He’s about six and a half feet tall, and sweatier than a Sumo wrestler in a steam room.
He’s ordered his monsterburger, his Mega Coke, and his oversized fries and he’s crowding out the four-foot-nothing mother in line ahead of him, her toddler tugging on her untucked T-shirt, to the point where she leans on into the counter and asks one of the workers if tehy would just give her a shout when the order’s up, then walks her kid to a table at the farthest corner and plunks herself down, still glaring at the sopping bald behemoth now leaning over the counter himself, asking them to snap it up because his caseworker will be right along and he wants to finish his burger before she arrives and starts ragging on him about how much he eats.
Meanwhile, the caseworker’s stuck in the office, holed up in the breakroom with an autistic adolescent who alternately kicks the crap out of the chrome and molded plastic furniture, lobbing the napkin holders halfway across the room, and slaps herself silly because the receptionist, having forgotten that she had an appointment scheduled, let someone else feed the goldfish before she’d arrived.
Even so, the situation in the breakroom seemed like a blessing to the caseworker, who knew that even if it ended immediately—a highly unlikely prospect—she would still have to go by the agoraphobic’s hellhole studio apartment to swap out clean linens for soiled and drop off a week’s worth of meds before she could even think about swinging by Burgerville to chastise the gluttonous giant who, by this time was screaming at the counterhelp, just warming up for the caseworker’s arrival.
It was Monday. It wasn’t quite noon yet.