Closed Circuit No. 4

The men slump behind steering wheels in a neat row by the prefab sheds at the home improvement center. They eat alone in cars and pickup trucks: chili dogs, triple-deckers, cheeseburgers, taquitos, chicken wings. There’s a correlation between the make of vehicle and make of lunch. Tin foil wrappers and plastic cups jostle for space in pothole archipelagos; this stretch of parking lot isn’t well-maintained. Squirrels and chipmunks quarrel over grease by day, raccoons and possums by night. I’m paid to watch the men in eight-hour shifts through a security camera. I envy their hunger, their brotherhood, their peace.

Hello, Goodbye

The arm snakes through the upside-down window, cuts a ninety-degree turn at the elbow, palm open in salutation. I only see the forearm: freckled, hardworking, like it belongs to an all-around good chap. Salt of the earth.

It’s been waving a while, greeting people gathered at the side of the road, passing bicyclists, fellow drivers. Now, it’s waving at me.

Hello, how are you? it says.

He oughta pull that arm back in, gonna catch a mean sunburn like that. But I don’t tell him this. I was taught never to talk to strange men, no matter how friendly or how dead.