Brian watched the butcher through his tiny bedroom window. The small basement apartment he and his mother occupied was located directly across the alley from the back of the meat shop, and each evening when he finished his homework, he would stand on his bed and watch the man working.
The butcher’s arms were massive, roped in thick muscles and covered in tattoos that ran from his wrists up to his broad shoulders and underneath the thin stained white shirt he wore. His neck, like the rest of his body, was thick like a bull’s and supported a tiny head that was perpetually bent forward as he worked his craft. The people in the surrounding neighborhoods of the city loved the butcher’s shop and would line up all down the street to buy from him.
Even Brian’s mother would shop there once every two weeks. One evening, she took Brian along with her. Inside the shop, it had been hot and humid, reeking of stale blood and meat. It was all Brian could do to keep from bolting out the door. He held onto his mother’s hand, telling himself that it was just a meat shop and to keep it together. He watched as the customers in front of him took their packages of meat wrapped in white butcher paper stained red and dripping from the hulking man. He looked at the packages the people carried out and saw that the butcher had neatly stamped each one with two initials and the date: KC, DB, EL, and so on. When they had finally reached the counter after waiting nearly an hour, his mother had pointed to a large knuckle of meat that looked too much like a human thigh for Brian. He had screamed and ran from the shop.
And still, he watched.
Maybe to make sure the butcher was in his shop and not at the front door of the apartment. Or perhaps because of something else.
The butcher’s right arm rose and fell like a piston as he wielded a large cleaver. Up and down, up and down, the man carved up mountains of meat into smaller chunks for display and sale in the front of his shop.
As he watched, Brian could hear his mother in the next room talking on her phone, “I just don’t understand. That’s the third babysitter this month! And Clara had such a good reputation.” Brian’s mother paused, listening to whoever it was she was talking to. “Yes! Completely alone! I got in at eleven-thirty, and she was nowhere to be found. No, Brian was fine. He was in bed asleep. Why would she just leave? I mean, I know he’s a handful, but to just walk out without a call or a note? That’s just irresponsible. No, she wouldn’t even return my calls. Where am I going to find another sitter? Brian’s just not old enough to be by himself yet.”
Brian was nine. He felt old enough to be on his own, but his mother worried, so he suffered through a parade of babysitters. Some were ok. Most were not. Most, in fact, were tyrants who ate their food, stole his mother’s meager belongings, and tortured Brian when all he wanted was to be left alone in his room.
Brian could hear the dull thud of the cleaver hitting the cutting block. Thud! Pause. Thud! Pause. Thud! The sound lulled him into a semi-trance.
Sometimes when he watched the butcher doing his work, he thought he could see the man’s tattoos move. They would shift and slide across his forearms rising and falling like waves. He thought he could see them peel off from his skin, rising up into the air, diving back down into the man’s skin like black solar flares. If he stared at them long enough, he imagined that at the end of each strand of ink, there was an eye, black and shiny, watching the cleaved segments of meat, sometimes watching Brian. He would shake his head, and the black eyes would close, and the tattoos would return to their place.
“Do you think she would be available this weekend? I’m pulling an extra shift at the hospital Saturday and Sunday. Really? Great! And thanks, I owe you one.”
Brian heard his mother put her phone down on the kitchen table, then listened to her footsteps approach his room. He quickly sat down on his bed and opened a nearby book just before his mom reached his door. She lightly tapped on his doorframe.
“Brian?”
“Yeah, Mom?”
“I’ve managed to line up a new babysitter for you.”
“I’m too old for a babysitter, Mom. And we can’t afford it.”
“We can’t afford it? Do you have a mouse in your pocket? You working a backshift I don’t know about? A side hustle out on the streets?”
Brian giggled, “Ok, you can’t afford it.”
“Well, I can’t afford to worry about you here all lone while I’m at work either.”
Brian sighed. He had lost this argument too many times in the past to think he was going to win it today. “What’s her name?”
“Nichole Carpenter. I’ve heard she’s really nice.”
“Like Dr. Frankenstein nice or Mr. Hyde nice?”
“Ha, ha. She has a good reputation, so try not to run her off.”
“I didn’t run the last two off.”
“Tell it to the judge, little man,” giving him a look that said, “I may not know what happened, but I know you did something wrong.”
“It’s true, Mom! I liked Clara! Stalin? Not so much.”
“Her name was Katlyn.”
“She was a tyrant.”
“She was reliable.”
“Reliably mean. She mentally scarred me for life. And what about the Mad Hatter? Clean cup! Clean cup! Move down! Move down!”
His mom rolled her eyes, put the back of her hand to her forehead, and pretended to swoon against the door frame, “So much drama! You should go into acting when you grow up.” She stood up, crossed her arms, and looked down at her feet, “I know Madeline Hadder wasn’t very nice, but she did keep the apartment clean.”
Brian laughed. He loved his mom and would try for her. “Fine. I’ll be on my best behavior for Nichole when she gets here.”
“Better than your best, mister. Your best behavior leaves something to be desired.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know you are, kiddo,” she said, then cross the room and gave him a quick kiss on the bean.
ɵ
At two o’clock on Saturday afternoon, he heard the doorbell ring. He set down his book and listened as his mom went to the door and opened it up. He could hear her talking to the new sitter but couldn’t make out the words. He sat up on his bed, got to his feet, and peeked around his doorframe down the short hall to get a look at his latest jailor.
She was cute in an old person way. A little shorter than his mom, but taller than Brian, she stood there in the doorway in a school uniform that consisted of a black and grey plaid skirt, a neat gray blazer over a white button-up shirt, and a red tie. Her skin was pale, and she had a pert nose and wide green eyes. She wore her hair up in a neat ponytail. As she spoke, her eyes darted right and caught Brian looking at her from around the door frame. He was about to pull back, feeling a bit guilty for spying on her and his mom as they spoke when she winked at him.
Maybe she wouldn’t be so bad after all.
“Brian, come out and meet Nichole!” his mom said over her shoulder.
He walked out into the hall and toward the open door, trying not to look guilty.
“This is Nichole,” his mom said.
“Hi, Nichole,” Brian replied and stuck out his hand.
“Hi, Brian,” she said, taking his hand.
