Body of Immorality (26 page)

Hilary was motionless, a world of paralysis moving in from all sides. She started to hyperventilate. Her body experienced a series of hiccups.

Walter was also lost in a trance. He stood mute next to his wife. No, it
was
a mannequin. It
had
to be. It was their nephew…his sister’s son…

Like a giddy schoolboy, Franklin retrieved the last bag. He sauntered onto the lawn for the third time. Sarah’s severed head fell onto the grass, rolled a little ways, completing the puzzle.

“Well,” Franklin said, standing back. He put his hands on his hips. “There she is. What do you think? Isn’t she beautiful?”

He smiled, proud of himself.

“Just as pretty as the day I met her,” he said. “She took a little persuading, but as you can see—”

Because of the bloated, crooked positioning of her limbs, it would be difficult putting her together.

Walter, in obvious shock: “My God, Franklin. What have you done?” His arm provided little comfort around his horror-stricken wife.

“Do you have a needle and thread by any chance?” Franklin asked.

Not getting a reply, Franklin shrugged. He returned to his lover. He didn’t need a needle and thread once he thought about it. Hadn’t he tried to teach her something similar? It was only a matter of putting the pieces back in their proper order.

Something about love…

Franklin knelt and arranged Sarah until she resembled the girl she’d been, if not…
puffier.

“Yes,” he said. “Love.”

Hilary found the freedom to scream, backing through the front door. Walter tried to calm and console his wife.

Franklin didn’t notice. He arranged Sarah on the lawn in the morning sun. His brows furrowed.

Suddenly, he stopped and looked at his uncle. Franklin held up one of Sarah’s swollen, purple arms. He had to shout over Hilary’s ceaseless screaming:

“Hey! What was that you told me when I was a kid, Uncle? You remember? About a little thing called…
Destiny?”

Franklin chuckled, bent down, and began—in fact—to piece Destiny back together.

The Roommate

Could this
be
more ridiculous? Then again, what else was the bright orange hat for? He felt like a hunter trying to reclaim the city, out there for everyone to see. The white and black checkered pants they assigned (at least free) weren’t any better. He was Big Orange Goofy. He only needed the huge floppy ears and the stupid, oversized teeth.

Terrance Wattercliffe shook his head. He put his hand to his head in frustration. Was he condemned, cursed?

If you have a problem
,
then change it,
he thought.
Quit griping and suffer in silence like the rest of them. You big, dumb baby.

“You mean, Big Dumb
Goofy!”

This was the drudgery of a killing life: working five days a week, selling his soul, sweating and griping behind the hot stoves, cooking for the unappreciative public. He could do nothing about it, either. That was the horror.

Oh yes you can. You can do something about it. You just choose not to.

Life was
trying
to tell him something. It must be.
What
was the question? What was he telling
himself?

The ovens were hotter than usual today. Despite their normal full blast heat, the grill seemed to roar with fire. Maybe that was just the month of August, seeping from outside and into the already scorching kitchen. Even the heat lamps in the ‘window’ were orange cones of nefarious light, reminding him of Big Orange Goofy. It surprised Terrance
light
could be so hot.

He set a plate of food in the ‘window’ (chicken fried steak, scrambled eggs, a side of hashbrowns, and four strips of bacon) and quickly snatched his hand back, almost spilling the food because of the heat lamps. The plate made a clattering sound, moved in an obnoxious circle, and came to a rattling halt.

He was suffering because of the heat now.

“Order up!” Terrance called, ringing the bell. Dainty was the sound of the bell; his voice, a lion’s roar. Together, they made him chuckle.

Obviously, life hadn’t gone according to plan. Miracles did not wait for him. He would always be—and had always
been
—forgotten by his services.

That was the role. He played the public—even his fellow employees—like a fiddle. Inside, he laughed at them.

Acne spotted Terrance’s neck and cheeks at twenty-four. If he worked in a kitchen for the rest of his life, he’d never get rid of it. The greasy, oily food wasn’t helping either, wiping his soiled hands on his brow and face, reminding him it was the hottest month of the year. It made working in the kitchen a zillion times worse.

He wasn’t qualified for anything else, the
other
horror. Cooking was the miracle. For Terrance Wattercliffe, this was as good as it was going to get.

“Welcome,” he said, with dispassion. “To The Tasty Station.”

