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Food for Thought
It was eleven fifty-eight on a Sunday night. James McCarson was going to have one hell of a time getting up tomorrow morning in time for school, but he didn’t mind. He could always call in sick with senioritis—all of his friends had it, didn’t they?—and periods one through four were just crap, anyway.
He picked up lower half of the fountain pen, handling it gingerly to keep the red ink inside from spilling out, and screwed on the nib.
The vellum lay before him, blank, creamy and inviting, like Liv Tyler’s fair skin, blank and waiting to be written on. The notebook had cost him a ton of money—much more than he could afford, really, on his seven-fifty-a-hour salary, and it only held twenty pages—but the minute he’d laid eyes on it in that decrepit little antique store downtown, he’d known he had to have it. It was beautiful. Perfect and clean and seductive; the crimson ink would slide across it like a knife, opening up lovely lines of red, like wounds in the paper—
Except that it was now twelve-eighteen, and James was still staring at the blank page, his mind just as blank.
He was a poet destined for fame and greatness; he’d known it from the moment he first read Shakespeare at the age of eleven. He was full of great inspirations and brilliant visions and when the world heard of his lyrical work the editors would be lining up to buy his poems. A thousand dollars a stanza, James thought with relish. Maybe more, if they were all as horrible as everyone said editors were.
He turned the pen a little in his hand, watching the sanguine ink inside twinkle in the dim light from the bare bulb in the ceiling overhead. He wished he could afford more than this tiny little one-bedroom apartment building with a toilet that broke and overflooded half the time, and battered wooden doors that squeaked on their rusty hinges.
But better here than home, he thought, remembering how it’d been. His mother, a fragile little bird of a woman, crying all the time, her face always mottled with ugly multicolored bruises; and his father, the great 300-pound brute, always coming home drunk and throwing things, breaking the china, roaring into his son’s room to go rummaging for spare change for cigars and more of those little white pills he liked to crunch down like candy—and James, having to explain all the bruises away in the morning, shrugging it off, wearing long sleeves all the time to hide the marks—and his friends laughing at his scars without any idea of what was really going on behind that paper-thin smile of his…
Yeah, he’d done the right thing getting the hell out of there. Even if this bathroom did stink like old cigars.
Twelve-thirty and still no words.
It was always like this, James thought, watching his own fingers turn white with pressure around the pen’s barrel as his fingers tightened in frustration. He’d have such grandiose ideas—and then he’d sit down with a pen in his hand and his idea would go running like alley cats. Or like ninth graders when he walked by them, he thought, smirking at the memory of the little Asian kid he’d stuffed down a trashcan last Friday.
Still no words coming. He cussed, got up and grabbed his English homework, brought it back to his desk, and slashed red marks all over it. Criss-cross apple sauce. Parallels and perpendiculars, and obliques and segments and right angles and isosceles trianges—yeah, he knew all that stuff. He was just too lazy to try, most of the time.
The paper was a mass of flaming red now, covered with lines without meaning. James stared at it a moment, and then looked over at the vellum notebook, silent and empty. Just sitting there. Taunting him.
He crumpled his homework up into a ball, ignoring the ink that smeared across his hands, and threw it across the room at the open window. It fell short. Swearing, James got up and stomped over to the paper, snatching it up and flinging it out into the night with enough force to land it on the rooftop opposite.
He stared out the window moodily. He hated living on the eighth story. He hated having to climb down seven flights of stairs to get out of the building, and hated having to climb back up them after school in the two o’clock heat even more. He hated riding the bus, hated school, hated whoever had come up with the martyred artist image, hated himself, hated life.
Yeah, life. Life sucked.
He looked down at the fountain pen still in his hand, turned it a little to admire the sharp nib. Then he went and put it away.
He’d try again tomorrow night.
Maybe he’d be able to write something then.
James looked up at his so-called friend, Neil O’Brien, with ill-disguised bad humor. “Sick.” He shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it over a chair in the tiny employee’s lounge adjoining the meat kitchen.
“You’re late,” Mr. Cook said about thirty seconds later, marching through the kitchen door just in time to see McCarson donning his white apron at four-o-five. “By five minutes—again, McCarson! Haven’t they taught you the meaning of punctuality at that school of yours?”
“Sorry, sir,” James muttered, not looking up. He shoved his temper back down into his gut. “Won’t happen again, sir.”
“You bet it won’t! Next time you’re late by so much as two seconds, you’ll be fired, you hear, McCarson! I’m paying you by the minute—” Yeah, like ten cents a minute, James thought bitterly. “—and I won’t have you cheating me out of my money, you hear?”
“Yessir.”