Her hand was warm. He held it for just a second then pumped it up and down twice. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise.”
“Ok, you two, I’m off to work,” his mom said, grabbing her purse and phone before heading out the door. “You have my number Nichole if anything goes wrong.” With this, she cast a stink eye at Brian.
Brian gave her his best wide-eyed innocent look and crossed his heart.
“Hmm. Ok, you two have a good night. I’ll be home by eleven-thirty.”
“See you then, Ms. Marco,” Nichole said, closing the door and locking it. She then turned to face Brian and leaned against the door. “So, should I just lock you up in a closet for the night?”
Brian froze where he stood and wondered how fast he could bolt into his room and lock the door.
“Just kidding!” she said and laughed, walking by him and setting her bag and books down on the coffee table in the living room.
“Whew!” he said, laughing with her. “For just a second, you had me going.”
“So, you are Brian, and I am Nichole,” she said as she sat down on the couch. She crossed her legs and looked at him with those big green eyes.
“Yes?” he said, taking the recliner to her left.
“Yes, and these are the facts: You are a nine-year-old who doesn’t want a babysitter. I am an eighteen-year-old who doesn’t want to babysit but does want extra money. I like money. To get that extra money, I work part-time at the hospital, tutor other students, and babysit. These are the facts, and based on these facts, we will be spending many, many hours of our time together.”
“Ok,” Brian replied.
“Given these facts, I propose a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“A deal of a lifetime. First, you do your homework, chores, and anything else you mom tells you to when I am here including trimming your toenails—”
At this, Brian giggled.
“—your nose hair—”
“Eww! I don’t have nose hair!”
“Yet,” Nichole said without missing a beat. “Taking your monthly bath—”
“Hey! I bathe more than that!”
“Not based on your current ripeness.”
Brian sniffed at his underpits and had to agree, “Fine.”
“Peeling potatoes, onions, and turnips—”
“What are turnips?”
“Quite interrupting, or we’ll be here all night. Washing dishes, grouting the bathroom tiles, painting the walls, and breaking big rocks into little rocks. Do all this before six, and you can video game until your ears bleed or watch terrible science fiction and horror movies every night I’m here. For my part, I’ll cook dinner, help you with the dishes and homework, not apply electrodes to any part of your body, and not lock you in the closet. You do your part, and I’ll do my part. I get paid, you get sat, and no one gets hurt. Deal?
“Deal!”
“Good. Let’s shake on it, bubba.”
Brian leaped out of the chair and shook her hand.
“So, what will you do first? Shower or homework?”
“Shower,” Brian said glumly.
“And use soap.”
“Is that part of the deal?”
“It’s the unspoken part, now get to it, and I’ll see what we’re having for dinner.”
Brian dragged himself into the bathroom while Nichole got up and went to the kitchen. In the bathroom, he carefully looked up his nose and noted that he had not a single nose hair to trim. Yet. He giggled again. Maybe this sitter wouldn’t be so bad.
ɵ
When he was done and dressed, he went into the living room and saw that Nichole had spread out her school books and was grinding away on her homework.
“Inspection time,” she said, looking up from her notebook. “Come here.”
“What’s inspection time?” Brian said, looking down at the books on the kitchen table.
“It’s where I subject you to the Sniff and Potato Test.”
“The what?”
“It’s where I take a sniff of your big old head and see if you did a good job or just let the water run in the shower while you sat on the toilet while pretending you were Spider-Man,” she said leaning forward and sniffing around his head.”
“I don’t do that!” he said, knowing that he did do that from time to time.
“Captain America then? The Hulk?”
“Dr. Strange,” he said sheepishly.
“Ha, ha. Nerd-core,” she said approvingly. “You pass the sniff test. Now, let’s look behind your ears.”
“For what?”
“Potatoes. If you don’t clean well enough back there, you’ll get a nice crop of Idaho potatoes by Spring.”
“Nu-uh.”
“Yeah-huh,” she said, looking critically behind his ears. “Only one potato there, and it’s a small one. Not bad. Now, what time is it?”
“Three o’clock?” Brian said, looking at the clock on the wall.
“Yes! And homework time! Yay!”
“Yay,” he replied with a complete lack of enthusiasm.
“Get to it, young soldier.”
“And then I can game?”
“Until your brain implodes!”
“I am on it!”
“Good man,” she said as Brian ran off to his room to knock out his homework.
ɵ
Two hours later, Brian emerged from his room, homework complete. “I am hungry!” he declared.
Nichole looked up from her books and decided she too, was hungry. “Let’s get to cooking then!”
Brian followed her into the kitchen, where she began to pull out pans, a cookie sheet, and a set of fresh pork chops, red and dripping from the butcher paper. She set the package of meat on the counter where Brian saw the butcher’s familiar mark. While Nichole looked through the cupboards for salt, pepper, foil, and other ingredients, Brian poked his head in the fridge, hoping to get a snack.
“While you’re in there, can you grab the butter?”
“Only if I can have one piece of salami.”
“You are approved to ingest one piece of salami. No more, no less. Hand me the butter.”
Brian handed her the butter, and gingerly moved aside a collection of packages from the butcher shop. He hated touching those things. They were too soft and squishy and usually gave him a squirt of bloody water for good measure. He found the butter, removed a slice of salami from its happy yellow-backed clear Oscar Mayer package, and backed out of the fridge.
He shoved the salty meat into his mouth and handed Nichole the butter.
“My God, that’s good,” he said. “Like eating a slab of salt in meat form.”
“Just as God intended,” Nichole replied. “The secret ingredients are nitrates with a dash of nitrides. And love.”
“I don’t know what nitrates or nitrides are.”
“Flavor enhancers that give you colon cancer.”
“Yikes! Thanks for that.”
“I am here to provide knowledge as well as food.”
She took out a length of foil and placed it over the cookie sheet then rubbed the entire surface with butter. She then proceeded to slather the pork chops with butter, then stuffed them in a baggie of Shake‘N Bake seasoning, laying them on the foil-covered cookie sheet when the shaking was complete. After using up the entire package of chops, she turned on the oven and looked over her shoulder at Brian, who had carefully observed the whole process.
“And now we wait,” she said in a low, secret voice.