Samantha came back and took the chicken-fried steak from the window. “Thanks, Terrance,” she said, smiling, trying to flirt.

Terrance nodded in reply. His humor came and went. He couldn’t predict it.

It was a game, a silent war of division, rambling, debating back and forth like cartoon amateurs without the ears and teeth of Big Orange Goofy. He played the role, enacting lies by the minute. He was trying to have fun with the world around him. Despite his degrading position, Terrance
was
trying to make the best of things.

The public bothered him most of all. He couldn’t believe how—in the lowliest of businesses—they oozed their preponderance like a giant grease stain. They did it for no other reason than to make their presence felt. Terrance was tempted to walk out, slam the orange baseball cap on the grill, and watch it burst into smoky (orange) flame.

The public was the worst, their lives, unfulfilled, why not take it out on the entire staff at The Tasty Station? Condescending comments on the food, insults toward the waitresses, the cooks, even the dishwashers. The job didn’t pay well enough to endure it:

“This isn’t what I ordered.”

“Terrance, I forgot to tell you about the hashbrowns on the last ticket. Will you save me?”

“Are
you
the cook? Where did you learn how to cook a steak?”

“This isn’t medium
rare.
Do you know what medium
rare
is?”

The waitresses made mistakes. Not bad for two-dollars an hour plus stiffs. Terrance thought the waitresses unnecessarily tolerant. In all actuality, they performed an undeserved hospitality to the ungrateful, pretentious public. He backed the waitresses. He thought they were cute.

No, I’m dressed like Big Orange Goofy to make you smile, you stupid prick. You only paid 3.95 for that meal, 7.95 anywhere else. It wasn’t picked up off the floor, poisoned, spat, puked on, or delivered on a bloodstained plate unless you wanted it rare. We’re running a business here. If you want it your way, Burger King’s right around the corner.

It would pass. It always did.

Terrance shaped his eight-hour shift into reveries of melodrama, intrigue within the restaurant. Some of his co-workers enjoyed his antics, too. Others raised a quizzical brow. Terrance was only trying to have some fun in an otherwise, disinterested public eye, those gormandizing at The Tasty Station.

Without the job, the kitchen, and the waitresses, the guises would’ve crippled him. He blended in. Whenever a role presented itself, he acted quickly. The job worked. Big Orange Goofy was part of the act. The role had its advantages.

The public, of course,
expected
Big Orange Goofy. They (his fellow coworkers, too)
wanted
Big Orange Goofy. Terrance delivered, night after night, day after day, like a successful, stand-up comedian. Bitter grumblings and sarcastic remarks made Big Orange Goofy a success.

He wanted the world—the public eye—to remember him. Each face was a challenge, an opportunity. Big Orange Goofy manipulated the public, gave them what they wanted. Inside, Terrance laughed
because
they loved it.

And it was a big fat, orange lie.

Not everyone took the bait, of course. Some were too self-absorbed to notice. He’d developed a talent for spotting them. He noticed them at a glance.

His influence on the workplace was so positive, he’d gotten promoted, a boost in pay, and he was now, officially, Head Chef. Which was funny, he thought, considering he was the only cook who worked mornings. Perhaps God was telling him to, ‘Go out and play! Have a little fun, Terrance-boy. You’ve
earned
it.’

The last person they suspected, of course, was Big Orange Goofy.

‘This is a joke, right?’—their faces seemed to say. ‘You can’t be serious?’

God—or a miracle (perhaps it was chance—depending on how you looked at it) provided Terrance with a special gift. The miracle said, ‘Here, see what you can do with
this.’

Terrance did all that and more. He proceeded gallantly across the stage of life. He contemplated glory. He’d revel in it in good time.

Ding
—went the bell when he rang it again. He snatched his hand away. Steak and eggs, well done, and scrambled again.

Even the way they ordered unnerved him. Burning a perfectly fine streak, pulverizing those eggs without all that succulent drippy, runny yolk. Terrance’s stomach rumbled thinking of a rare steak
with
the runny yolk, Tobasco, lots of pepper, and mixing it all together. Spicy slop, he thought. Great for the digestive system.

“Come and get this char-broiled cow out of my window!” he called. “Tell them patrons to order something that won’t insult my goddamn talent! I’m not running a day-care here. What does this look like? You tell that cocksucker he’d better leave a good tip, too, Samantha, ruining my steaks this way. I’m tempted to cut my eyeballs open and pour blood all over this goddamn thing just to make it look pretty.”

