Jeff Jacobson - Wormfood

Heck swiveled back around, shaking his head. “Goddamn rain. There goes any business for the day.” He sighed, then said, “What the hell. Might as well just have a couple more.”

I was reaching for Heck’s empty glasses when a deep, booming crack of thunder shook the air. That’s when I saw Heck’s plate. It was sitting directly in front of him and the glasses surrounded it like bloodied cops guarding a horrible crime scene. There was a lot of yellow wiped around the plate, and I remembered that Heck liked his eggs over easy, just barely cooked. Mixed into the bright, primary-color yellow were a few bits of crust and what looked like the chewed ends of a couple of hamburger patties.

Where had that food come from?

Fat Ernst appeared in the restroom doorway, patting his huge belt buckle affectionately. I jerked my hand away from Heck’s plate as if I’d been stung. Not wanting to draw attention to myself, I started grabbing glasses and stacked them in the plastic bin. Fat Ernst stomped through the dining area, hitching up his jeans as he barreled along like a freighter in heavy seas. “Mornin’. How’d it go last night?”

The question caught me off guard. What the hell did he mean? I shrugged. “Uh, okay, I guess.” It came out more as a question than an answer, but Fat Ernst didn’t seem to notice. At least he didn’t seem pissed that I was late.

“Good, good.” He stopped next to me and Heck and fished around in the front pocket of his jeans for a second, then reached out and grabbed my left hand. I tried not to flinch, but if I did, he didn’t notice. Or at least, he pretended not to notice. He just slapped something dry and crinkled into my left palm. Then he waddled around the end of the bar and came toward us on the other side.

I risked a glance down at my palm. A fifty dollar bill was wedged into the crease of skin between my thumb and forefinger. I almost dropped it in surprise. “Yeah, last night was fine,” I said.

“Glad to hear it.” Fat Ernst met my eyes for a moment and I thought I caught a flash of a smirk on his fat face, but it was gone before I had a chance to register anything clearly. He winked at Heck. “How you doin’ there, old man? Looks like you might need another one.”

Heck nodded, as if this were the solution to a complex mathematical problem. “Yeah, you know, I think you might be right.” He glanced over at the jukebox. “Now, if you could just manage to put a couple of songs from the Sons of the Pioneers on that goddamn jukebox of yours, hell, I’d die a happy man. You know, something like ‘Water.’” Heck started singing in a high, warbling tone as I grabbed his plate. “All day I face the barren waste, without the taste of … water …” He placed both hands flat on the bar and drew himself up, as if his head were attached to a fishing line that was being reeled up to the surface. Heck echoed himself in a high, falsetto voice, “… water … water …”

Fat Ernst grinned, eyes bright. “We’ll have to see about that one, Heck.”

I decided to take advantage of Fat Ernst’s good mood and satisfy my curiosity. It just seemed like the right time to ask. Without really thinking, I opened my mouth and the words tumbled out. “Hey, have you guys ever seen Ma Sawyer? I mean, do you know anything about her?”

Heck crunched his dentures together like a startled snapping turtle. Fat Ernst stood back for a moment, then sagged, leaning on the bar, staring at me. He didn’t say anything for a several seconds. “Why?”

“I, uh, saw her last night,” I stammered.

“You saw her last night?” Heck scrunched his eyebrows together. “Huh.” Then, as if he’d forgotten his question, said suddenly, “I saw her once, man. Way back, before the accident.” He stared at the bottles behind the bar. “It was over at Smith’s Butcher Block, that place on Third Street.” He took a sip of his drink before continuing. “Now this, this was damn near thirty years ago. Them boys, they were just little kids.” I had a hard time picturing Bert and Junior Sawyer as little kids. “Pearl had gotten into an argument with the butcher over some damn thing.” Heck looked up at Fat Ernst. “You remember old Guy Smith, right? Well, man, she backed him up against the counter and was chewing into him like you wouldn’t believe.” Oh, I can believe it , I thought. “At the time, what took my attention the most was those boys, man. They were grabbing handfuls of ground beef and just flinging them ateach other like goddamn monkeys throwing their shit at each other. I couldn’t believe it. It was just, well …” Heck searched for the word. “… uncivilized.”

Fat Ernst nodded, settling into his stool, while I stood there, plastic bin on my hip, next to Heck. I thought about climbing onto a barstool, but it was kind of an unwritten rule that employees weren’t allowed on the stools. Heck stared at his plate. “But now … hell, man, I remember that woman. She couldn’t have cared less about what her boys were up to. She was too busy staring old Guy down. I guess she was wanting to know why he wasn’t buying any meat from her. Man. Poor old Guy. He kept saying that it wasn’t up to him. But she wasn’t listening.” Heck pounded the bar in sudden recognition. “I remember ’cause it was around Thanksgiving. I was there getting some pork sausage for the stuffing. That’s right.” He stopped, deep in his memories. “Finally, Guy tried to get away, to get around the meat counter. But Pearl, man, she just struck, like a goddamn snake, just grabbed poor Guy by the balls. She looked strong, I tell you that much. She grabbed old Guy’s nuts, I mean hard, man, and hung on, demanding to know why her meat wasn’t being bought. She’d shake him now and again and Guy’d turn about the color of this plate here. The last thing I heard was that rusty voice screaming, ’You listen to me ‘less you want me take a hammer to your balls again.’ I don’t know what finally happened, man, but what I remember—clear as daylight—is that you don’t mess with that woman.”

Fat Ernst nodded. “You got that right. That Pearl, she isn’t a woman you mess with. No, sir.” I nodded too. I knew exactly how Heck and Fat Ernst felt. I’d seen Pearl, and I didn’t want to have anything to do with her. She scared the hell out of me. “Nobody fucks with Pearl. ‘Specially now, after the accident,” Fat Ernst muttered.

“Why not?” I whispered back, afraid to speak louder.

“Well, let’s just say we’ve all heard the stories,” Fat Ernst said, rolling back on his stool. “As far as I can tell, people started talking when she wasforced to retire from the DMV. It was the supervisor, remember? John Halkin, I think. Poor goddamn stupid bastard. He shoulda known,” Fat Ernst said. “He’s the one that fired her. Well, the story goes that he didn’t fire her, he had to … let her … go. She hit retirement age, you know? Not too long after that little talk, the supervisor’s house gets all infested with flies. I mean to tell you, flies were coming out of the fucking woodwork. They were flying out of the goddamn refrigerator, the air conditioning vents, the bathtub drain, the kitchen sink, closets, dresser drawers, electric sockets, cracks in the floor, you know, between the wall and the floor, everywhere.”

A creeping, itching feeling crawled up my back and into my hair. It was all I could do not to twist my arm around and furiously scratch at my back. Fat Ernst stared out the front window, watching the rain. “And no matter what the hell this poor bastard tries, nothing works, you know? Nothing. Poisons, chemical bombs, flypaper, a fucking flyswatter—you name it, nothing worked. The flies just kept coming. Finally, he tries to sell the damn property. But every time somebody comes to check out the house, the damn flies drive ’em off.” Fat Ernst took a heavy breath, slapping his hands and clasping his fingers together between his knees.