Jeff Jacobson - Wormfood

“Maybe you ought to see a doctor about that,” I said in as much of a helpful tone as I could manage.

Slim finally got his coughing under control and hawked a large brown ball of phlegm into the mud. He pulled the handkerchief backout and blew his nose forcefully. It seemed like he’d forgotten I was there. He wiped his nose and again automatically checked what he’d deposited on the stiff blue cloth.

Slim flung the handkerchief out the window and wiped his hand frantically on the front of his shirt, biting off quick gasps of air. He fumbled with the gearshift, finally pulled it down into drive, and stomped on the gas pedal. The pickup lurched forward, fishtailing out of the weeds and onto the asphalt. I ducked down as globs of sticky mud flew all around me like shrapnel. A few drops stuck in my hair, my shirt, but at least I didn’t get any in my eyes. Slim’s pickup headed into the foothills.

Then I saw the handkerchief at the edge of the weeds.

I should have left it. I should have just climbed off the damn fence and walked off into the wet pasture. But curiosity got the better of me and I climbed down and pushed through the weeds to the side of the road. The handkerchief looked harmless enough as I crouched down on my haunches next to it. Still, I didn’t want to touch it, so I found a small twig in the weeds and stuck one end under the closest corner of the handkerchief and lifted the flap.

Three tiny gray worms squirmed over each other in a slimy smear of snot and blood.

I jumped back and flung the twig away. I wanted to climb the fence and run though the flooded pasture and leave this behind. Instead, I froze. What if these goddamn worms wriggled their way into the mud here in the weeds? God knows what might happen if they made it to the pasture; it was covered in at least three, four inches of water. They could go anywhere. I gritted my teeth and brought the heel of Grandpa’s boot down on the handkerchief, grinding the worms and the snot and blood into the asphalt. When I pulled my foot back, I could see there wasn’t much left of the worms. That made me feel a little better. But then I realized Slim was still out there, still infested with more of the worms. I jumped the fence and took off on a run across the pasture, splashing my way to work. I’d be goddamned if anybody else ate that meat.

I got lucky. The place was empty. Fat Ernst was in the bathroom once again when I slipped through the front door. I crossed the floor hastily, not worrying about the mud from my boots, and went into the kitchen. Fat Ernst had already started the stove. I yanked the fridge open and there they were, waiting on the top shelf in the sickly yellow light like two malignant tumors, the white Smirnoff boxes. A crinkled sheet of aluminum foil rested within each box, covering the contents.

I didn’t want to touch the boxes with my bare hands, but I didn’t have much choice. I had to do this quick and quiet. I slipped my fingers underneath the box on the right and slid it out toward me. There was no way I was going to stick my hand in there. For all I knew, those worms could be waiting underneath the thin sheet of aluminum foil, having eaten all of the hamburger meat, and were hungry for some more. Some more fresh meat. So I didn’t hook my fingers over the side, nothing. I lifted it gently out of the fridge, set it on the stove, and grabbed the second box. I carefully put the second box on top of the first and picked them up, carrying them out in front of me like a bomb that might explode if I made any sudden movements.

To open the back door I had to prop the boxes against my chest, because there was no other way to do it in a hurry. I gritted my teeth, let the boxes slump against my T-shirt, and scrabbled at the door handle with my left hand. It opened easily and I glided outside onto the loading dock. The Dumpster lid was still wide open, and for a second I couldn’t remember if I was the one who had left it that way. Then I got to the edge of the dock and dropped the boxes inside the Dumpster as fast as I could.

Too late, I realized that Heck was still inside, slumped in about a foot of rainwater, staring up at the falling rain. His mouth was open, and his face had taken on the pale color of mushrooms that have never seen the sun. The boxes landed right on his chest, spilling raw hamburgermeat into the rainwater, and for a split second I caught a quick glint of something shiny in the hamburgers, probably the aluminum foil.

I sucked in a breath. I wanted desperately to back away and run like hell. I couldn’t believe I had forgotten where Fat Ernst had left Heck. No, scratch that. It wasn’t only Fat Ernst. It had been me as well. I had helped. I had helped Fat Ernst drag Heck into the Dumpster. I had helped Fat Ernst in lots of ways.

To hell with it then. I didn’t care if Fat Ernst did own the land and the trailer. Things had finally gone too far, gotten too out of hand. Grandma and I would figure something out. We’d find somewhere to live. I’d sleep under a goddamn bridge for the rest of my life before I worked for Fat Ernst one more minute.

CHAPTER 24

I knew I couldn’t march in there and demand my share of the buckle. I couldn’t let on that I intended to quit. If Fat Ernst suspected that, then he would naturally assume I would be calling the cops, letting them know exactly what he’d been feeding the customers. Of course, that’s what I intended to do, but I wanted my fair share of the money first. Maybe it was hypocritical of me, waiting until I got paid before I split and called the cops, but I figured that if me and Grandma were going to have to find a new place to live, then we were gonna need all the money we could get our hands on.

As I filled the plastic bucket with hot water for the last time, I felt a sense of peace settle through my body, knowing that after this, I wouldn’t have to mop the goddamn floor again. I dragged the bucket and mop out front and started splashing water near the front door. I had about got all the mud that I had tracked in cleaned up when Ray shouldered the front door open. He stood in the doorway like he was afraid of stepping inside and let his right hand settle around the handle of the .480.

He nodded at me, saying, “Fat Ernst around?”

I was about to point toward the restrooms when we both heard thesound of a flushing toilet. Fat Ernst appeared, hitching up his jeans. He ignored me and glared at Ray. “What do you want?”

“Thought I’d stop in for a quick bite. See how things were going.”

I wondered if Ray knew about Earl’s belt buckle.

Fat Ernst sighed. “Okay, but it’ll have to be fast. I gotta run down to Sacramento, take care of some business.”

I thought Fat Ernst was supposed to have gone last night, coming back this morning. I almost said something, but Ray stopped me.

“What’s going on in Sac?” Ray readjusted his gun belt and holster as he bent his sticklike figure slightly to sit on a barstool.

Fat Ernst stopped for a moment as he rounded the bar, fixing Ray with heavy-lidded eyes. “Business,” he said flatly.

So Ray didn’t know about the buckle. Good. That meant more money for the rest of us. Fat Ernst scratched the boulder of his stomach. “What do you want?”

“How about some of that chopped steak, couple of eggs?”

Fat Ernst swiveled his blunt head around to stare at me, still trying to clean the new mud around the front door. “You heard the man. Steak and eggs. Hop to it.”

I straightened, holding the mop in front of me. “Uh, I don’t think you’ve got any more meat.”

“Got some more in yesterday, ‘member?”

“You’re out now. There’s nothing in that refrigerator.”

Fat Ernst folded his massive arms and leaned back. “What?”