Ryan Boudinot - Blueprints of the Afterlife

The world was full of precious garbage. Woo-jin passed through it on his way home from work, scanning the field at the end of the runway for aluminum cans, bits of copper wire, rare earth elements scavenged from junked computers. He found a beer box, but whoever’d left it hadn’t put the empties back in their cardboard cubicles. He kicked the box and swung a plastic bag of rescued leftovers from his finger. As a professional dishwasher he only rescued food from the trash when he was certain none of his coworkers would catch him. If they spotted the clamshell box on top of the Hobart washer they’d think it was an order somebody never picked up from the takeout window, and if they happened to see that the burger inside had a bite out of it, they’d think it was Woo-jin who had bitten the bite rather than it being a burger that had already had a bite taken out of it. He’d scraped this particular burger out of a plastic basket along with congealed gravy fries. Patsy, his foster sister, was going to want that burger, Woo-jin knew. He could either eat the burger and gravy fries now, in the field, and go home stuffed but not have to share with Patsy, or he could show up with the food and have Patsy yell at him about who needed the three-quarters of a burger the most. Patsy was always talking at him about how lucky he was with his job because of all the free food. If he showed up empty-handed she accused him of not bringing food home on purpose. The only times she was really grateful was when he’d bring home a whole pie. Usually the pie was apple, or rather rhubarb. Sometimes, when he had to decide between taking something home that both he and Patsy liked or something that only he liked, he went with what only he liked so he didn’t have to share. And if he didn’t bring anything home he had to start right in and cook something for her anyway because usually she forgot to eat and was in a mood and yelled at him like he was a dick. Even though it was she who was growing penises out of her tits.

A UPS plane came down low like an earthquake riveted to the sky.

Glory hallelujah here was a can of Bud Light! He shook the remaining pissdroplets of beer out of it and slipped it into another white plastic bag, the one that wasn’t holding the food.

Did he even like his foster sister? Patsy? He never really asked himself that question, considering her as unremarkable as the clothes he schlupped to his body or the route he walked to work. Patsy simply was. What was she anyway? What did she do? While he was at work? It was like she was part house, part TV, and part something to give the plumbing to do, a way to collect money from the government in exchange for growing drugs and tissues in her plus-sized body. She was a pharmer. How it worked was this—she’d eaten herself to a size that meant she couldn’t move too good, and not moving too good meant one time she hurt herself in a bad fall and permanently messed up her back, and because her back was messed up she couldn’t get a regular job, and because she couldn’t get a regular job she was perfect for the job of pharming, which involved lying in bed most hours and watching inspirational videos. So she got money every month that let her eat enough to stay as plus-sized as she was and not have to get a job that asked her to move around, not like Woo-jin’s where the word hustle came routinely sputtering from the lips of the manager. As in hustle you bastards, we got the whole Elks Lodge to feed. Patsy plugged her face with food and her eyes with TV. She wobbled with anger if Woo-jin didn’t feed her the food they got from the money from the checks and the extra trash-saved food items from the restaurant where Woo-jin put in double shifts to pay for her to eat.

Woo-jin kicked a car muffler that was, for some reason, there. A plane took off, looked like a private jet, blowing his hair all over the place as it passed overhead.

Woo-jin didn’t feel particularly hungry. If he saved the three-quarters of a burger for later, Patsy would definitely want some and might even try to eat the whole thing. If he ate it now he’d at least get it to himself but then might get really hungry later and have something not as cool to eat, like ramen noodles with no flavor packet (Patsy liked to double up on the flavor packets, so by the end of the month the only ramens left—the ones she’d taken the extra flavor packet from—tasted like packing material). There was also the issue of the fries to deal with. Even fifteen minutes after they’re out of the deep fryer they start making the eater depressed on account of the coldness. Once the fat starts to congeal, well, forget you ever lived, pal. So it was because of the threat of congealing fries and the possibility he’d never get to eat the whole three-quarters of a burger that Woo-jin popped open the clamshell container and sat on a piece of airplane equipment. It was like a big refrigerator lying on its side, painted green with some sticky-outy parts.

Far down the tarmac a two-seater rose wobbling into the sky. The sky was looking purply and airbrushed like a druggie band album cover. Patsy knew a lot about druggie bands and their secret messages. She’d showed him some of the album covers in books she got at Good News Bookstore. What kind of good news was that supposed to be? News that guys in studded codpieces were controlling his mind to make him hail Satan and abuse cocaine like a goatfucker?

Woo-jin squirted ketchup from a packet he’d stashed in his jacket. He’d only taken one because technically it was stealing, so he had to make it go a long way. No fry could get more than a droplet of ketchup. It was a rationing decision. It bothered him that he’d dishonestly taken the packet, but what was he going to do? Eat congealed fries without the ketchup, like a mentally ill person? No thanks, guys. When the fries and burger were gone he put the clamshell back in its white plastic bag and proudly declared silently that he was not a litterer. In fact, he was the opposite of a litterer. Remembering the reason he’d taken a detour through this field in the first place, he looked around to see if there were maybe any redeemable cans lying around. When he looked behind the big metal piece of forgotten machinery he saw the dead girl.

Woo-jin was first all like There go the bugs—oh no there go the bugs! because three guesses as to what was crawling on the girl’s face. She was an Asianish-looking human wearing a dirty white button-up fancy-style shirt, black pants, and one black leather boot with the other foot just bare, hanging out there. Woo-jin’s three-quarters of a burger and fries rose up through his trunk and horizontally departed his face. He fell to his knees on the opposite side of the refrigerator-like machine and wheezed, then slowly rose and looked at the dead girl again, thinking, Please no bugs this time , but again there were the bugs! Bugs all over!

Woo-jin stumbled west toward the frontage road feeling—what’s the best word—probably bad . Not because some girl was dead with earwig accompaniment, but because now there’d be complex questions someone was going to ask him. Most likely a cop. He didn’t want to talk to any of those social people. He’d grown up talking to social people, sitting in waiting areas with complimentary brochures with titles like Suicide’s a Huge Bummer for Everyone while the smart smiling lawyers made decisions about him in closed rooms. His ears hurt from coldness, paradoxically throbbing and hot. Patsy would have all sorts of opinions about the dead girl and would probably get him in trouble for not doing something differently. What could he possibly do? He had no phone and couldn’t see the benefit of sticking around. He wished he hadn’t eaten that burger. No wonder the much-appreciated guest had sent it back.