Fiction

“How much did you say he had?” Pop asked.

“I say he’s had four chilidogs, two cheeseburgers, order of twelve Buffalo wings--mild, a personal pizza with sausage, pepperoni and bacon, a bowl of spaghetti with meat sauce, basket of onion rings, the rib sandwich and the steak burger,” Kenny said.

“Jesus Christ, son, and what’s he want now?”

Kenny pulled out a small note pad from his back pocket and examined the page: “Now he wants another steak burger, two orders of mozzarella sticks with sauce and two Texas Wieners. And in my opinion, Pop, he ain’t even close to being done yet.”

“Ok. You better go start fixin’ his order.” Pop slapped his son on the back and Kenny pushed passed the register and into the kitchen. Pop folded the paper that he had been reading and placed it on the counter. He pulled his glasses out of his breast pocket and placed them on his nose. He wanted to get a better look at the man who was single-handedly putting Pop and Kenny’s in the black for an otherwise sluggish Tuesday evening.

Pop walked passed the beer cooler and headed for the magazine rack. As he was walking he surreptitiously glanced to his right at the table in the back where the man was sitting. To Pop’s surprise the man he saw was by no means the physical embodiment of what an order of that magnitude would suggest.

He was in his mid-twenties, average height, if Pop had to guess maybe five foot ten to five eleven, if he tried, with lifts, he could hit six foot, and his weight would probably be something like 165 or 170. Certainly not the behemoth that Pop had at first envisioned as Kenny read him what the man had already ordered. He was wearing jeans and a dark green t-shirt with a black hooded sweatshirt hanging open on his wiry frame.

Pop reached the magazine rack and realized he had no reason to be over there, so he pulled a Bate and Stream off the rack, flipped through it without really looking, and put it back with the rest of the hunting and fishing magazines.

He took a rag out of his back pocket and wiped some non-existent crumbs off the nearest table. He looked over his shoulder at the man who was in mid-chew on a particularly messy chilidog, onions and chili sauce splattered onto the man’s paper plate as he chewed.

The video game consoles and the pinball machine were at the back of the snack bar, right near the man’s table. Pop walked back behind the counter, got the spray bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels and headed for the Pinball machine.

Pop and Kenny’s Dairy Bar is a small snack shop located in Elk County, Pennsylvania. For 25 years the little red, wood-framed building, has been a quick stop for hungry families traveling to one of the numerous camp grounds that dapple the surrounding forest.

Pop and Kenny’s also has a fairly loyal clientele of locals who enjoy Pop’s garrulous personality and his willingness to run a tab. Besides food, Pop and Kenny’s sells numerous forms of bate, both live and dead, and a selection of fishing poles for the absent-minded fisherman who, after traveling for 30 miles off the nearest highway, had forgot to bring his rod and reel.

Pop sprayed the glass covering the Vampira: Mistress of The Night pinball machine and wiped in slow circles giving the man time to notice his presence. Pop always felt that it was rude to interrupt a person while they were eating. He would no sooner barge into the restroom and strike up a conversation with this man while he was sitting on the toilet. To Pop, eating was, like wise, a private act, and he was going to respect this man’s privacy.

“Enjoying the food?” Pop asked the man.

The man could not respond because he had his mouth full of a partially chewed rib sandwich and onion rings, so he just smiled and nodded and pointed to his mouth and gave Pop the thumbs up sign.

Pop smiled as well, “Excellent. Glad to hear it. Say--‘course I’ll let you finish chewing before you answer--but I haven’t seen you ‘round here, you headin’ to the camp grounds?”

The man picked up his bottle of Orange Crush and swigged it, lubricating a path for the massive amount of food he had been consuming to slide down unimpeded. He swallowed with great effort and belched loudly. “Yes. Well, no,” the man said. “I’m actually just passing through. We’re heading to my uncle and aunt’s house, they live around here, but so far all we’ve seen are trees and more trees.”

“We?” Pop asked.

“Um, yeah…I mean me. You know like the royal we. I seem to lapse into the kind of speech that our--that my mother would not be too proud of.” He took another long drink of Orange Crush.

