Waiting In The Diner
The juices of the burger dribbled down his chin and collected in his beard. He dabbed at his face with a napkin as he chewed. Cheese mixed with beef and lettuce crunched between his teeth. The meat was perfectly red and cold on the inside. The iron flavor of the blood sopped into the bun, which had been toasted and was topped with caramelized onions. A spot of red dripped onto his shirt.
He looked down with concern and studied the stain. A deep garnet marred the white section of his red and white striped shirt. Half an inch higher or lower and it wouldn’t even be noticeable, but that wasn’t how fate had planned it. The fries were underdone and he called the waitress over. She stared at his face and he blushed, wiping the blood from his nose. He turned down her offer of tissues and asked for some fresh fries. She whirled around in her pink apron and disappeared into the kitchen.
Being in public wasn’t a concern. Any EMTs were going to be fine. The chemical compound had a half-life in the body of several minutes. At this point, the only person it would hurt would be him. And maybe the waitress if he didn’t remember to pay his bill and throw down a hefty tip in time.
Sex and violence seemed like such good stories. They were at the root of everything. He had considered both, once he recognized the symptoms. There were several ex-girlfriends he had still programmed in his cellphone, and at least three of them left him occasional drunken voicemails. His chances were pretty good, but he felt it might be awkward. There might be a moment of weakness where he explained what was happening. He didn’t want pity.
Violence was a much more intriguing option. He had never been a particularly violent person, though he did have a recurring dream involving two men in a fight. The one was kicking the other in the face, and sometimes he was the man on the ground and other times the man wearing boots. He had felt bone buckle beneath his foot and he had felt his own teeth shatter and cave into his tongue. Neither of these roles appealed to him, but he had an inkling who was responsible for the pressure behind his eyes. There was his co-worker, his immediate superior, and higher up, probably a CEO and a general. Someone asking for “Field testing” and “real-world viability” and “timing vectors” and other bullshit phrases that were synonyms for murder.
He owned a baseball bat, and several days ago had purchased a firearm off of a friend from college, unmarked and unregistered. Both sat in the trunk of his car. He had never purchased ammunition for the gun. Loading it was likely an impossibility. It was just nice to know it was there. At this point, there was no point in violence. He wasn’t brave enough for any sort of direct confrontation. Fortunately, he was also a paranoid man. Fortunately, he had laced the compound into the sprinkler system heads above certain desks at work. Fortunately, he had some small knowledge of timers and small incendiary devices that could fit in wastepaper baskets.
Sex and violence were nice things. Revenge was nicer. But food? Food was the nicest. Another drop now, as the napkin failed to staunch the flow. The pressure was lessening and he took another bite of the burger. The cheese was bleu. He hoped the waitress came back with the fries soon.
jemina
the structure of this piece parallels that of a burger. the pulp “meat” being hugged by two sesame buns of literal, real-time reflection. i assume that was intentional, genius. very nice!
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Rivka Jacobs
Matt, this is a very good story. I like the subtle way you reveal the nature of the protagonist’s predicament, leaving the reader feeling sympathy, and feeling angry too. But you unfold the kind of revenge that will commence, postmortem for the protangonist, and it is an “eye for an eye” kind of thing. A little vignette from the human zoo. Linked to “cheeseburger” pic nicely, too.
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