“For what?”
“The oven to pre-heat, of course.”
“Hardy har-har.”
A few minutes later, the oven beeped, and she stuffed the pan of seasoned pork chops inside and set the timer. She looked over her shoulder, and in the same low secret voice said, “And now, we—” she trailed off looking at Brian.
“Wait?”
“No. We make potatoes silly. And then we wait.”
She grabbed a box of instant potatoes, filled a pot with water, and added them in when the water had begun to boil “You want to hand me the potato from behind your ear? I know it’s a small one, but it might add some flavor to these things,” she said, nodding at the solidifying white sludge in the pot.”
“I’ve had that potato since I was a child!”
“You’re still a child.”
Brian watched as Nichole seasoned the potato goop and started to clean up behind her, washing utensils and putting away the spices she no longer needed. He grabbed the meat wrapper. On the package, Brian spotted a date from just a few days ago and in tiny print the words “CB- Fresh Pork Chops. 100% Natural.” Underneath that was a date stamp. Blood began to drip on the counter, so he quickly put the stained paper into the trash.
One hour later, everything was ready, and Nichole served up the food while Brian set the table, then the two dove in. They talked of movies and games and school while they ate, then fell into a comfortable silence as the need to eat overcame the need to talk. The pork chops were delicious.
Brian finished his food and leaned back, feeling a surge of gas buildup in his stomach.
“You are not going to burp, are you?”
Brian stopped and quickly swallowed, “No, ma’am.”
“That’s good news because burping is not an acceptable practice for the refined. Do you know what is an acceptable practice?”
“No.”
“Belching!” and with that, Nichole let out an earth-shattering burp then daintily wiped her mouth.
“You are no lady!” Brian said, laughing then added his one, much smaller burp.
“And you need to work on your ability to project. Now guess what time it is.”
“Game time?”
“Nope, dish time!”
“Ugh. You are a hard driver.”
“Yes. After that, you can game until your mind liquifies or watch a movie with me.”
Brian slid out of his chair and began collecting up the dishes from the table. “What are you watching?” he said as he washed the dishes and put them in the dish rack to dry.
“Mad Max?”
“Which one? Mom says I’m not old enough to watch ‘The Road Warrior.’”
“How about ‘Fury Road’?”
“In about an hour? I need to get my Xbox fix.”
“Do you even know what a ‘fix’ is?”
“Nope.”
Nichole laughed, “Ok, one hour and then the world of blood and fire begins with or without you.”
“Roger that!” Brian said and bounced off to his room.
After almost an hour of mowing down enemy soldiers, blowing up armored vehicles, and generally wreaking mayhem in the virtual world, Brian shut down his game console. He plopped his body down on the couch in front of the TV, where Max was beginning to mumble his way through the story. Halfway through the movie, Brian began to get sleepy, and under the noise of the screaming engines, thrashing guitars, and general mayhem of the car chases, could hear the thump, thump, thump of the butcher next door. He got up from the couch and glanced at Nichole, who looked like she was half asleep watching the movie, then quietly walked into his room.
He climbed up on his bed and looked out the window to see the butcher, hard a work preparing meat for the next day. He didn’t know how long he stood there, watching the mountain of a man. Half an hour? An hour? The sounds of the TV had faded to a buzz punctuated by random War-boys yelling, “Witness!” He was deep in whatever state he had slipped into and well on his way to sleep when the sound of Nichole knocking on the frame of the door roused him.
She joined him at the window watching the bull of a man work, “Max just faded into the crowd. Do you think Furiosa will be a good leader?”
“No. Absolute power corrupts absolutely,” he said, still looking out the window.
“You’re a strange kid. What are we looking at?”
“The butcher next door.”
“That’s weird. I would expect you to be peeping at girls, but if large greasy men are your thing, then hey, who am I to judge?”
“Ha, ha. Are you studying to be a comedian?”
“Yes. I am studying to be a comedian. And if that fails, I’ll go to clown school.”
“Yuck, yuck.”
“You smell better.”
“I used soap.”
“That is the first step in a much larger universe. Of hygiene.”
The two fell into silence, watching the butcher at his task and listening to the soft thuds of his cleaver segmenting the meat.
“Creepy, right? I mean, who runs a butcher shop anymore?” she said, breaking the light trance they seemed to be in.
Brian shook his head and looked at Nichole, “The folks in the neighborhood love him. They say you can’t get fresh meat like his from any of the big chain stores.”
“Fresh meat? That sounds so gross. Like something some drunk bro-dude and his buddies would say while scamming on women at a bar. I prefer my meat fully processed, saturated with nitrates and nitrites, and press-molded into one of three shapes: cube, cylinder, or circle.”
“You liked it.”
“It was different. Normally, the meat my family eats comes out of a metal can.”
“Out of a can?”
“Like SPAM or tuna. Or maybe from molded plastic, like bologna or out of a tube, like liverwurst.”
Brian laughs, “That’s gross. No one eats liverwurst.”
“Do you even know what liverwurst is?”
“Really bad liver, like the worst, that no one ever eats?”
“Ha, ha, funny man. But close enough. It’s like ground-up liver and other meat left over from pigs and cows and whales and stuff.”
“Nu-uh.”
“Yep. And skunks. They mash it into a mush, cook it, and add a bunch of industrial solvents to it. Maybe some hair.”
“They do not!” Brian said, laughing yet wondering if they really did.
“Yes, they do. These things I know. Once it turns into a reddish-gray slurry, they inject it into plastic tubes. Hey, just like toothpaste!”
“I think I’m going to be sick. I’d never eat that.”
“Don’t be so sure. Lots of people eat it when they can’t afford anything else.”
They fell silent and watched the butcher. After a while, Brian began to see the tattoos move. “Can you see them?” he asks Nichole. “Can you see the tattoo’s move? I think they are watching me.” He shook his head, and the tattoos were back where they belonged. He looked over at Nichole’s face. Her eyes were half-closed, and her mouth was slack like she’s fallen into a trance. “Nichole? Are you ok?”
Nichole looked at him, but Brian could tell she didn’t see him. “Nichole?” he asked this time with a note of panic in his voice.
“It’s like,” she says slowly, her voice coming from far away. “It’s like a song.”
