[What follows is playing with words to intentionally skew meaning. This story is written in 3rd person omniscient. No disrespect to other nonbinaries intended, but my pronouns are anyone/everyone/nobody for the purposes of this narrative. A writer writes for anyone, or everyone, or sometimes nobody. That’s why I found these pronouns intriguing.]

With the metal, wheeled shopping basket (associated at the time with bag ladies), carrying all food-prepped supplies from a Pioneer Square cafe, the Metro ride was a drag first thing in the morning. Nobody had to use the space for wheelchair riders, the seat flipped up for the cart to fit in. Then anyone had to sit in the seats that faced each other across the aisle. Everyone hated those seats. The morning commute was less full of other passengers, it being 10am. The afternoon commute back was worse for being rush hour. Anyone would get vexed trying to smoosh that cumbersome basket onto a crowded bus.

Nobody worked at Jojo’s Falafel cart in Westlake mall when it was an unsightly asphalt triangle hosting stairs leading to the Monorail terminal. There were a few benches & some unattractive concrete planters holding scabby, neglected plants. A large sign on the pillar next to the cart sported a red circle with a slash over the letter P, above the words NO PARKING. This was the mall’s only municipal posting, a fact everyone considered odd since the food cart was literally parked right next to it.

More often than anyone wished, upon showing up for work was a pungent stink of urine, as is customary of most cities. Though once the fryer was going, the combo of garlic, cumin, & other spices eclipsed the stench somewhat. Still, everyone thought it an unappetizinging, lingering scent for a place serving comestibles.

“Thank the djinn for Mideast spice blends!” anyone said. Even if this was an Israeli-owned business, many Middle East nations lay claim to the invention of falafel. Nobody got ‘educated’ from time to time by customers of Lebanese/Syrian/etc descent. After one conversation in which the owner’s nationality was inquired about, the next day the cart was plastered with antisemetic tracts. Oy vey!

Presently everyone had short black hair & a nose ring. That nose ring pierced a prominent schnozz, a family trait that became more pronounced with each subsequent sibling. Anyone was the youngest, ergo it was a dominant facial feature. A ridiculous stereotype, yet it didn’t stop the questions about anyone’s ethnicity. This made the ‘literature’ a bit more troubling, even if technically nobody was a goy. A boychik-shiksa, mused anyone, though boychik’s definition needed tweaking to meet with the times.

‘Racism is such a repulsive ism,’ anyone thought. ‘With classism & sadism, the conjoined triplets from humanity’s mental cesspool.’ Everyone proceeded to toss the leaflets & open the cart up for business; the working stiffs needed feeding. Nobody would see to it.

Anyone was aware of the stateless plight of Palestinians. Yet everyone wasn’t on the fence about hate speech or acts of terror. These are counterproductive. Nobody took this stupid job for cash, not to be a political statement. It didn’t pay enough for that, & didn’t warrant the hot mess of the Middle East laid at everyone’s doorstep. Plus, nobody was agnostic largely out of distaste for the ‘holy war’ thing. As-salamu alaykum (‘peace be upon you’), was anyone’s motto.

That summer nobody loathed the Seafair parade more. Not only was traffic rerouted & buses overcrowded, but the celebrating masses clogged every street between Westlake mall & Pioneer Square. Everyone thought the clownish pirates obnoxious & the Blue Angels a waste of jet fuel & a trauma to wildlife. Anyone’s wish was to escape the melee of hometown cheer, with its creepy team spirit vibe. “Seriously, what is the point of this?” nobody said. 

The bag-lady cart was laden with extra provisions, as Jojo imagined the falafel cart would see increased sales due to the festivities. Everyone, however, doubted the masses slavered for falafel on this occasion. Nobody was right, which meant schlepping all the extra produce, pita, tahini, & falafel back to the cafe, through the madding crowd.

Often buskers would set up on either the east or west corners of Westlake mall. Usually this worked out OK, as one would arrive at their corner when the other one was done. But once in a while there’d be turf wars, some musicians getting their signals crossed, both trying to stick it out & force the other to leave. Competing tunes would clash in the center, where nobody manned the cart. These were short-lived squabbles though, with one packing up after a few minutes of trying to be heard over the other.

One musical dust-up happened in the early fall. Shoppers were out even though it was months til the holidays. 2 accordionists faced off at their respective corners. They tried to drown each other out, occasionally shouting unintelligible things across the mall at each other. Both were maniacally wheezing at full volume. 

The most hideous notion came to them at the same time. They launched into Lara’s Song (the theme from Dr. Zhivago) & they played the hell out of it. Totally out of sync with each other. A nightmare echo chamber was now everyone’s job site. An infinite loop of dueling squeeze-boxes was stretching to an hour. Everyone wanted to throw food at them, but had to account for inventory, so nobody refrained. The crazy-making melody followed anyone home that night, & into quiet moments during the coming weeks it reappeared as ghost-song.

On those hot summer days the asphalt cooked its territorial markings to a new threat level. Anyone would figure this to be the site of a pissing contest. One slow afternoon everyone got fed up. An idea occurred to nobody, an attempt to combat the displeasure of this little reeking stretch of macadam. The sign on the pillar stated:

Nobody went home after work that day & crafted a sticker. Everyone spent way too much time on getting the image drawn & inked perfectly. The next day, once the sticker was in place, the sign now displayed:

Anyone could feel good about that public service.