“Ok. Maybe I could help you?” Pop said amiably. “I’ve lived in this area for goin’ on nearly 30 years. My God, has it been that long? Good gravy, you look down to tie your shoes and when you look up again it’s 30 years later. Just the way of nature, um, what’d you say your name was?”

“Simon,” the man said.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Simon. They call me Pop.” Pop offered his hand to Simon.

“Who calls you Pop?” Simon asked, receiving Pop’s hand in a firm shake.

“My son for one, Kenny’s his name, see I’ve had this place since he’s knee high to a grasshopper and…well…everyone just took to calling me Pop too. I don’t mind it. It’s a much better handle than my given Christian name.”

“What’s that?” Simon asked.

“Leon,” Pop said, rolling his eyes.

Simon smiled and nodded in agreement. “I’ll call you Pop too, than.” Simon took another pull on his Orange Crush and picked up an errant curly fry from the table, blew some dust off the fry, and ate it.

“Uh, so the name?” Pop asked.

“What name?” Simon asked.

“Your aunt and uncle’s, I don’t mean their first names. I’m not that familiar with the folks around here. But if you give me their last name I’d probably be able to point you in the right direction.”

Simon took another guzzle of his Orange Crush and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Nah, that’s ok,” Simon said. “Thanks anyway. I’ll find it on my own. It’ll be kind of fun, sort of like an adventure, you know?”

“Ok,” Pop said, still smiling. “Suit yourself. I’ll go check on your food. See what Kenny’s gettin’ up to in the kitchen.” Pop picked up the bottle of Windex and the roll of paper towels and headed for the kitchen. But before he could reach the counter Simon called after him: “Do you think you could add a basket of cheese fries to that order?”

Pop didn’t miss a beat. He smiled and nodded and saluted with the roll of paper towels. “You got it, boss.”

The sound of grilling meat and the accompanying rush of smoke greeted Pop as he entered the kitchen. Kenny was standing over the grill pressing down on a steak patty with a greasy metal spatula. The twelve mozzarella sticks were bobbing up and down in the Frylator and the two Texas Wieners were sitting in their little cardboard tubes.

“What’d you find out?” Kenny asked Pop, sweat trickling down his temples.

Pop tossed the paper towels on the counter and put the bottle of Windex on the shelf above the small FM radio. “Name’s Simon and he’s headed to see his aunt and uncle. That’s all I got.”

“What’re their names?” Kenny asked.

“Don’t know, didn’t tell me.” Pop said.

“Oh,” Kenny said. “Well, I don’t like him.”

Pop picked up the Texas Wieners and put them on a yellow plastic tray with salt and pepper and some more napkins. “What do you mean, you don’t like him?” Pop asked. “Why don’t you like him?”

Kenny wiped a single drop of sweat from his temple with his index finger and flung it onto the grill where it hissed and sizzled and finally disappeared. “No reason. I just don’t. I can like and not like whoever I damn well choose.”

“Well, I like him, and you know why?” Pop asked.

“Nope, I don’t. But I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

“I am, smart ass. I like him for the very simple reason that he’s eating a shit load of my food--which reminds me, he wants an order of cheese fries too--and he’s going to pay me a shit load of money for the pleasure of eating my food.”

“Well, I still don’t like him,” Kenny said.

“Just shut up and cook,” Pop said.

Pop came out of the kitchen carrying the tray loaded with the two Texas Wieners and the two orders of mozzarella sticks. He placed the tray in front of Simon. “It’ll be a few more minutes for the steak burger and the cheese fries, but I’m sure this’ll hold you over until then. Get you anything else?”

“Uh, actually, we have a question.”

“Ok. I hope we have the answer,” Pop said.

“When it says, ‘Lady’s Portion’ and ‘Man’s Portion’ for the chili, what does that mean?”

“Lady’s Portion’s smaller than the Man’s Portion.”

“How much smaller?” Simon asked.

“Not too much smaller,” Pop said.