“What is?” Brian says and gently shook her by her shoulder. “What’s like a song?”
Nichole’s eyes seemed to focus a bit, and she looked directly at Brian. “Song? What song?”
“You said it’s like a song.”
“What is?”
“I don’t know. You said it.”
“Said what?”
“Never mind,” Brian says, dropping it, just happy that the strange, slack-jawed look had left Nichole’s face.
“Yep. Never mind,” she said, looking back at the butcher. “Time for bed, squirt.”
ɵ
Sunday morning came with Brian’s mom making a breakfast of scrambled eggs and sausage. Brian walked to the kitchen table and slid into the chair, a mass of bed head hair sticking up around his head like a halo.
“Hey, sleepyhead.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“How did you sleep?”
Brian thought about the dreams he had of the butcher and decided not to share them with his mom. Instead, he said, “Good. How as work?”
“Busy, busy, busy, busy! I need a vacation!” she said and ended it with a snort.
“Constantine. Good one.”
“I am a hip mom.”
“Does that mean I’m the son of the devil?”
“Maybe. Do you want eggs and sausage for breakfast?”
“Does a hobby horse have a hickory hinny?”
“I. Don’t. Know,” she replied slowly.
Brian sighed dramatically, then said, “Yes, please.”
“Good! Cuz that’s what you’re getting!” his mom replied. “Where did you read about hobby horses? And did it specify that their buttes were made out of wood?”
“The internet.”
“We’re talking about a toy horse that kids used to ride, right? And not something from the Urban Dictionary of Slang?”
“Of course.”
“Good,” she said, eyeballing her son and scooping a pile of eggs onto his plate followed by four fat crispy links of sausage. She looked at her strange son, relived that “hobby horse” didn’t mean something else. One never knew these days. “How was the new babysitter?”
“She was good,” he said as he ate his eggs.
“No problems?”
“Nope. She’s funny. I like her.”
“Good. She said the same.”
“That she’s funny or likes herself?”
“Yuck, yuck. She gave me a full report on your activities.”
“Then why’d you ask if I had any problems?” he said around a mouth full of sausage.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said as she sat down with her plate of food.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“I was just checking. Seeing if the two stories matched,” she replied around a mouth full of eggs.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Don’t be smart,” she said, gnawing down on an enormous sausage link like a rabbit eating a carrot. “God, these things are so good.”
“The secret ingredient is nitrates and nitrites.”
“And love?”
“Don’t steal my thunder.”
The two dug into their breakfast then sat in comfortable silence.
“Ok, chump. Help me clean up, then start on your homework.”
Brian nodded and began collecting up the plates and utensils from the kitchen table while his mom loaded the pots and pans into the sink. Brian set the stack of dishes next to her the moved to her right. She began to scrub the plates while he rinsed them and placed them in the dish rack to dry.
“All done. Now you are free until noon. And by ‘free,’ I mean ‘free to do your homework.’ At twelve, you will bath—”
“But I showered yesterday!”
“And you will shower today! Two in a row! That might be some sort of record. When you’re done with showering, you can game for one solid hour. Then it’s back to hitting the books. And then you are free.”
“With what?”
“What?”
“Hitting the books with what?”
“A hammer. Or your head. Either one works, Mr. Wisenheimer.”
“I’m not familiar with that reference, Ms. Old Person.”
“I’d tell you to look it up on the internet, but who knows what you would find.”
“Got it. Shower, then homework, then games.”
“Good boy. Now get to it.”
Brian finished rinsing the dishes, then quickly showered, and pulled his books from his school bag. He sighed, looking at the stack of work he had to do, then pulled out his first assignment and began working it. Soon he was lost in the intricacies of multiplication and division followed by godawful new vocabulary, spelling, and sentence structure.
Sometime later, his mom poked her head in the door and said, “You’ve been too quiet.”
Brian looked up and saw that most of the morning had gone by. “I’m studying.”
“Hmm. You need to take a break and game a bit. That way, I’ll know that the Body Snatchers have not replaced you.”
“Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Good one. But they really didn’t snatch peoples’ bodies, did they? The aliens cloned their own, and the original body just sort of crumbled away.”
“You are way overthinking it. Now I’ve got to get ready for work.”
Brian watched as his mom headed off to the shower, then logged into his gaming console until, at two o’clock on the nose, he heard Nichole knock on the door. He bounced up off the couch and opened the front door, “You’re here!”
“Like clockwork,” Nichole said. She stood there, holding a backpack and a few books in her arms.
“What’s clockwork?”
“The stuff inside of old analog clocks. Pre-digital. Springs and gears and motors. Like what’s inside your head.”
“Ha, ha. Why not just say ‘Yes, I’m here’?”
“Now where would the fun be in that? Are you going to let me in?”
“Come on in,” he said. Over his shoulder, he shouted, “Mom! Nichole is here!”
“Hi, Nichole! I’m glad you made it. There’s spaghetti sauce in a pan ready to heat up and meatballs in the fridge. Brian needs to finish his homework for school, then into bed by nine. Ok?”
“You got it, Ms. Marco. I have a ton of work for school to do to, so no science fiction or horror movies for us,” Nichole said, giving Brian a wink. “Well, maybe just one if we finish up early. What say, punk?”
“I say I’ll be done by seven!” Brian replied and bounced off to his room to finish his school assignments.
In his room, he could overhear his mother talking to Nichole, “He really likes you.”
“He’s a good kid.”
“No trouble?”
“Not even a bit.”
“That’s great! I’ve had some trouble finding babysitters who would stick around after a few days of him.”
“He’s been great.”
“So, you have homework too?”
“Yep. This is my first year at the community college, and with a sociology paper due and calculus midterms coming up, I have to keep my nose to the grind.”
“What’s your major?”
“Nursing, of course.”
“Good girl. I’ll be home by eleven-thirty.”
“I’ll be here!”
Brian heard the front door to their apartment close, and Nichole dropped her books and pack on the coffee table in the living room. “Prisoner Brian! Report to the living room!”
Brian laughed and walked into the living room. “Reporting as ordered!”
