped cream, a waffle cone, and a whole bag of chocolate chip cookie dough bites. And I want it all extra extra’. Like it’s a fucking froyo place. Like it’s the fucking circus.”
“He ordered that? And he called it the—”
“Yeah. And he said that twice—to make sure it’s ‘all extra extra’. What the fuck does that even mean? I go to ring it up on the register first so I can remember the order. I say to him, ‘That’s an extra large shake with extra extra whip, a waffle cone, and a whole bag of cookie dough bites. That gonna be nineteen dollars and eleven cents.’ And he just fucking looks back at me.”
“Twenty bucks for a shake?”
“No kidding. This was when I got furious, though. He goes, ‘Bart always makes the extra extra free.’ Bart being my manager. Free?? I go, ‘What would that include?’ and he goes, ‘The cookie dough bites.’ as if that wouldn’t be five dollars off his fucking order.”
“People are crazy.”
“Right? So you know me. I go into a blind rage. You don’t ask me for five dollars off your twenty-dollar order.”
“Right.”
“I’m not thinking straight. I’m about to kill this guy. Oh hoh, I’m gonna give him his extra. I’m blending up this shake and I throw a half-scoop of dog ice cream in.”
“No.”
“Yes. I’m fuming. My coworkers are distracted and I squirt in a shot of window cleaner. Starts turning the thing blue. And then I take the red sanitizer bucket and dump a bit in. A raw egg. And a bit of hand sanitizer, too. A lot, actually.”
“Jesus.”
“There wasn’t a thought in my mind about consequence. You know my rage fits. I hand the guy his drink and charge him the $19.11 and I move on to the next customer. But inside, I’m thinking—I just killed this guy. I just gave his guy a lethal dose of poisons. There’s no way this guy isn’t collapsing and dying on the floor in fifteen minutes.”
“Oh God,” I said. “Is that what happened? Did you kill him? Do you need help hiding the body?”
“No! See, that’s my problem! I watched the guy slurp it down in maybe ninety seconds. Then he sat on his phone for a half hour by himself and walked out.”
“But it must’ve tasted like hand sanitizer.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“How do you know if he died later? He could have died fifteen feet from the store.”
“That’s the thing. I needed to know, right?”
“Oh God.”
“I got his phone number from the rewards program. From that, I found his address.”
“You went to this guy’s house?”
“Call it a wellness check! Wouldn’t you?“
“I guess. So? He’s alive?”
“He’s fucking alive. Doesn’t look sick at all, either. I’ve been following this guy in the morning for a week and a half. I’m 90% sure he’s single. He leaves for work at 7:50 a.m. and stops by 7/11 to grab a medium slushie and a Dr. Pepper every day. He’ll take the slushie into work with him, but usually leaves the Dr. Pepper in the cupholder.”
“So?”
“When it’s warm, he’ll leave the windows cracked. So I’ve been putting doses of cyanide in his soda for the past three days.”
“...And?” I said.
“And it’s almost like he’s healthier,” he said.
“So what the fuck did you need my help with? I sure as hell hope you’re not asking me to poison this guy.”
“No. I just wanted to ask you if you think I have something special here.”
“What do you mean? As in, do I think you’ve put yourself in a unique situation?”
“In me accidentally discovering a poison-resistant human,” he said.
“Well,” I said.