Simon nodded. “Ok. I’ll have the chili.”

“Which portion? Lady’s or Man’s?”

“Both.”

“Both?”

“Both,” Simon said digging into his mozzarella sticks with one hand and grabbing at one of the Texas Wieners with the other hand.

Pop couldn’t help but laugh. “You sure you want ‘em both, son. I mean, on top of what you got there, you still got the steak burger and the cheese fries on the way, you gonna have enough room for the chili too?”

“Maybe you’re right.” Simon said. “I think I’ll just work on what I have here and then we’ll see if--” Simon suddenly caught his breath and grabbed at his stomach with a hand that still held a half-eaten mozzarella stick dripping with sauce. He closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose and then let it out slowly as he continued to chew. He didn’t open his eyes even after he had swallowed what was in his mouth. He said in a barely audible whisper, “Yes, the chili too, please.”

Pop’s smile faltered a bit but remained boldly on his face. “Fair enough. I ain’t gonna argue with a man who knows he’s hungry. I’ll go add that to your order, okie dokie?” Pop walked to the kitchen only glancing back once when he thought he heard Simon say something. But Simon was in the process of shoveling more mozzarella sticks into his mouth. His eyes remained closed.

Kenny had finished with the steak burger and was working on the cheese fries. The FM radio was playing a song by Clint Black; Kenny was whistling along to the tune as Clint sung about broken hearts and broken trucks. He was drizzling a ladle full of melted cheese over a basket of golden brown curly fries as Pop pushed through the swinging door and into the kitchen.

“Somethin’ about that boy ain’t right,” Pop said.

Kenny stopped in mid-whistle. “I told you. There’s something about him I didn’t like but I don’t know what.”

“I know what it is I don’t like, I think he’s crazy.”

“Crazy? What makes you say that?” Kenny asked.

“You work with the public as long as I have you get to know these things. By the way he wants chili too.”

“Which portion?”

“Both.”

“Both?”

“Yep. That burger done? Give me the fries. I’ll take ‘em out to him. Get started on that chili. I want him out of here fast.”

“What if he wants something else?” Kenny asked.

“I’ll say we’re closin’ and we turned the grill off.” Pop grabbed the basket of cheese fries with one hand and the paper plate with the steak burger on it with the other hand and headed for the swinging door. Kenny called after him: “Hey, Pop, this guy dangerous? Do you think we’re gonna have any trouble with him?”

Pop considered Kenny’s question for a moment and then shook his head. “Don’t think so. Let’s just get him out of here as soon as possible, if not sooner. Get started on that chili.” Pop walked out of the kitchen.

The fluorescent light above the counter buzzed as if a particularly resilient fly was caught in the bulb and refused to go without a fight. As Pop walked toward Simon’s table, he noticed for the first time how deserted the snack bar was. Every Formica table and molded orange plastic chair, except for Simon’s, was empty.

He looked out the window but all he could see was his reflection silhouetted against the night. And beyond the window: nothing but the occasional roar of a camper as it rumbled towards The Mirror Lake and thousands and thousands of trees. Pop couldn’t help but think how far from a hospital they were, or a police station.

“Here you go, Simon,” Pop said. “One steak burger, one basket of cheese fries and a couple more chin-wipers, just in case. Anything else I can do for you?”

Simon raised his index finger and pointed at the yellow plastic tray stacked with paper plates, empty plastic baskets heaped with greasy wax paper and a mountain of used napkins. “Would you mind taking that away for me?” Another wince and a sharp inhalation of breath accompanied this request. “Oh, uh, and can you check on that chili too, if you wouldn’t mind it?”

“No problem. Chili’s on its way,” Pop said. He picked up the tray and started for the trash-bin when Simon grabbed his arm. This time it was Pop’s turn to inhale sharply. He looked at his arm and then looked at Simon; he still had the tray of trash held out in front of him. “Somethin’ wrong, boy?” Pop asked, trying to sound calm and as business-as-usual as he could muster.