“Tonight, you will finish your homework! Then we will eat whatever your mother has cooked for dinner! And then we will watch a science fiction movie of your choice, followed immediately by bed! Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Then carry on smartly!”
Brian worked quietly in is room as Nichole studied in the living room. A few hours later, he could smell something cooking in the kitchen. His stomach growled, and he followed the delicious aroma.
“Meatballs!” he said, spotting a dozen massive balls cooking in a pan.”
“So I’m told,” she replied, noting their odd shape, “Although they are more like meat boulders. Meat meteorites? Ha, ha! Get it? Meat-eorites?”
“You are so weird.”
“Irrelevant. How many do you want?”
“All of them?”
“Translation: four. Good deal.” Nichole finished frying the meatballs, heating the sauce, and boiling the spaghetti noodles. Soon they were eating at the kitchen table.
“Hot damn, these meatballs are good! Where did your mom get them?”
“Where do you think?”
“The butcher shop?”
“Yep. She got the ground beef there and added her secret herbs and spices to it, and then hand-rolled the meatballs.”
“Secret herbs and spices, huh? Are you guys the heirs to Colonel Sanders?”
“Who’s that?”
“Oh my God, the ignorance of the younger generation!” Nichole said, then stuffed a huge slice of meatball into her mouth and chewed it into oblivion before replying. “Older gentleman of southern persuasion? Where’s a white suit and spectacles? Sports a goatee?”
“He does what with a goat?”
“Good lord. You don’t know what a goatee is?
“No. It sounds perverted.”
“It’s a beard, dork.”
Brian laughed. “Sure, it is.”
“Kentucky Fried Chicken? Nothing?”
“Nope.”
“KFC?”
“Ah! KFC! Why didn’t you say so!”
“I think you’re pulling my leg.”
“A chicken leg?”
“Ha, ha. I’m getting another heap of meatballs. Want any?”
“I’m stuffed,” Brian said and took his plate to the sink.
Nichole returned with two more colossal meatballs then cleaned her plate. She pushed it back, feeling slightly nauseous looking at the remains of red sauce, bits of noodles, and scraps of fatty meat. “I think I ate too much.”
“I know you ate too much. You had like six meatballs. That’s enough for two people.”
“Hey! You ate four yourself.”
“Well, I’m a growing boy.”
“Well, I’m—a glutton. And those meatballs were too good. I’ll never eat again.”
“Sure. Want another meatball?”
“Is it wrong to say yes?”
“Yes.”
“Then no thank you,” she said and took her dishes to the sink. She looked longingly at the few remaining meatballs in the pan, then forced herself to look away. “All done with homework?”
“Yep.”
“Showered up for the day?”
“Early this morning!”
“Then let’s clean up then watch a movie.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
The two quickly cleaned up the kitchen and decided to watch The Terminator. They settled into the movie watching Reese drag Sarah around while Arnold did his robot thing. During the movie, Nichole fell asleep and began to talk.
“Can you hear it?” she says softly.
Brian was so deep into the movie, he didn’t quite hear what she said and replied absent-mindedly, “What?”
“It’s like a song.”
He looked over at her. Nichole had curled up in the corner of the couch. Her eyes were half-closed, and she was looking past Brian into his bedroom. He turned his head to see what she was looking at and could see only his room. Dimly, he could hear a rhythmic thump, thump, thump coming from someplace nearby. “Maybe it’s someone’s car stereo?”
Nichole shook her head and said, “Your butt sounds like a car stereo.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Boom, boom, boom! That’s the sound your butt makes. Has Sarah crushed Arnold in the press yet?”
“A few minutes ago. She is doing her sad thing in Mexico.”
“Roger that. The future is safe. For now,” Nichole said menacingly. “Until Terminator 2: Judgement Day, it’s off to bed with you!”
Brian laughed then went to brush his teeth and climbed into bed. He was asleep before Nichole turned out the light.
ɵ
Monday arrived too early for Brian as it always did with his mother telling him it was time to get up. He went through his morning routine as his mom went through hers, then ran out the door to catch his bus to school, followed by his mom, who caught her bus to work. He would be in school until 2:30, then go to his after-school GATE programs and be home just after his mom would get in.
Walking in through the front door, he dropped his books and backpack and began setting the table while his mom finished making dinner. Then they both sat down and talked about their day.
“Hey,” his mom said while chewing on a leftover pork chop, “Isn’t someone’s birthday coming up?”
Brian glanced up from his unsuccessful effort to distribute uneaten peas around his plate to make it look like he’d ingested the requisite amount, “I believe so.”
“Any idea whose?”
“Someone important. And famous. And good looking.”
“Hmm. I don’t know anyone like that. Do you?”
“Is everyone a comic these days?”
“Only if you’re poor. It helps ease the pain of grinding poverty.”
“Nichole says the same thing.”
“Then she is one smart cookie.”
“Yes, Mom. It’s my birthday coming up.”
“Why didn’t you just say so?” she kidded.
“I just did.”
“So you did. What might you want for your birthday dinner?”
Instead of answering, Brian buried a few more peas under a gnawed pork chop bone and said, “Sunday birthdays suck.”
“Not the answer I was looking for, but I’ll bite: Why’s that, sport?”
“Because I have school on Monday and you have to work that weekend. I can’t stay up late, I can’t watch movies, and I still have to do homework.”
“That is a tragedy. And you need to eat more of your peas. Even the ones under the bone.”
“Peas are the devil’s minions.”
“They’ll make hair grow on your chest.”
“Even more reason not to eat them.”
“If you don’t eat them, the hair grows on your butt.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I am a nurse who specializes in butt hair growth, now eat.”
“I’m eating,” Brian said and shoved a few now cold and mushed peas into his gob. “These are disgusting.”
“I’m inclined to agree, but when I applied for a license to raise you, I signed a contract saying I would make you eat peas four times a month plus all the fancy holidays.”
“Fancy holidays?”
“Like Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. Oh, and your birthday.”
“You wouldn’t do that to your only son, would you?”
“Maybe. How about we celebrate it on Friday?”
“Can we? And go out to eat?” he asked.
“Oh boy, the Marco Family Budget’s tight this week, kiddo,” his mom said. “Would you rather go out to eat or go to a movie this Friday?”
