When I leave Chipotle and return to my Corolla, I have to swipe the moths out of the way before I set the Grubhub order on the passenger seat. I accidentally smash one against the backrest.
You should eat his order, it says.
This one is easy to ignore, but only because I ate before I started.
Once I’m on the road, the moths are more insistent, flying into my line of vision and making the otherwise clear night feel like driving through a snowstorm. I try not to brush them away, because every time I acknowledge one, it speaks. But I have to see the road.
You should stick his burrito on your gearshift like it’s a corn dog.
No, you should stick his burrito on your dick like it’s a gearshift.
At least eat a couple of the tortilla chips.
According to my phone, I’m twelve minutes away from the delivery. There are more moths than usual tonight. I think about calling my mom because they’re not as loud when I’m talking to someone else, but it’s too late at night. She goes to bed early these days, and are the moths really that bad?
You should unbuckle your seatbelt and drive on the other side of the road.
No, they’re not that bad. I can tune them out.
I pull my hand away from my seatbelt buckle and grip the steering wheel, ten and two, like the expert in my field that I am. A small green moth flies under my glasses and lands on the lens. I stick my bottom lip out and blow up to whirlwind it out. It gets the hint, leaving a You should call your mom and tell her to go fuck herself behind.
No, definitely not calling my mom now.
The route to this delivery takes me a few miles out into the country. Up ahead, a deer and her two fauns are standing in the road. All of the moths shout out at once.
Speed up and hit them.
No, it’s not worth it, not even to put deer guts in the Chipotle bag. Do the moths consider that I’m still five miles away, and the deer gut burrito would never get delivered if I totaled my car?
They do not. They never do. They are pure id.
Once the deer have crossed, I drive on.
Jack off in the queso.
I consider calling a suicide hotline, not because I think I’m in danger, but because maybe they could point me in the right direction on how to deal with the moths. But what if I got the best operator they have, cubicles lined with thank you notes from people whose lives they saved, and all they could do was tell me to find a therapist later, and someone who really needed help got a bad operator?
Wouldn’t that be funny?
No, and I would never know, anyway.
Set an alarm for the middle of the night that makes gunshot noises and put your phone in the bag.
They’d find the phone as soon as they got their food out.
Yeah, but it’s not like they can call you to come get it.
Stop it. Don’t entertain them. Nothing good happens when you converse with them.
I finally reach the house, a little brick ranch that sits back from the road.
Speed up and drive through the house.
There’s a plastic playset for toddlers in the yard and sidewalk chalk doodles on the driveway that can’t have been done by anyone older than three.
Drive through the fucking kid’s bedroom.
Once I get the car parked, I ring the doorbell and set the food on a porch chair, thankful for contactless delivery. I’m almost back to my car when the front door opens and a man runs out waving an oddly wet-looking five dollar bill.
“I forgot to leave your tip!” he shouts.
There are moths flying around my head, and the one that’s saying, Tell him to stick it up his ass is surprisingly influential.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, rejecting the meager tip that would at least lift me to minimum wage.
“What?”
Tell him did I stutter.
“Did I stutter?”
Shit.
“What?”
Tell him you shit in his burrito.
“Sorry, have a good night!”
I jump in my car and throw it into reverse, backing down his driveway faster than I should, while he stares in bewilderment with his flaccid bill in his hand.
Go back and take the money, you dipshit.
No, I can’t make it even weirder.
There’s another order from Applebee’s lined up, and I grip the wheel again to go back to town while moths pinball around me. They’re not that bad, really. It’s not like they’re ruining my life or anything. What’s five dollars anyway? There are people who have it worse, and I’m not self-destructive, at least not in the literal sense.
Tomorrow, maybe I’ll even call a therapist, or at least my mom, and maybe the moths will sleep during the day, or at least I’ll put a TV show on to tune them out.
Matthew Pritt writes Appalachian fiction, mainly speculative and literary. His work has appeared in Door Is a Jar Magazine, Bullshit Lit, and Vast Chasm Magazine, among others. He lives in West Virginia with his five cats, pictures of which can be seen on his Twitter @MatthewTPritt.
Loved this little gem!
Wow. If there is anything that brings intrusive thoughts from vague discussion to tangible representation its going to be this piece.