Perchance to Dream

Disclaimer: See Prologue

Summary: Stan has to work.

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At Work III

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I'm absolutely thrilled to leave school and head to work. Head held high and with a newly invigorated step, I make the half-mile trek to Jumpin Java in only eight minutes. Even the walk is better today. The air is still bitterly cold, and there's a 20 percent chance of snow around midnight, but it's sunny and there's no wind. There are no enraged drivers trying to kill me, no evil squirrels, and no pigeons to defecate upon my head. I only have to be there three hours, so it'll be better than a normal day, and even though it's begun eating more of my weekend, Greg signing up for that evening class is the best thing that's happened in a while. I've actually had evenings to myself, allowing me the opportunity to do shit.

I walk into Jumpin Java, grinning at the sign on the door that announces in large, bold print, that Jumpin Java will close early today for "Administrative Business." Very clever wording on Greg's part, but I figure he would've flunked out of the class if he wasn't clever, so there you go. I see a couple old people reading the newspaper, but no Greg. He must be in the back room, so I drop my bag behind the counter and toss my coat on top of it and head into the back. "Hey Greg," I say, knocking lightly on the door to get his attention.

"Hi, Stan," Greg says. "Ready to get to work?"

"Ready as ever," I reply, grinning.

"Alright, get out there, then," Greg says, not looking up from his Marketing Strategies textbook.

"No problemo, boss," I say with a grin, walking out to the register as the first of the customary sea of schoolchildren heads in.

Tweek is the first today.

"Oh Jesus!" he exclaims. "You guys are closing early!? What'm I supposed to do?"

"Get some to go?" I suggest.

"To go?"

"Yeah, you know…carry-out?"

"You guys do that?"

"Of course we do that!"

"Oh. Well, then…I'll have five of my usual, please, Stan."

"Thirty-six ninety-five, Tweek."

"OH JESUS!" Tweek exclaims, handing over his debit card. Glaring, I swipe it and get Tweek to sign off on the receipt before going to make five of Tweek's favorite. One thing I don't think I'll ever understand is how he can consume that much caffeine. You're only supposed to have like three cups of coffee a day as an ADULT, or else you're at risk for heart disease. Tweek drinks ten to fifteen cups a day. He should be dead five times over by now.

"Here you go, Tweek," I say after I finish, handing him four in a travel carrier and one to drink. Twitching and shaking, he grabs the one outside the carrier and drains probably half of it.

"Thanks so much, Stan," he says, taking off.

"Yeah, no problem, Tweekers," I mutter, turning to the next person in line.

"Cartman."

"Hippie. You going to cause me even more problems today?"

"Am I going to cause YOU more problems today?" I ask incredulously. "You've been causing ME problems for the past three years, I think I'm entitled to cause you a few now and then. What do you want?"

"Your mom."

"You can't have her. What else?"

"Just a coffee," Fatass says, forking over a dollar. "With cream."

"Fine," I say, grabbing the dollar and putting it into the register. I pour him a cup, add the cream, and thrust it over.

"So long, farewell, aufveiderschein, adieu," I say, directing him to the door.

"Dosvidanya, adios, and sayonara to you too, pillow-biting assmaster!" Cartman throws back at me, stalking out the door.

"Stan? You work here?" the next person in line asks. I look up.

"Uhm, I've worked here for about three years, Wendy," I say. "How can I help you?"

"Well, uh, I don't really drink coffee, I'm just getting something for Kyle." I bristle as she mentions his name, and scowl and she fumbles around in her purse for something.

"Uhh…he wanted a mocha-caramel latte with half-caf Colombian coffee and no cream. Oh, and a biscotti thing." I glare. What a fucking douche. First, he wants a pretentious drink that's typically seen in OC-drone, boat shoe, khaki pants, and polo-shirt wearing, designer sunglasses-sporting, bimbo-getting types. With rich parents and no troubles in the world. For second, HE MADE HIS GIRLFRIEND GET IT FOR HIM! What a fucking jackass!

"Stan?" Wendy asks, jolting me out of my mental ravings.

"What?"

"How much is that?"

"Oh. Uhm, six thirty-three." Wendy gives me six fifty, and I give her the change before making that jackass Jew of a boyfriend of hers his mocha-caramel latte. I swear to fucking God, he is such a bastard. Now that I can look outside, there's his car, and he's just looking in! He could have gotten it himself, but nooooooo, he had to use someone else, because … I dunno, either because he wants to make sure he avoids interacting with me like the plague, or because he's just a jackass who, as the King of the School, just LOVES not having to do anything for himself. Or some combination of the two.

"Here, Wendy," I say, handing it and the two biscottis over. "Tell Kyle to have a great day."

"Oh, you too, Stan!" she says cheerily, flouncing out. "I'll see you in school tomorrow!"

"Bye, Wendy," I say, waving and plastering a fake smile on my face that lasts only until the door shuts, at which point I feel like vomiting. She gets back into Kyle's car and begins an animated conversation with him, and he looks like he's constipated as she starts talking. What a fucking jackass.

"Stan?"

"Yes?"

"Uhm, can I have some coffee?" It's Kenny.

"Oh. Hi Kenny. Sure. Just coffee?" I ask.

"Nah, I'm not a douche like Broflovski. Just coffee, please."

"Three quarters." Kenny gives me seven dimes and a nickel. Well, he's not rich either, I guess… I get him his coffee and he gives me a little half-wave goodbye as he leaves. I'm puzzled. It's like fucking old-home week here. None of these people have spoken to me for the last three years, and now they're treating me like my family never lost all my money.

