Jeff Jacobson - Wormfood

I never saw a tip the whole time I worked for Fat Ernst.

I flipped the burger over and grabbed the bag of hamburger buns and Grandma’s vegetables from the fridge. Fat Ernst had refused to pay for them because they were all smashed up, but he still wanted to use them. I cut up the onion and crushed tomato as best I could and prepped the buns. By then, the hamburger patty was nearly done so I dropped a slice of American cheese on it and collected the fries. They were crispy enough, I decided. I scraped the burger off the griddle and dropped it on the bun, piled everything up on top of it, dumped the fries on the plate and carried it out to Slim.

“’Bout time,” Fat Ernst said, not taking his eyes off the television. As I set the plate down in front of Slim, Heck exploded in a fit of liquid coughing. He grabbed the edge of the bar to brace himself as his body shook and trembled.

“Goddamnit, Heck!” Fat Ernst barked, scowling as he wiped off his arm with a rag. Slim moved his plate over a little and took a bite out of his cheeseburger.

Heck shakily reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. His eyes had narrowed into slits, his mouth hung open, and deep, guttural sounds bubbled underneath his rasping breath. He fumbled with the lighter and dropped it on the bar.

Slim snapped, “Do you mind? I’m trying to eat here and you gotta light up a cigarette. You want me to come over to your place and spit in your food when you’re trying to eat? It’s the same goddamn thing.” Slim shook his head and took another bite.

If Heck heard Slim, it didn’t look like it registered. It didn’t look like he was hearing much of anything, actually. He left the lighter on the bar and put the cigarette next to it. His fingers trembled.

I glanced up at the television. A guy in a garish sweater was standing in front of a satellite-fed weather map. A large swirl of white static loomed off the coast while the guy grinned like an idiot and swept his arm across northern California, demonstrating the path of the storm.

Heck grabbed his beer and tilted his head back.

“I’m goddamn sick of this fucking rain,” Fat Ernst told the television.

Slim nodded in agreement and crunched his onions.

Heck dropped his head back down, holding his beer out to the side. A thin rope of spit trailed out of his mouth to the bottle. As I watched, the rope broke and drool ran down Heck’s chin. It was clear at first, but as more drool slowly oozed out of the corner of Heck’s mouth, it got thicker and yellow. Then it got red.

“You feeling okay, Heck?” I asked.

Heck dropped the beer bottle and I heard it clunk and roll away on the wood floor.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Fat Ernst shouted at Heck. Fat Ernst turned to me, “Clean it up. Now.”

Heck started to shiver. He slipped off the back of his stool, swayed for a moment holding his potbelly, then lurched off toward the restroom. Fat Ernst shouted after him, “You better not make a mess this time, you old fart.”

Heck fell into the restroom, and a second later, the toe-curling sounds of wet, violent retching filled the restaurant.

“Oh, that’s fucking great!” Fat Ernst shouted and threw the rag at the television.

“Good God,” Slim said and put his burger back on the plate, eyeing it with disgust.

Fat Ernst swiveled around on his stool and pointed a pudgy finger at me. “You. You go clean it up. Right fucking now. When I get in there later I swear to God I better be able to eat off that toilet and it better smell like a fucking mountain meadow or I will rip your tongue out and use it to wipe my ass. Am I making myself clear here?”

I nodded and darted into the kitchen to get my trusty mop. I didn’t look at either Fat Ernst or Slim as I scurried back around the bar to the restroom. When I got there, the door had swung shut. I stopped, bucket in one hand, mop in the other, suddenly unsure of what to do. I set the bucket on the floor and knocked timidly. “Heck? Heck? You okay? I’m gonna come in, okay?”

The door swung open easily with a slight groan from the hinges. The sink was off to my immediate left, the chipped and stained urinal hanging off the wall next to it, and the metal sheet of the stall closed off the back wall, hiding the toilet from the rest of the small bathroom. I could see Heck’s boots in the gap under the metal wall.

I stepped inside, saying, “Hey, Heck? You okay?” I left the mop and the bucket near the sink and reluctantly stuck my head around the stall. The first thing I noticed was the blood. It was all over the place. It was splattered across the toilet, across the water tank, across the walls. Across Heck.

He looked dead. He was on his knees, stuck between the toilet bowl and the wall, hunched over and twisted sideways. One hand rested palm up on his thighs, while the other was draped across the bowl. Wet, clinging red streamers of toilet paper were hanging from Heck’s chin. It looked like he had tried to wipe his mouth off but had given up somewhere along the line. His eyes were closed and his mouth was open. I watched a thin sliver of crimson drool roll out of the corner of his mouth and drop down toward his chest like a tiny red spider unspooling her web.

“Heck,” I whispered again, crouching down.

No answer. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe, nothing. I wanted to shout at him, anything to wake him. But instead I reached out slowly, very slowly, and prodded his shoulder with the first two knuckles of my right hand. It didn’t feel right to touch him with the bare tips of my fingers.

Still nothing.

I pushed again, harder this time. Nothing.

I didn’t know what to do. There wasn’t anything I could do except break the news. It was time to tell Fat Ernst. He’d have to call the ambulance, get Heck some help. I pulled my hand away from his shoulder.

Heck’s eyes popped open. His left hand, the one curled in his lap, shot out and grabbed the front of my shirt even before I had a chance to scream. His arm shivered slightly, shaking me, and wouldn’t let go. I grabbed his wrist and he flung his head back; his skull hit the wall and it sounded like a hard-boiled egg hitting the floor. Boot heels squeaked in the blood as his legs twitched, and one foot flopped back and forth. Something gurgled, deep in the back of his throat.

Heck’s head dropped forward, his mouth opened impossibly wide, and his entire body shuddered as if connected to a sputtering electrical current. A torrent of thick blood exploded out of his mouth and nose, splattering against the stall wall two feet away.

I screamed and ripped away from Heck’s grasp, my fingers scrabbling on the cold tile. Luckily, not much of the blood landed on me. Heck sank back against the wall and moaned something that only came out in frothy bubbles. I kept scrambling back until I hit the door. I managed to push myself to my feet, fumbling for the door handle. Heck’s eyes met mine for a brief second, and all I could see in them was a total, animal kind of pain.

“Uh, just … oh, God. Just take it easy, okay, Heck? You’re gonna be okay. I’ll get you some help. Just hang on.” Heck started to gag. I yanked open the door and screamed out toward the bar, “Call 911! Heck’s really sick! Call 911!” I turned back to Heck. He had slumped forward, facedown in the toilet. Every couple of seconds his back would shiver spastically and I heard more blood hitting the inside of the bowl.

Fat Ernst’s wheezing voice filled the doorway behind me, demanding “What the hell is going on?”

I whipped around, staring up into Fat Ernst’s wide face. I could see right up into his black nostrils, and for some reason this reminded meof Heck and my heart broke. “Call 911!” I shrieked, and was about to push out into the hall to make the damn call myself when Fat Ernst shoved me roughly against the sink as he took a step into the small restroom.