“No.” Simon said, but only with his mouth. Pop could see that his eyes had a different response. He gave three quick looks over to the tray Pop was holding and then said again, while still glancing at the tray, “No. I’m fine. I could use some more ketchup, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.” He nodded his head and let go of Pop’s arm. He then scooped a pile of cheese fries with his left hand and shoveled them into his mouth.

Pop moved away quickly and headed for the garbage-bin next to the beer cooler, determined not to glance back at Simon’s table. What the doodly-fuck was that? Pop thought. While dumping the trash into the garbage-bin he saw that one of the paper plates was stuck to the tray. He peeled the paper plate off and noticed underneath the plate two words were written in ketchup, the red clearly visible against the yellow plastic of the tray; two words with an exclamation point: Help Me!

Pop stood stock-still for several seconds and read the message again. His first impulse was to laugh. Although, no matter how hard he tried he just couldn’t make himself do it. His second impulse was to wipe the ketchup off the tray and pretend as if he hadn’t seen the bizarre plea for help. Finally, he merely turned around and looked at Simon for confirmation that what he was seeing was serious.

Pop didn’t have to wait long for a response, when he turned around Simon was already staring at him. He was still eating of course but he never took his eyes off Pop even as he reached for the steak burger and took a large bite of it. Still staring, still chewing, Simon nodded his head up and down.

Pop swallowed hard and put the tray on top of the trash-bin and walked slowly to the kitchen.

“Ok, Pop, chili’s done and the grill is off--” Kenny stopped in mid-sentence as he saw the look on his father’s face when he entered the kitchen. “What’s wrong? Somethin’ happen, Pop?” Kenny asked.

Pop took along time to answer. He looked around the kitchen without really seeing anything; his eyes passing over the refrigerator, the stove, the grill and finally landing on Kenny’s face. “What is it, Pop?” Kenny asked again, this time moving forward and grabbing Pop’s right shoulder in an attempt to break his father’s mental paralysis.

“I think…I think we’ve got a problem,” Pop said slowly.

“Shit. I knew it. I had a feelin’, didn’t I tell you? What’d he do? Refuse to pay. Is he drunk or something? What happened?”

Pop moved over to the stool by the refrigerator and plopped down on it as if his legs could no longer handle his weight. “He wrote somethin’ in ketchup on the tray.”

“What’d it say?” Kenny asked.

“It said, ‘Help Me’ with an exclamation point at the end.”

Kenny’s perpetual look of confusion intensified. “‘Help Me’? What the hell does that mean? Help him from who? About what?”

“I don’t know,” Pop said, staring off into the middle distance of the kitchen.

Kenny was silent for a moment and then he walked over to the phone on the wall and picked up the receiver. Pop looked over at Kenny. “What’re you doing?” he asked.

“I’m gonna call John at the station and see if he can get one of his boys to come over here.” Kenny peered at the sheet of notebook paper with emergency numbers on it taped to the wall above the phone. “If this guy’s in trouble or if he’s just crazy, like you say, than maybe they can help? It’s a friggin’ shame, all that food he ate, and we’ll probably never see a dime for it…here it is.” Kenny dialed in the number and waited as the connection was made and the line began to ring.

“I don’t think we should…” Pop said weakly.

“You know what your problem is, Pop? You’re too trusting. You’ve got to see that--” A shriek tore through the swinging kitchen door and cut off the end of Kenny’s sentence.

Pop nearly fell off the stool on his way to the door. Kenny dropped the receiver and ran after his father, grabbing him by the arm. “Pop, no, don’t. Stay here.” Pop wrenched his arm free and pushed through the door and into the snack bar. “Ah, shit,” Kenny said. He picked the receiver off the floor just as a female voice answered…

Pop slammed his knee on the counter as he tore passed it and into the snack bar. His heart was beating double-time and he could feel his blood pressure (which was not good, even on normal occasions) rising with every step he took toward Simon’s table.

Simon was on his back on the floor rolling from side to side and clutching at his stomach. Pop knelt beside him and saw that his lips were wet with blood. “Hey, boy! What is it? What happened?”