Mr. Cook turned to leave, still muttering to himself under his breath. He turned back. “And tuck in that shirt of yours. You look like some gangster.”
James made himself swallow. “Yessir.”
Neil watched their boss stalk out of the room. “Sheesh, he’s all up about something today, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
“Excuse me? Sir?”
Both boys looked up at the sound of the young woman’s voice. It was a pretty, petite blond, her gorgeous blue eyes gazing right at them.
“Uh, yeah?” Neil said, clearly awestruck. “I mean—yes, ma’am?”
“Could I have two of those T-bone steaks?” she asked, pointing.
“Yeah, sure!” Neil slipped his gloves on and turned to her order, slipping a flirtatious smile at her. “Planning to have someone over for dinner?”
She smiled back briefly. “My older sister. She’s visiting me from UC Berkeley.”
“Oh? And what school do you go to?”
“Jackson High. You?”
James stood stock still, his apron strings half tied behind his back, hands frozen, and stared. Oh, it wasn’t the girl so much. She was pretty, sure, but he’d seen prettier. That wasn’t what attracted him. It was her skin. Perfectly white and smooth, like fresh-skimmed cream, like milk, clouds, like snow… Such poetry!
Neil happened to glance over and, seeing his expression, gave him a sharp elbow in the ribcage. “Hey, cut that out,” he muttered, setting the girl’s meat on the scale.
James couldn’t. He couldn’t take his arms off her. Such… such inspiring skin...
Noticing his stare, the girl shifted a little uncomfortably. “Thanks,” she said, taking the bubble-gum pink wrapped package from Neil. She paused a moment, uncertainly, looking from Neil’s hopeful grin to James’s openly predatory glare, and then gave them both a weak smile—“See you around”—and left.
“What is up with you?” Neil demanded when she was out of hearing range. “I had her all set up for a date—we were just working what time to meet—and then you started acting weird and scared her! What’s up with that?”
“Sorry, she had ketchup on her shirt,” James said, turning to pull a hank of meat from the freezer and begin slicing it up. “It looked odd, was all.”
“Well, you snitched me out of a date, that’s for sure! You owe me one!”
I owe you nothing, James thought. You and the rest of the world. Out loud, he said, “Sure, whatever you say.” The sliced meat was cold and squishy under his hands, like raw squid. He slicked the pool of blood off the counter into the sink and set about transferring the steaks to the display window. “She looked rich. Where’s she live?”
“What, you planning to rob her?” Neil said sarcastically.
James shrugged. “Just curious.”
“Yeah, she’s in the dough all right,” Neil said, gazing after the departed girl wistfully. “She lives on the corner of Livingston and Brawn—you know, that big white house with the black Jaguar out in front. Figures she’s rich. Rich girls are always gorgeous.”
“Bet half of it’s plastic surgery.”
Neil looked over. “Oh, shut up.”
James did. He already knew everything he wanted to know.
He picked up the pen, refilled it, carefully—and this time when he sat down and touched the nib to paper—words flowed out.
Blood like a vermillion tide
Bleeding over skin like a sunrise over pale pink horizon
The agony and the ecstasy rolled all in one
Suffocating and liberating, yin and yang
He stopped and looked at the words with love, admiring the sheer brilliance in the poetry. People were going to pay big bucks to read this.
He picked up the homemade hamburger on the paper plate beside him and took a bite, grimacing at the taste of old oil soaked into the meat patty from the dirty saucepan he’d used to cook it. Dinner might be just ground meat between two slices of ketchup-slathered bread, but to him this was a feast as good as nectar and ambrosia, dirty grease and all. Anything would taste good at the moment, but this burger—it was icing on the cake. Pure heaven.
He took another bite and closed his eyes in bliss, savoring the moment.
At long last, he was a poet.
His life was great. The notebook’s pages were filling up, a page or two of precious lines every night, little by little, like gold coins filling up a jar. James could already see the check. Four hundred grand for paperback rights, if you please, just like Stephen King got for Carrie. He’d be filthy rich.
Even his job was good. Better, anyway. He wasn’t late anymore—he loved going to work now—and meat sales were skyrocketing. That new ground beef mix he’d gotten recently was particularly popular—people loved it and just kept asking for more. And Mr. Cook! He was so happy about the increased sales that he raised Neil and James’ salaries to nine-seventy-five an hour. Big deal, really, thought James. What did five or six measly dollars matter, when soon he’d be making millions? Still, it was better than a poke in the eye.
He went on writing.