The patrons frowned. Sometimes people complained. Terrance, despite his promotion, had been warned several times. It depended on how free he was with his thoughts. Sometimes, you just knew when you could get away with murder.

Samantha came back, took the plate out of the window, suppressed a smile, and shook her head. “You’re in rare form, today, Terrance,” she said.

Big Orange Goofy had them right where he wanted.

*

The choice to stop in Colorado had been powerful, the way the Rocky Mountains stretched across the length of the horizon, the sunsets, and the snow-packed peaks.

He decided on Louisville, a quaint town a few miles outside Boulder with the Flatirons in the distance. The Tasty Station, off Main Street, called him only hours after he dropped off his application. The manager was impressed by his experience. He started work the following Monday at six am.

Terrance fell in love with Colorado right away. He rooted for all the local teams. He’d never seen such crazy, die-hard fans before. These people were
crazy!
He saw a house painted the orange and blue Bronco colors on a leisurely drive once. He had to stop the car and look at it for a while just to tell himself it was real. Crazy, yes, but he enjoyed it here. He was anxious for the snows of Colorado and summer’s vibrant colors.

He rented a two-story, four-bedroom house with brown siding on Jefferson Street. The back yard was well kept with two large maples providing plenty of shade. He’d strung up a hammock between the trees. A durable shed sat at the back of the yard with garden tools and a lawnmower. He’d also put in a horseshoe pit. A six-foot wooden privacy fence bordered the yard. He’d purchased a picnic table, a large yellow and white umbrella, four patio chairs, and two lounge chairs at a nearby Lowe’s. A croquet set stood next to the sliding glass door beside a cord of wood stacked neatly under the kitchen window.

Roommates came and roommates went. It was part of the national fabric. Not that he needed them. It was like baby-sitting. He wondered why he bothered. In order to keep Big Orange Goofy in practice, Terrance had to present himself accordingly. Only one roommate at a time. That was the rule. More presented complications. He couldn’t afford the risk.

He didn’t mind having roommates. Some were quiet and reliable, but others took advantage of his hospitality, similar to the public at The Tasty Station. When placing an add in the paper, he should keep it simple: RELIABLE ROOMMATE NEEDED URGENTLY! MUST BE RELIABLE! RELIABLE IS WHAT I NEED! OTHERS NEED NOT APPLY. RUN OF THE HOUSE! KEEP THINGS SEPARATE. CLEANING UP AFTER ONESELF A MUST! CALL TERRANCE AT—

His previous roommate, Max Defontaine, had mooched Terrance’s food, drank all his beer, and was always late with the rent. Max was a virtual slob, and Terrance liked a spotless, orderly household. Cleaning up after people wasn’t part of the plan.

It was hard to trust people these days, even disheartening. Most of the world seemed manipulative, selfish, and untrustworthy to begin with: the lack of respect, unconcern for another’s feelings and possessions. He might as well place an add that announced: THIEVES WANTED! ALL YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE! FREE ROOM AND BOARD! RUN OF THE HOUSE! EAT ALL MY FOOD! HOW CAN YOU GO WRONG?

He was lost in the reverie of these thoughts, still in the kitchen at The Tasty Station. Terrance turned a burger with a grease-slimed spatula, pressing it firmly onto the grill. Smoke rose and curled around his head, the strong smell of charred meat. Pressing patties onto the grill in this fashion was not a rule in restaurant cooking. The meat stuck to the grill, fell apart, and became virtually inedible. If that’s how they wanted it, however, he was happy to oblige. It made cleaning the grill more difficult later, though. Terrance shook his head and rolled his eyes.

Thank you for coming in, you royal pain in the ass. Please have the decency to keep your mouth shut, and don’t stiff the waitresses.

Terrance smiled.

He put the plate in the window under the heat lamps and rang the bell several times just to be annoying. He was slacking on Big Orange Goofy lately.

*

Later that day, at home after a hard day’s work, he called
The Denver Post,
and placed an add for a new roommate. The chorus from the radio advertisement trilled in his head:
We’ll-sell-it-ten-or-we’ll-run-it-a-gain. Call eight-five-one, seven-one one-ooonnneee! We’re really kind of brainless, but we’re having lots of fun!