“Ah! It’s too hard to choose!” Brian cried out in mock pain.
“The tiger or the girl? It’s your choice.”
“The what now?”
“What do they teach you in school these days?”
“Very little about tigers. And even less about girls.”
“Well then, how about the Scylla or the Charybdis? Death by rocks or death by whirlpool. You get to choose.”
“Ick sprech kein Deutsch, Mom.”
“So, you profess to know more German than classical Greek, huh? I weep for the younger generation.”
“How about you make your famous burgers, skip the peas, and we go out to a movie?”
“That is a deal.”
“With lots of cheese?”
“On the movies?”
“On the burgers!”
“Then as much as you like!”
“And enough for leftovers on Sunday?”
“Sounds like a deal!”
“Sold!”
Brian reluctantly finished his peas, then helped his mother clean up. Burgers and a movie for his birthday! And he would get to celebrate on a Friday! It was going to be a long two weeks.
ɵ
Brian sat watching an old black and white show where some angry kid wished people into a corn factory or something. It was weird. He heard the doorbell and bounced up just as the kid turned some guy into a Jack in the Box. Old shows were strange. He ran down the short hall and pulled the door open, “Hi Nichole!”
“Hey, tiny man. How are you?”
“Better than you. You look like you just came back from the corn factory.”
“The what now?”
“Maybe it’s a cornfield. Whenever this kid gets mad, he wishes people into the cornfield.”
“To like what, pick corn?”
“I don’t know, but apparently it’s better than getting turned into a Jack in the Box.”
“He turns them into a fast food restaurant?
“No, it’s a creepy toy. Why do they call it a Jack in the Box? Why not Bill or Steve? A Steve in the Box. I like that.”
“You are a weird kid. What are you watching?”
“Twilight?”
“I’ve seen Twilight, and I don’t think that ever happened.”
“It’s some old black and white TV show. Never mind.” Brian cast a critical eye over Nichole. “You need to lay off whatever it is you’re laying on,” he said as she stepped inside the apartment. Nichole really did look bad. Her skin was too pale, her hair normally so perfectly combed was a bit ragged, her eyes were bloodshot with dark circles underneath them.
“I haven’t been sleeping very well lately.”
“My vote is for alcohol. All the people of your generation are aspiring alcoholics.”
“Where do you get this stuff?”
“The internet.”
“Hi, Nichole!” Brian’s mom said as she stepped out of the bathroom. “Everything all right?” she said, giving Nichole a critical once over.
“S’ok. Just not sleeping well this past week.”
“Well, cut down on the caffeine. I’ll be home by eleven-thirty!”
“See you then,” she said.
The two quickly fell into their routine, finishing their school work in the living room and eating dinner before plopping down in front of the TV to watch another movie.
“Tonight, we’ll see if all of Reese’s efforts went to waste protecting and impregnating Sarah,” Nichole said.
“Eww.”
“It’s the birds and the bees, young man. You’d better get used to it.”
“I don’t see what bees or birds have to do with it.”
“You’ll need to ask your mom.”
“I did. She said I had to wait until I was eleven.”
“Good choice. My guess is yes, since Sarah ends up in the looney bin, and John ends up in foster care.”
“Are you trying to spoil the movie for me?”
“Have you seen this before?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then shush. I’m not spoiling anything by adding my humorous commentary.”
The movie got started as John ran around doing punk kid things while Arnold reprised his robot stuff. Even having seen this at least a dozen times, Brian was still surprised when the T-1000 ended up being the bad guy.
The Silver Dude began his chase thing, and John, Arnold, and Sarah did their run and shoot thing as the two settled in. Over an hour later, as the movie moved towards the icy and fiery conclusion, Brian noticed that Nichole kept looking in his room.
“You lose something over there, Cochise?”
“You can’t hear it?”
“Hear what?”
“Nothing.”
Brian watched as Arnold took his molten lava bath and clapped as Arnold gave his final thumbs-up. Nichole was clearly not into it. “Bedtime, buddy.”
Sunday was more of the same with a pile of homework, dinner, and another movie. Nichole looked even worse than the night before, but Brian put it down to college stuff as he brushed his teeth and trudged off to bed.
He drifted off to sleep listening to the sounds of the TV set coming in from the living room. Beneath the chatter of whatever talk show Nichole was watching, he could hear the steady thump, thump, thump of the butcher’s cleaver.
ɵ
Thump! Brian’s eyes shot open as he jerked awake to the sharp sound of the butcher’s cleaver hitting the woodblock. It was so loud that he looked around, thinking that maybe the butcher had broken into the apartment and was now cutting up meat in his room. It was empty, with only the silver light of the moon streaming in from his narrow window. A series of thuds let him know that the noise was coming from outside. His window was open, and a cold breeze blew the curtains in carrying the steady sound from the butcher’s shop.
His door was also open, and the lights of the living room were off. How late was it? Had Nichole left for the night? Was his mom home? He looked at the clock on his bedstand, but the digital readout was black. They must have lost power after he had gone to bed.
He swung his legs onto the floor and stood up, walking quickly to the door. No one was in the living room, but Nichole’s books and bag were still sitting on the couch and coffee table. He looked to his left and saw the door to the apartment was open. Through the door, he could hear the rhythmic cutting of the butcher matching his heartbeat.
No one ever left their doors open in the city. He should have felt terrified. Anyone could have come in. They might even still be here. But he felt no fear at all, just a deep unease that settled in the pit of his stomach. He turned and went down the hall to his mother’s room and saw that it too, was empty and the bed unslept in so it must still be before eleven-thirty.
He backtracked down the hallway and stood before the open apartment door. Maybe Nichole was standing out on the stoop, taking a break, or seeing if other people on the block had lost power. He stepped outside into the chilly night and stood there looking up the short flight of steps that lead to the street. Nichole was not standing outside. What’s more, there wasn’t a single person moving up and down the sidewalk or any cars passing by. It looked like the area around his block was completely empty. He walked to the top of the steps feeling the cold and gritty concrete beneath his bare feet, thinking his mom would kill him if she caught him outside barefoot and in his PJs.
He realized he must be dreaming. There was just no way for the city to be this dark and empty. But it felt so real. He had read about people having dreams like this, lucid dreams where people could do what they wanted. He had never had one before.
