Two dollars and forty-nine cents. I drive around. Get my extra large coffee. The guy hands me a penny and the receipt. Closes the window. I knock at it. Give him back the paper. You know, he says, if you fill out the survey and bring it back you get a free doughnut. Ok, I say. This has been happening every day for the last three months. I could’ve had nearly a hundred doughnuts. Every day. Same guy working the drive through. Same guy going through the drive through. It’s become a comedic experiment in memory; I know we all look alike. But every day I do this, and every day he tells me about the survey and the free doughnut. It’s like Sisyphus pushing the rock. It’s so futile it’s become a routine. We’re like Martin and Lewis every morning. Some days I switch it up: the price of gas, hey? I hear ya, he says. And then the receipt/doughnut bit. I can’t tell who’s more insane–he or I. I can’t tell anything anymore. Except two dollars and forty-nine cents. And then swing a right, and another right, and a left…and I’m back to where I was the day before. And the day before that. The details are ugly. There is no beauty in them ever. Life is not short. It’s never that. How’yeh? All right? Awright. Two dollars and forty-nine cents. Price of gas, hey? I hear ya. Eighty-six doughnuts.