There's something going on here. Something strange. I mean…what's happened to Kyle's control over the school's population? It's been like…General Order One for the last three years that I am to be Avoided at All Costs. And now…what, I'm not? Who knocked down the Berlin Wall that's been separating me from society? Was it the girls? I mean, I know that they can totally dominate someone's life, I suppose if they wanted to see me out and about, they could "persuade" the guys, but…

No, no that's ridiculous. There's gotta be some other reason. Hell, even the idea that Cartman's got some huge amount of blackmail on Kyle that forced him out of his leadership and that Cartman decided to bring me down by lulling me into a false sense of security is more believable. But highly improbable. I have absolutely no clue about why people are allowed to speak to me now. But I'm almost certain Jew is behind it, and if Jew has a plan for me, I'm probably going come out of it looking like a buffoon. If I come out of it at all. You know what they say: Meddle not in the affairs of Jews, for they will betray you to the Romans for crucifixion if you piss them off.

The next hour and a half is rather uneventful, no one of any note stops by, the old people finish their newspapers and leave, and by 4:20, the place is empty. Since no one's come in to order since four, I got all my cleaning and supply-putting-away done early. I've even wiped down all the tables and placed the chairs on top of them. The time being 4:29, I head back to the back room, to let Greg know that we're ready to lock up.

I'm all the way inside the back room before I open my mouth.

"Greg," I say, catching his attention.

"Time already?" he asks. As he does, the clock on the far wall ticks over to 4:30. I grin at him.

"Yep, time's up, Greg."

"Shit," he replies, closing his book and standing up, reaching for his keyring. "I'm gonna bomb that exam, I have no idea what it's on."

"You'll be fine. Just remember, it's NOT Herbie Hancock," I reply, stopping cold as the bells on the front door jingle, indicating that someone's entered the store.

"Stan?" a tentative voice calls out. "Stan, are you here?" It's … Kyle?

"Aren't you gonna go answer?" Greg asks.

"I don't talk to that kid. Tell him I'm busy doing inventory, or that I'm gone or something," I reply.

"Stan…"

"Just do it, OK?" I hiss.

"You owe me," Greg replies before putting on a curious face and walking out front.

"Can I help you?" I hear him ask as I remain out of sight.

"Yes, is Stan here?" Kyle asks.

"No, no he's not."

"But…aren't those his coat and bag?" Shit!

"No…" Greg says smoothly. "Those are mine." Oh, thank you Greg. Thank you SOMUCH.

"Are you sure? I've been watching for ten minutes, I didn't see him leave…" He's been WHAT? What the FUCK is going on?

"He went out the back. Wanted to have a smoke before he headed home." Greg, if I were gay, I'd kiss you on the lips. Hell, I still may.

"What?"

"You heard me. Beat it, kid, I've got a test to go fail," Greg says, waiting a few moments before repeating, "Go on, get out." A few seconds later, the bells chime again, signifying that Kyle has indeed left the store. I hear a click as Greg locks the door, and soon enough he comes back carrying my bag and coat.

"How'd you know I smoke?" is the first question out of my mouth.

"Saw the packet in your coat pocket. You're gonna wanna go out the back now, by the way," he says as I put on my coat and sling my bag over my shoulders.

"I can't thank you enough for that."

"You're just lucky I have good improv skills."

"And that you love me."

"Yeah, sure, Stan. Now, beat it."

"Yes sir!" I say, skedaddling. I peek my head out the back door and check both directions for Kyle. Seeing no Jew, I stalk out through the snow-filled alleyway and put myself on my path to the liquor store.

There's definitely something wrong here. Kyle's up to something, I know he is. But this is completely out of left field and – most importantly – completely out of character for him. We don't talk anymore. And he's ANYTHING but timid where I'm concerned. He alternates between vitriolic and icily cold. Like an Icy-Hot patch of hate. I can't think of any possible reason why Kyle would turn up at my workplace after-hours asking for me.

It makes about as much sense as the Buffs Baseball team winning the College World Series. The Buffs don't even HAVE a Baseball team anymore! That's how crazy and completely fucked up this is. Shouldn't have happened. No way, no how, not possible. It's just fucking insane.

I'm going to get my supplies, go home, and eat supper. I'll have a smoke on my way home. But I'm going to have a beer after supper. There is so much not right with this in anyway, if I worry about it or try to analyze it, I'm going to explode. I will brain will turn into a carnivorous beast and eat itself and I'll just … I dunno, die. What I will do, though, is keep my guard up. Be on the lookout for Jew and Jew's Cronies. No talking to Kenny. No talking to Wendy. Nothing by taunting Cartman. Maybe kick Butters in the balls, just because he's Butters. No talking to anyone. That'll solve the problem. It's worked for the last three years.

It should work now.

God I hope it does.

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Notes: Oh my God, look, it's an update from me after a little more than two weeks. I did get it up before Valentine's Day though, so props for me?

Anyway, this story is on pace to be my best performing ever. I'm absolutely thrilled, even if I seem a bit whiney. Reviews were up last chapter, so I'm happy about that, and I'm more or less happy about how the new semester's working out.

Mondays and Wednesdays are busy as hell, Tuesdays and Thursdays are boring as hell, and Fridays are a strange mix of the two. So, all in all, all's good.

Next chapter should be up before the end of February. It's a short month and I have a few presentations to do, so …

Phoenix II