The entire block was empty, and every light was out. No cars, no people. No lights in windows, no street lights. Just an oversized moon pouring light down on him casting everything in shades of silver and blue. And still, he could hear the steady thumping that matched the beating of his heart.
He looked left again and saw without surprise that the door to the butcher shop was open. Nichole would be in there. He would go in, find her, and wake up in his bed. It was that easy. But the uneasiness persisted. Dream or not, he should just turn around and go back to his bed. But the rhythmic sound has slipped deep into his brain, drawing him toward the shop, and he found himself walking toward the butcher’s door. What was it that Nichole said? It was like a song.
What kind of song?
A siren song.
And what do sirens do to people?
They eat them.
And still, he walked.
Inside, the light from the moon was blocked out by the filth covered windows casting everything into formless shadows. The waiting area was in disarray with the tables and chairs overturned, broken, and covered in thick dust. Across the floor, he could see piles of debris that looked like broken bones, and in the display, there were mounds of old meat that looked too human. The sound of the blade falling grew louder and pulled on him. He moved past the counter and crossed a short hallway to find himself standing in the large cutting room.
It was cold, and white fluorescent lights flooded every corner of the place. In front of him stood Nichole, just as he knew she would be. Having found her, he tried to force himself awake, but the dream stubbornly persisted. He tried to call out to her, but his voice was locked solid in his throat.
Beyond Nichole stood the butcher behind his cutting block, a mountain of muscle and flesh watching her with tiny black eyes set deeply under the ridge of his eyebrows. His face was a formless slab of meat that hung from his skull in a crude imitation of a frowning man. His tattooed arms were like two knotted oak trees folded across his chest, roped with thick cables of muscles. He wore a filthy undershirt under a blood-splattered apron. His wide shoulders rose and fell with each breath like bellows of a furnace. The sound of the cutting had transformed into the sound of his beating heart.
To his right stood an array of cutting and breaking instruments, strangely clean and sterile looking in the bright light. In the center hung an oversized meat cleaver large enough to split someone like Brian in half with one swing. The butcher unfolded his thick arms and dropped one to his side then extended the other out toward Nichole. He held up a deeply scarred finger and motioned for Nichole to come closer.
Brian felt a jet of fear burst upward inside of him and again tried to find his voice, to scream at Nichole to get out, but he only managed horse whisper.
Nichole looked back over her shoulder at Brian. He could see the terror in her eyes, the plea for help, but Brian was rooted to the floor.
The butcher looked past Nichol at Brian and shook his head, then grunted at Nichole.
She turned her head away from Brian and took off her coat. She dropped it to the floor, then removed her red tie, dropping it on top of the coat, and began to unbuttoned her shirt. Brian tried to scream, tried to rush at Nichole, and get her out of this place, but he was frozen, helpless to move.
The shirt followed the tie and coat to the floor. Nichole’s skin was shockingly pale in the harsh light as she reached behind her and undid her bra clasp and removed her bra, then kicked off her shoes. She bent over, pulling off her socks, then stood up and quickly unzipped her skirt, letting it fall around her bare feet. She then pulled down her shorts and took one step in front of the pile of her things.
Brian had never seen a fully nude person in his real-life or a dream, let alone someone he knew. His pulse was pounding in his ears, threatening to split his skull with each beat. Or was it the butcher’s pulse? He could feel the scream that had been locked in his throat breaking loose as the butcher motioned Nichole forward.
She began to slowly walk towards the cutting block. There she climbed up on the stained wood block and laid down. The butcher looked at Brian, still standing in the doorway. He slowly raised his left arm and pointed to Brian’s right. Brian turned his head away from Nichole as she closed her eyes. He caught a glimpse of the butcher as he reached over and took the enormous meat cleaver from its hook.
To Brian’s right was a large walk-in freezer. The door was slowly opening, and a wave of frigid air washed out and enveloped Brian. The inside was dark, but Brian could see dozens of shapeless forms hung from meat hooks. The fluorescent lights flickered to life and showed him what was hanging inside.
On each hook hung the partially dismembered carcass of a young woman, some missing arms, some legs, others completely cleaned and skinned, others missing rumps or thighs. Each one was wrapped in a clear plastic bag, making it difficult to see their faces, but the tags that had been tied around their neck were carefully labeled with the names of the woman and a date they had been slaughtered.
Diane Bedford.
Ellen Lane.
Clara Foster.
Madeline Hadder.
Brian opened his mouth wide until his jaw cracked as he pulled in the cold air and filled his lungs to scream. To his left, he heard the dull thud of the meat clever hitting the board. His head snapped back to Nichole and the butcher and saw that the blade had split her chest wide open. The butcher jerked it down toward her belly, splitting her completely in two. Her body fell apart, and her internals spilled down the sides of the cutting block in a wave of blood and viscera. Blood poured down the cutting block in and flowed toward Brian. The butcher rapidly cleaned out her abdomen then flipped her gore covered carcass over. He used the blade of the cleaver to make several long slices down the sides of her back, then hung the blood splatter thing on the wall. He grabbed Nichole by the shoulder then worked the fingers of his free hand under Nichole’s skin and began to jerk it down. The sheaf of flesh and fat peeled away from her back as easily has her coat had slipped to the floor.
The scream so long caught in Brian’s throat finally erupted. It pierced his ears and seemed to go on forever, even as the butcher continued his work. The air around Brian began to vibrate with the intensity of the scream. The tattoos on the arms of the butcher pealed up and stared at him with many black eyes.
The world around him began to break apart as the pitch of his shriek continue to grow. He looked down and saw that he was now standing in a pool of Nichole’s blood. It began to turn black like a hole, then opened up underneath him and swept him into darkness.
ɵ
He would have woken up screaming, but sometime during the dream, he had shoved his blanket into his mouth. As it was, his PJs were soaked with sweat and sticking to his body. At some point, he had crawled off of his bed and under his tiny desk. There he had wrapped his covers and sheets around him.
