I wrote this story a year ago. I randomly happened upon it when digging for old stories of mine to peruse. It was well hidden in some poorly titled folder. Brady remembers reading it way back when and gave it the flattering review, "it was good (a little dated now)." You be the judge!
Just Friendsby Me, BT
~1100 words
“Welcome to Fast Food Escape,” said Jerry Foster, once again forgetting the last part of the greeting. Loneliness caused concentration to dim and flicker like a low-battery flashlight. As he jammed a burger in his mouth with one hand and sucked up a steady stream of chocolate milkshake through a straw, Jerry’s mind raced with notions of fancy. More than anything else this world had to offer, he desired the companionship of a warm-blooded human being. The comforting touch of a woman. Or a man. Anybody with a pulse would suffice, though he would prefer to experience the virginity-slaying act with the fairer sex, since that was the more societally acceptable choice. He felt alienated as it was—like most minorities, he figured.
The customer, a beefy jock wearing a University letter jacket, studied the overhead menu with a vacuous gaze common among the media-brainwashed masses. The man said, “I’ll have,” before drifting off, entranced by the many sundry delicious options from which to choose.
Jerry smiled. Then he felt that upside-down frown turn right-side up as he heard the disconcerting slurping sound beneath his chin suggest he might be forced to abandon his register to refill his shake; he kept a cache of two emergency milkshakes in a mini-refrigerator beneath the counter. At an arm’s length distance, he was loathe to keep a customer waiting. However, as fate would have it, on this particular day, Jerry had already resorted to this measure of desperation twice before, and he had yet to replenish his emergency stash.
“Would you excuse me for a moment?” Before hearing an affirmative, Jerry dashed spang for the milkshake machine. He grabbed a new cup. Rocking back and forth on his feet from heel to toe, toe to heel, as if riding an invisible surfboard of indecisiveness, he glanced back at the man. Still deciding. Suddenly the strawberry swirl appealed to him. But the chocolate had never let him down. Simple vanilla might be a nice change of pace, too. No, not today. Today he needed his chocolate.
After snatching a cheeseburger, he rushed back to his post.
The man stared dubiously at Jerry as he crumpled the cheeseburger wrapper and hurled it blithely over his shoulder. Jerry took a hearty bite. Washed it down. Then he moaned. A few deep breaths later, he said, “Are you ready to order?”
“You should not be working here,” the man said, his voice a mix of incredulity and admonition.
Jerry slowly removed his lips from the straw. Hoping to change the subject, already feeling the effects of withdrawal, he guessed, “Would you like a quarter-pounder?”
The man, a well-sculpted specimen who likely never had so many as five extra pounds of flab on his frame, crossed his arms, waiting.
All that waiting made Jerry nervous. He returned his lips to the straw.
“See?” the man blurted. “You couldn’t stand there ten seconds without stuffing yourself. Look at you. That gut—it’s immense!”
Jerry said, “I eat because, well, it’s so lonely here. Nobody loves me.”
The employees manning the other two registers briefly glanced at the developing scene. Their eyes scrunched and their brows wrinkled with concern.
“No friends, huh? What, did you eat them all?”
“Stop doing that.” Jerry felt the all too familiar urge inside of him battling to escape. People constantly teased him. He could only take so much before he tore himself apart, shame a monster dwelling deep within that scraped and clawed inside whenever someone poked fun at his weight issue. Okay: weight problem.
“Stop doing what? Listen, tubby: there’s nice and there’s the truth. And the truth is you are one fat fuck. How does the manager let you eat all that food? It must be costing him a fortune!”
Sipping on his milkshake, Jerry turned around, head cast down sulkily.
The manager, overhearing the hubbub, came out from the back. “Is there a problem, sir?”
The entire restaurant focused in on the conversation. Such a hush befell the room that the soft, gasping sobs which Jerry attempted to stifle were carried to the ears of each audience member of the cruel exposé.
“Now you’ve gone and upset him,” the manager said. Jerry felt a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t let this guy bother you, Jer. He’s an idiot.”
“Whatever happened to ‘the customer is always right?’ The man’s a rhino! Am I right or am I right? Fat fuck needs a date with Jenny Craig.”
“Who is Jenny Craig?” Jerry asked, having spun around with a look of innocent curiosity. “Can I meet her? Is she nice? Will Jenny Craig date me?”
The manager slunk to the side, a hand visoring his eyes, his head shaking.
“You’re single? A handsome man like you?”
Jerry perked up. “It is hard to believe, isn’t it?”
A nineteen-year-old co-worker, Jessica Franklin, butted in to his defense. “Just leave him alone, you idiot!” She canted her head, rounded her eyes, and nodded sharply with each subsequent syllable: “Can’t you see that you’re upsetting him?”
“Yeah!” exclaimed a chorus of defenders.
The man with a giant ‘W’ on his red sweatshirt—which Jerry knew to be short for “Wisconsin”—took one determined forward step, leaned in toward Jerry, placed both hands flatly upon the counter, and said contemptuously, “Jenny Craig is a diet program you lardass.” Then, spoken deliberately: “There is not one single woman on this entire planet who would fuck you.”
“Oh shit,” offered a woman’s voice. “There he goes!”
The manager yelled, “Everybody stay calm! Everything will be all right! Don’t panic!"
Jerry felt the familiar twitch again. He looked down, placing a hand on his bulbous gut. The monster’s three-pronged talons ripped away the flesh at the navel. Outpouring innards splashed wetly on the floor as it worked itself free.
The no-longer-inner demon launched itself upon the counter.
The student stood, tottery, before the creature.
It coiled, primed for attack.
The manager sidled up to Jessica. He whispered: “Man, that thing really needs to get laid.”
“Don’t look at me. We’re just friends.”
After guiding an 83-70 upset over #1 Florida Saturday afternoon, showing off an incredible feat of athleticism, Shan Foster simultaneously chest bumps and passionately open-mouth kisses another member of the victorious Vanderbilt squad, which improved to 18-8.