Simon’s eyes flew open and his response was another cry composed of fear and agony. Pop had never before heard a human make such a gruesome sound. “Ahhhh! He’s tearing me up inside! He wants to kill me!” Simon yelled. Blood flew from his mouth with every syllable he uttered.

“Who?” Pop asked. “Who’s doin’ it to you? You gotta make me understand this shit, son.”

His mouth dropped open and a tiny voice spoke as if issuing from the bottom of a well, “Zip your lip and see what’s taking so long with that chili, old man.” This voice was wholly different than the one Simon had been using since he walked into the snack bar.

Pop’s mouth dropped open as well, but the only thing that came out was a dry rasp. He backed up quickly and knocked into some chairs at an adjoining table.

Simon’s mouth snapped shut and when he opened it again he was speaking in his normal voice, “Just shut up! Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” He tried to keep his mouth closed and to Pop he looked like a man struggling to suppress a yawn. Finally his mouth dropped open and again the tiny voice came out, “No! You shut up, freak!”

Kenny banged through the kitchen door and stumbled into the snack bar with a baseball bat held at the ready. He saw Pop pushing himself backwards on the floor and ran over to him. “Pop, I called John and he’s gonna send over some of his boys.” And then to Simon he yelled: “You hear that, buddy? The cops are comin’.”

Simon’s eyes were frightened but the tiny voice that came out of his throat laughed long and hard. “Hey, slugger, you think before the cops get here you could see about that chili. I’m starving.”

Kenny looked at Pop and then back at Simon. “How in the good Christ could you be hungry?” Kenny said. “You’ve eaten more food than I’ve ever seen anyone eat in my entire life.”

Simon looked up at Kenny with watery eyes and he said in a chocked sob, “It doesn’t matter how much he eats. He’s always hungry.”

“Who?” Pop finally managed.

“Yeah, why don’t ya show ‘em, freak?” the tiny voice said through Simon’s mouth. “It’s getting stuffy down here anyway.” Simon closed his eyes and raised his shirt.

It protruded from Simon’s lower abdomen on his left side. It had two eyes but no eye brows or hair. It had teeth like Chiclets squashed haphazardly into the pink gum of his flesh. A tiny appendage, about 2 inches long, which may have been an arm, stuck out at a right angle. The hand only had four fingers and two of the fingers were fused together which gave the hand the appearance of a tiny pink flipper. It looked like a child’s face, only distorted, as if one was looking at it in a fun-house mirror. The teeth moved up and down but the tiny voice came from Simon’s throat. “Nice to meet you guys--real pleasure--now where the hell is my chili?”

Pop couldn’t speak. Kenny, on the other hand, found the words that were banging impatiently on Pop’s brain waiting to get out. “What the fuck is that?” Kenny yelled, pointing at the little face with the barrel of the bat.

“I’m not a what, asshole, I’m a who,” the little voice said. “Haven’t you ever seen twins before?”

“Twins look alike,” Kenny said in his defense.

“Simon can’t help the way he looks,” the little voice said. “We all have our crosses to bear. Simon’s is looking like a fucking moron.”

Simon began screaming, but this time his scream consisted of nothing but plain old anger, he pounded his fists on the tile floor and banged his heels up and down. He looked down at his brother and said, “Why do you have to do this to me? Why? Why do you have to be such a bastard?”

“Because I enjoy it, that’s why. And you’re an idiot. ‘I’m here to see my aunt and uncle,’” Simon’s brother said, mocking. “What kind of shit is that, you stupid fuck? You know the family doesn’t want anything to do with us.”

“Stop it!” Pop said in a stern voice. “Leave him alone.”

“Stay out of this, old man,” Simon’s brother said.

Looking up at Simon’s face Pop said, “We just want to help you, boy.”

Simon shook his head from side to side, tears rolled down his cheeks and dripped onto the floor, “You can’t help me. No one can help me. Not while I have this thing attached to me.”

“You know, I’ve been thinking the same thing for years,” Simon’s brother said and then laughed.

