Bob Fingerman - Pariah

“Why?” Ellen repeated, dumbfounded. “Because we need you to stay. Won’t you please stay and help us?”

The others all nodded encouragement at Ellen, mutely acknowledging their acceptance of her as their advocate. As they fought the urge to tear into the groceries they watched the back and forth between the two females, their heads looking up, then down in unison, like spectators at a lopsided tennis match.

“You want me to stay,” the girl said, sounding it out for her own benefit.

“Yes. Yes we do. Very much. Please stay. We’d be very grateful if you did.”

Ellen was trembling, trying to keep it together. The girl stood there and looked at her feet, which were encased in black combat boots. She wore longish black cargo shorts, low on her hips, exposing a generous helping of her very healthy-looking belly. She had no boobs to speak of, but possessed wide, womanly hips. Her hair, also black, was short, choppy, and boyish. She wound and unwound the cord of her earbuds around her hand, pondering, occasionally fanning away a pesky fly. Epochal seconds passed.

“Yeah, okay,” she finally responded, voice flat as the world before Columbus.

Ellen and Alan set up her expandable dining table on the roof and Dabney fired up the slightly rusty hibachi he’d found two roofs over, preparing to share their first communal meal since they’d been forced into these straits. Paper and plastic plates and utensils were distributed, freshly liberated from Food City along with all the comestibles. Everyone greedily eyed the various cans and boxes as they were freed from the plastic shopping bags, their colorful labels beacons of the feast yet to come.

“Fuckin’ awesome,” Eddie declared, holding aloft a bag of Doritos.

At first the meal had been hard to enjoy, everyone’s reawakened sense of smell welcome as the scent of grilling meats and veggies seduced them, then not so welcome as they choked on the stench of their rotting neighbors down in the street. But good smells triumphed over rotten and soon dishes brimming with steaming hot meat products and vegetables were devoured with relish. Real relish. Jars of it. Condiments had reverted to seasoning status, to enhance but not be the main course.

The mood was high and the behavior almost courtly, each course consumed amidst choruses of “please” and “thank you.” Even Eddie was caught up in the graciousness. His mama would’ve been proud. The SPAM family of products-Hot & Spicy, Lite, Oven Roasted Turkey, Hickory Smoked, and Classic, of course-had never tasted so good.

“This is like filet mignon,” Abe said, savoring a chunk of the briny potted meat.

“Better,” Karl said, shoveling a heap of baked beans onto his plate. “Oh my God, I can’t believe how great this is.”

Innumerable permutations of the same sentiment were repeated throughout the repast, punctuated by grateful belches and the occasional fart. When everyone was too stuffed to budge, Abe, being the resident old man of Jewish persuasion, uttered the customary cornball joke that follows big meals: “Waiter, check please.” But rather than the groans of embarrassment he’d gotten in the past from his family, laughter erupted, even from Ruth. Abe blinked in astonishment and said, “No one ever laughs at that line. We should starve to death more often.”

“ Ucch , Abraham. Quit while you’re ahead.” Even Ruth got a laugh.

It had been a long while since anyone’s stomach ached from overeating, but that was the case, and the pain was delectable. A symphony of blurps and blorps , gastric juices breaking down adult-size portions, serenaded the residents of 1620 as they rubbed full bellies and had seconds and thirds. When no one could cram down any more, Alan and Karl brought the soiled disposable dishes and so forth to the edge of the roof and rained the debris down on the zombies below, feeling smug in their well-fed state. Ellen’s smile faded and her brow furrowed as it hit her the girl was not among them. She hadn’t even partaken of the feast.

“What kind of ingrates and assholes are we?” she gasped, slapping her forehead.

“Huh?” Alan said, turning to face her.

“The girl. The girl! Our good Samaritan! We didn’t even invite her to join us. Are we insane?”

“Crazed by hunger, yeah,” Eddie said.

“It was an oversight,” Abe said. “No disrespect intended.”

“No disrespect? We’re idiots,” Ellen said.

“Don’t ruin the mo-”

Ellen raced downstairs and into 2A, where the girl sat by the window, feet up on the sill, nodding her head to the rapid beats assailing her ears. Ellen smoothed her features, then stepped over to the girl and gently tapped her shoulder. The girl looked up and again plucked out an earbud. “What’s up?” she asked.

“I, uh. We just ate, and I feel like a real idiot that we got so caught up in our celebration and all that we, uh… Christ, this is mortifying, that we, uh, forgot to invite you. It’s unconscionable and…”

“I ate earlier.” She was about to replace the earbud, but Ellen grasped the girl’s wrist and prevented it. The girl wasn’t miffed at all. She was indifference incarnate. Her sangfroid ruffled Ellen.

“Still,” Ellen said, “it was wrong of us and I’m really so, so, so very sorry.”

“No sweat.” Again the girl made to replace her headphone.

“I, uh,” Ellen half laughed and managed a fretful smile. “I, that is, we don’t even know your name. We should have been having this dinner to celebrate your arrival. The food just made us forget the whole raison d’être for our party, which is pretty stupid.”

“No big. Can I, uh?” She gestured with the rappity-tapping earbud.

“Your name. Could you at least tell me your name?” Ellen hoped she didn’t sound hysterical, but this girl’s demeanor was rattling her, big time.

“Mona.”

“Mona, I’m Ellen,” she said, offering her right hand, which Mona shook. Her handshake was unexpectedly firm, though it might just seem so to Ellen, her hand being so frangible.

“Okay then.” And with that Mona slipped the earbud back in and resumed nodding her head.

Ellen stood there, uncertain what to do. Though there was no belligerence from Mona whatsoever, she felt as if royalty had dismissed her, which was irrational. Maybe Mona was just getting her bearings, a stranger in new surroundings. Up close and personal, Ellen admired Mona’s complexion, which was smooth and perfect, the bridge of her nose and cheeks lightly freckled. Mona’s eyes, though listless, were blue as the Caribbean. Her lips were bee-stung, and pointed up slightly in the corners, as if caught in a permanent smirk. Ellen’s eyes traveled down Mona’s neck, which was solid and round, not a course of concavities and sinew like her own. Maybe now that food was back on the menu Ellen could look forward to being curvy again. What a thought.

Freckles speckled Mona’s shoulders, which flared out in a strong V, and while her arms weren’t exactly muscular, they were solid. All of her was solid. Ellen cast her eyes toward Mona’s legs, which rested on the sill, one ankle cocked atop the other, the toe of the boot tapping out the tattoo of her private tunes. Tattoos. That’s what Mona was missing. Though she looked the type her skin was bare of decoration. Her calves looked formidable. This girl did a lot of walking. Maybe in no hurry, but she’d been out there on foot, somehow surviving.

“Okay then,” Ellen echoed, certain Mona wasn’t listening, and turned and walked back toward the door. As she reached for the doorknob Mona said, “Hey,” causing Ellen’s chest to seize.

“Yes?” Ellen answered, heart thudding.

“This my space or do I hafta share?”