Дэймон Найт: Orbit 12

But the next afternoon, Burger Queen pulled some potatoes out of the walk-in, and when I was gossiping to her over the fries pit, she put her mouth to one side and stared into her scoop and said, “Have you seen what we’ve got in the freezer?”

I said yes and suggested we call it Burger Creature.

When business was slow, and our manager was taking his afternoon coma, we looked in on Burger Creature again. He was crouched in a corner by the floor drain, nibbling at his fingers and drooling Coke syrup. Queen stood with one hand on her hip and massaged her eyes, unsticking one of her lashes. Then she leaned on the meat rack for support. I took another look at the Creature, scratching his french fries with his thin, brown fingers and smiling a sweet ketchup grin. Then I leaned against Burger Queen.

“What do we do with it?” she asked with the most mournful expression on her pretty, smeared face. “I mean, we can’t cook it!”

“I suppose we could take it on as an apprentice.” I still don’t know why I said that. Genius probably. Genius.

The Creature turned out to be an obedient pet and helpful with simple tasks like after-hours mop-up. We let him out secretly, and he was content to look through the garbage or press his face to a window, watching the cars go by and gurgling to himself.

Burger Queen was very attached to him. She’d lead him by the hand to a counter she hadn’t wiped, get him to spring his rear up there, and she’d rest her arms on his knees and bitch about the day’s bastards. Then she’d mess his head of fries, say, “You’re cute,” and walk him back to the freezer with her arm slung around his waist I’d just chew my split ends and watch the two of them.

During the day he lived among the buns, counting inventories on his fingers and wetly humming the commercials he learned from my radio. He had a talent for fitting himself into things, and if I opened the freezer without knocking, I’d catch his fingers folding the flap of some carton down over himself. His favorite hiding place, the box that came with the orange drink/purple drink fountain, was a reliable place to dump him out of when he was asleep.

A playful kick in the side would send him to his work, murmuring and squishing at his eyes.

We even bought a new undershirt for him. But we couldn’t coax him into trying it on. He just stood in a corner with his arms pressed to his sides. We thought he might be modest, so we left him alone for a minute, but he stayed inside his old rag. I tried to pull it off him, but it came loose with a sucking, tearing sound, and I let go. Where the strap left his shoulder, I’d seen a rut. He whimpered for a while, and Burger Queen stroked his arm. I handed her a napkin, but instead of wiping her hands, she used it to dab some mustard off his cheek. I never messed with him after that. He was thin but tall.

We used to debate the question of Burger Creature’s origin. Queen’s theory was that he’d been a gawky, horny boy who’d stuffed himself with greasy food until he became a mass of acne and mail-ordered a pimple cream that turned him into Burger Creature. Unlikely.

I think he just assembled himself from the garbage at a landfill project. I can see him clawing up through the clay, running from a bulldozer, jumping into the scoop of an outbound garbage truck, and hitchhiking by instinct toward his source: a burger joint.

There is another possibility. There’s the chance that Burger Creature was designed and molded by one of the corporations who own these franchises, but he escaped or was abandoned. He could be a reject from Research and Development. Maybe there’s a whole race of them in production. Waiting to be released.

Behind the counter, life went on.

“Two big Cokes. One no ice. Two fries. Two double cheese vodka stinking drunk with no mustard.”

“Girl Burger, I’ve been thinking,” says my partner to me, “why not let Creature out in the open all day?”

I looked at her, opening a carton of foil wrappers, then at Creature, squeegeeing a window in the early morning light. Was he beginning to look normal to her?

“Because the customers would see him. How’s that?”

“Would they really? I mean, think about it. I mean, do they see you?”

I knew what she meant. Nobody looks at you when you run counter. They look at your uniform. “Will that be all, sir?” “No, that’ll be it” Unless you’re built like Burger Queen, you could be anything.

“You mean have him take orders?”

“Why not?”

“Does he know how?”

“Of course he does. He’s been watching.” She proudly pecked him on the cheek and licked her lips. “I’ve been waiting to try it, and with the manager called in sick . . .”

“Hangover.”

“Overdose of grease . . . there’s no better time. People are groggy in the morning anyhow.”

I took the squeegee from him. I was counting on one thing: nobody sees specifics at a burger place. Only a network of chromium and yellow parking lines and plastic cups and grilled meat. Who could possibly fit in better than Burger Creature?

While I unlocked the place, Burger Queen tied an apron on him. He stepped toward the customer window. His hands wandered unsurely up his front and into his mop of french fries. He looked around as if he’d lost something. He rummaged through some drawers and pulled out a disposable white two-corner cap. He fitted it on his head. He stood up straight. Something inside him snapped into place.

Our first customer pulled into the parking lot and climbed out of his Impala. He looked like a salesman on the road, the middle-class equivalent of a hungry truck driver. Creature was standing behind the counter. The man pushed through the door. We pretended to be busy. The man put his elbows on the counter and read the menu board.

“Double hamburger and a vanilla shake.” He stared at the formica counter top. “And french fries.”

Then the Burger Creature did three things at the same time and never slowed down. With one hand he grabbed a carry-out box and snapped it open with a flick of the wrist. With the other he slung two patties off their wrappers onto the grill. Flipping on the gas, he stepped to the frier, dumped fries, wiped counter, pulled cup, pumped vanilla, pushed burger, shpritzed milk, shook fries. He was working in front of himself, beside himself with a frightening reach, opening shelves with his sneakers, casual, perfectly timed, unstoppable. He was in his element. Burger Queen was beaming. He set the order on the counter and rang it up on the register.

The man looked at the price on the register, pulled two dollars from his wallet onto the counter, scooped his change out of the change scoop, took his order in one arm, and pushed out through the door.

Burger Queen hugged Creature around the waist He wiped his hands on the back of her uniform and seemed confused by the attention.

We sat and watched him through the noon rush. Years of training could never have produced such a short-order cook. He kept a dozen orders going at once, and still had time to sit on the sizzling grill and keep the burgers company. But we had a bad moment when he ran low on meat. I caught him ripping a chunk from the inside of his arm, and Queen used up half a tin of Band-Aids, trying to make one stick to him. Also, if you watched close, you’d see him use a healthy spit in place of the bottled ketchup. The customers loved the service regardless.

A couple of high-school kids even talked to him.

“You’re new here aren’t you?”

He nodded.

“I didn’t think I ever saw you here.”

He shook his head.

“Well, you sure are keeping busy.”

He smiled.