He pulled the sodden blanket from his mouth and looked around his room. The widow was closed, and sunlight was streaming inside. His door was shut, so whatever he might have been doing in his sleep had not disturbed his mom. He unwrapped himself from the tangle of sheets and blankets, remade his bed, then cautiously opened his door. He expected to see Nichole’s books and bag still lying in the living room and the door to the apartment open. But Nichole’s things were gone, the door was closed, and, he could see, locked securely.
He walked out of his room and saw his mom drinking coffee at the kitchen table.
“You’re up early,” she said.
“Am I?”
“Yep. Bad dreams?”
“Yeah, bad dreams. Did Nichole leave early last night?”
“Nope. She was sitting on the sofa when I came in. Why?”
“No reason.”
His mom put down her coffee cup, “Did something happen last night?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? You two didn’t have a fight, did you?”
“No. I just dreamed that she—left early, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh. Well, get ready for school while I make your breakfast.”
ɵ
The week ground by with the day to day rhythm of life, taking up all of Brian’s attention and the black and terrifying dream faded away. Finally, Friday arrived. He and his mother celebrated his birthday in grand style beginning with a veritable smorgasbord of fatty, greasy burgers smothered in cheese and surrounded by mountains of home-made fries and actual glass bottles of Coke! Afterward, his mom gave him his birthday present.
Brian unwrapped it in a frenzy and found, in a clean white box that he had yearned for since the things had hit the shelves, a shiny new cell phone.
Brian looked at his mom and felt close to tears, “Thanks, Mom. I know this was hard to get. It means the world to me,” and hugged her.
“Well, you may not be an adult yet, but everyone over ten in today’s age needs a cell phone.”
Afterward, they went to a double feature where they ate popcorn and swilled soda until both were full of dangerous levels of salt, sugar, and caffeine. As the two walked home, Brian fairly vibrated with energy, with only a shadow of unease passing over him as they went by the butcher shop.
His mom tucked him into bed and gave him a kiss on the bean, “Happy birthday, Brian. I hope it was everything you dreamed of.”
“It was, Mom. I love you!”
“Love you more. Sleep well.”
And Brian did.
ɵ
Brian spent the next morning setting up his phone, exploring all the bells and whistles on the new gadget, and calling his friends before settling into his homework. The afternoon passed by in comfortable silence as he cranked through his assignments, and his mom read in the living room. Eventually, he heard her get up and start getting ready for work.
He looked up from his books at two o’clock and expected to hear Nichole knock on the door. He couldn’t wait to show her his new phone. But two came, then two-fifteen, then two-thirty with no Nichole. He heard his mom trying to get a hold of Nichole on her phone without success.
“Brian,” his mother said, standing on the doorway of his room.
“Yeah, Mom?”
“Are you sure you two didn’t have a fight?”
“I’m sure.”
His mom glanced at her watch and sighed. She looked at her son and said to herself, “I can’t wait around any longer.” To Brian, she said, “Well, technically, you’re ten since we celebrated your birthday last night. You want to try a night by yourself?”
“Really? Yes!”
“Ok, big man. You have my number. If anything goes wrong, call nine-one-one, then the main desk at the hospital, then me. Ok?”
“Got it!” Brian said, excited to be left on his own for the first time.
“Dinner is already made in the fridge. All you have to do is heat it up. Don’t burn down the apartment building.”
“Ok, Mom! I got it! Now go!”
His mom gave him one more worried look, then headed out the door, “If Nichole shows up, give me a call, ok?”
“Ok, Mom! Bye! Have a good night!” Brian said, and locked the door behind her. He was free for the entire evening! With his homework all done, he was going to game until his eyes fell out! Brian settled down in front of the TV, logged into his gaming console, and did just that. The night passed with Brian lost in a virtual world of aliens and badass warlords. He took a short break to eat leftover meatloaf, then returned to his post-apocalyptic world until, at nearly eleven o’clock, he logged out and began to wind down watching the television.
At eleven-thirty, he heard his mom come in.
“Hi, Mom!”
“Hey, kiddo. I am happy to see the building is still standing.”
“Ha, ha. I carefully controlled my arsonist tendencies and successfully re-heated the meatloaf in the microwave.”
“Good man. How’d it go?”
“Without incident.”
“Then, off to bed with you!”
That night Brian slept better than he had in weeks.
The next day as his mom was making lunch, she asked, “Hey, Short Stack, I’ve got enough meat for two more burgers for you to have. Are you interested?”
“Does the Pope wear a funny hat?”
“I don’t know. Does he?”
“I think so. So yes!”
His mom used the last of the ground beef and threw the stained butcher wrapper into the trash. She fried up the two slabs of meat then covered them up with cheese.
“No more buns, hoss, so you’ll have to make do with regular bread,” she said as she slid the greasy patties onto his plate.
“Not a problem, ma’am,” he replied, then put the patties onto the bread, slathered them with mayo, onion, lettuce, and pickles. “Perfection!”
Brian polished off the first burger and barely paused before gobbling down the second one. Normally, he would be stuffed but strangely, still felt hungry. In a daze, he stood up and walked into the kitchen, hoping there might be meat left over for one more. His mother meanwhile was washing the frying pan.
“None left?” he asked.
“All out, kiddo. I’ll pick some more up next week if there’s any available. I think I got the last couple of pounds. You wouldn’t believe how many people were trying to buy this stuff! It was like the Black Friday of hamburger sales.”
He stopped next to the trash can and looked down to see the hamburger meat wrapper lying at the bottom. He reached in and picked out the blood-stained butcher paper. He folded the paper over in his hands and saw what he knew would be there. On the side were the letters NC neatly stamped on the paper along with last Sunday’s date. He dropped the wrapper in the trash and felt the world tilt and wobble around him. He felt like he was about to pass out and grabbed the kitchen counter, looking at his mom.
His mom cast a worried look at him, “You ok, Left-field?”
“Yeah.” He stared at the wrapper again then looked at his mom, “They were out?”
“Yep. Not a speck of ground beef to be had since I got the last on Monday.”
Brian felt the world suddenly right itself again and said, “Mom?”
“The very same.”
“I think I might want another babysitter.”
His mother stopped her cleaning and looked at him, “Really?”
“Yeah. At least until I turn eleven.”
“Ok, kiddo. I think that’s a good idea. We’ll be able to find someone else, I’m sure.”
The End.