He’d had had to keep changing addresses, of course, to keep them from tracing him—but he was pretty sure no one would have found him even if he’d stayed at his old apartment. He was always careful not to leave any evidence when he worked—he’d read enough crime fiction and seen enough detective shows in his earlier years to know how cops traced criminals, and he was smart enough to cover up after himself.
Anyhow, when they saw how brilliant his poetry was, they wouldn’t care what he’d done to write it. They’d love him. They’d adore him. Girls would be falling over his lap, they’d simply faint just seeing him, they’d stand in line for hours to get his autograph…
He finished another eight lines, finished his hamburger, and went to bed.
This was the life.
James shrugged. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”
There was a knock at the door.
“I paid rent yesterday, Mr. Kent,” he said loudly, not bothering to turn. He was trying to concentrate here!
There was another knock.
“I’m busy,” he yelled. “Go away.” He was so close to the end—so close—
There was a brief jingle of keys, and then the door slammed open, and four armed policemen burst into the room.
“Put your hands up! You’re under arrest!”
“No, wait,” James said slowly, staring at them, dazed and disbelieving. “You can’t—I’m a genius—”
“Psycho, more like it, mister! Put your hands up!”
There was cold steel touching the back of his neck.
This could not happen. This could not be happening. Not to him! Geniuses didn’t get arrested!
“Is that it?” one policeman said, pointing to the hamburger on the table.
“Yes,” another, this one a woman, replied grimly.
“Hands up!” barked yet another.
“No!” James screamed. “You can’t! You can’t do this to me! No, no! Fuck you!”
He lunged at the nearest policeman, and there was a sound of thunder, so loud in his ears it was like his skull being split open—and then there was crimson ink gushing out over the last blank page of vellum, red on white, flesh and blood, a painted barber’s pole, like striped Christmas candy—and then his warm body slid off the desk and fell to the floor with a thud.
The blood rolled a little on the page and then was still, shining in the wan overhead light.
James McCarson’s book of poetry was finished.
“You didn’t notice him talking to any girls? Didn’t see any contact?”
Neil shifted again, trying to get comfortable on the hard plastic chair. The police station smelled like sweat and dirt. He wanted out. Soon. “Well—I’ve been sick a lot recently, and I’ve been out a lot because my grandmother died and her funeral was last—”
“Ve know you’ve been out a lot, Meester O’Brien,” the policeman’s female partner interrupted in a French accent so strong he could hardly understand her. “But ve’re asking anyvay.”
Neil shot her an uneasy glance. “Well, he did seem kinda interested in some girls that came by. Arranged a date with a couple of them. But that’s nothing suspicious—we’re in high school! And dating isn’t a crime!”
The officers switched meaningful glances. “What about his work here?” the man asked.
“Any changes in his habits?”
“Well, he started arriving on time, ‘cause the boss said he’d be fired otherwise!”
“Anything else?”
“No!”
The policeman sighed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to come with us.”
“What!” Neil all but screamed. “I’m not under arrest, am I?”
“No, but—”
“Look, James is a good guy, okay? Quiet, sorta, but there’s nothing wrong with him! You have the wrong guy! Hey—let me go!”
“Mr. O’Brien, please. Sit down.”
He sat, reluctantly. “What’s this all about, anyway, huh? What’s he being framed for? Drugs?”
The policeman looked at his partner. She made a slight motion of consent. “Ve may as vell tell him. It will be in all de newspapers by tomorrow.”
The policeman looked directly at Neil. “James McCarson is under arrest for possession of illegal firearms, possession of illegal substances, assault, multiple murders—”
“Not James!” Neil interjected open-mouthed. “Not—”
The officer ran over him. “Also cannibalism, defacement of rented property and willful contamination of commercial food supplies.” A pause. “In plain English—Mr. McCarson has killed and eaten thirteen victims to date, and has also been bringing in the… meat to work to share. He’s been mixing the stuff into commercial ground beef for about the past two weeks.”
Neil looked sick. “Not—not James…”
“Yes, James,” the woman said, taking a step closer. “Very hard to deny de guilt vhen your victims’ mootilated epidermisees are pinned up all over your apartment valls.”
“But we tried a little of that hamburger last night, didn’t we, dear?” said the man, smiling at his accomplice, stepping forward as well. There was a flash of steel. Neil glanced at the woman and saw that she’d drawn a large butcher’s knife from a nearby file drawer.
“Wait,” he said, beginning to panic. “Wait, what are you doing with that?”
“I tried some of dat burger too,” the woman said, flashing an evil grin—sharp white teeth in a meaty red mouth. “And ve both decided dat ve like human patties. Rather nice, really.” Neil gaped in horror as she took another step toward him. And raised the knife, laughing.
“Bon appetite, cheri!”