“Well…why don’t you get…it…taken off,” Kenny asked slowly.

“Hey, fuck you, Curly. I’m not some wart on his ass,” Simon’s brother said.

Simon laughed, but there was no humor in it, merely resignation and sorrow. “It wouldn’t work. I’m a part of him, and as much as I hate to admit it, he’s a part of me too.”

“Together ‘till the end,” Simon’s brother said.

Simon rose to a sitting position and wiped the tears from his eyes. He stood and looked down at the table where a basket of half-eaten cheese fries stared back at him. He still had chili on the way. He picked up a steak knife and studied the serrated blade. “Maybe this is the end,” he said under his breath.

“Simon,” Pop said carefully,” What’re you thinkin’?”

“Go ahead and do it,” Simon’s brother said, “I dare you.”

Simon continued to stare at the knife, his reflection in the blade showed only half a face.

“You can’t do it, can you, you pussy? You don’t have the balls, that’s why you’re still a virgin. You make me sick to your stomach, you freak!”

Simon closed his eyes and raised the knife over his head, the blade pointing at his abdomen.

“Don’t do it,” Pop cried attempting to get to his feet, Kenny held him down.

“Don’t worry, old man, he won’t,” Simon’s brother said with utter certainty.

Simon stood motionless for endless seconds, eyes closed, blade poised inches from his stomach as if he were a statue created by the world’s most deranged sculptor. Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at the knife in his hand. He turned to Pop and Kenny. “I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Please forgive me. I’m not myself tonight.” He sprinted for the door.

Kenny raised the bat, but Simon pushed him aside. He stumbled over some fallen chairs on his way to the door. And then he was gone.

Two of John’s boys got there 25 minutes later, sirens blaring and lights flashing. Pop served them coffee. He stated that a man, who gave his name as Simon, had come into the snack bar earlier in the evening, ordered a bunch of food and then started tearing up the place. Pop suggested that maybe the man was mentally unstable. Kenny put in that the guy was probably some psycho drug-user.

It was a good enough story, and it was the truth (almost). Both Pop and Kenny had agreed before the police arrived that they would not mention the thing that they saw attached to the man’s stomach. Because, Kenny reasoned, you can’t really explain something like that to someone who had not witnessed it first-hand. It would just sound too unbelievable to be real.

The police officers inspected the man’s pack-sack which he left on the floor under his table. In the pack were a half full bag of flour, sugar, 30 or so candy bars and a significant collection of pornographic magazines. The officers told Pop and Kenny that they would be in touch if they had any further information.

And for 3 months there was no further information. For all intents and purposes the man who called himself Simon had disappeared, leaving only the memory of his terrible cries to silently echo through Pop and Kenny’s.

And then at the end of the summer season, in mid-September, two campers came into the snack shop and got to talking about a strange scene they came upon in the woods just south of The Mirror Lake Preserve. Pop nearly dropped the pot of coffee that he was holding when they detailed what they had seen.

“You think you boys could find that spot again, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble?” Pop asked the two men.

Summer had not yet released its grip on Elk County. It was in the mid-80s by the time Pop and the two campers reached the clearing beneath the bows of a large pine tree. The smell of rotting animal carcasses cooking in the late afternoon sun was overpowering.

The tree blocked most of the light which made it significantly darker under there, but Pop could make out the discarded bodies of quite a few squirrels, a raccoon and a possum. The blackened ashes of a campfire stood in the middle of the clearing. A breeze picked up several candy bar wrappers and blew them in Pop’s direction.

“So here it is,” one of the campers said to Pop.

“Yup. Here it is,” Pop agreed.

“Do ya think it was some sort of an animal did this?” the other camper asked.

“Nope,” Pop said. “It was a man.”

“What kind of a man would do this?” the camper asked.

“What kind of man?” Pop said half to himself. He walked over to the trunk of the tree and ran his fingers over two words carved into the bark; two words with an exclamation point: Help Me! “What kind of man?” he said again, this time barely a whisper.

He dropped to his knees and began digging in the soft, cool, earth. He was going to bury the animals.