Orbit 12 - [Anthology]

by Edited by Damon Knight

  “This is Trudy,” says the manager with a greasy hand on her shoulder. “She’s going to be a novice here for a while, so we’ll have to show her around.”

  Your hair is greasy, I thought at the manager. Even your pimples are greasier than my pimples.

  The manager ran his hand down his tie. “Trudy, this is Maureen. She calls herself Girl Burger.”

  Even your eyes are greasy, I thought.

  Trudy walks on over to me, looking the place up and down. I don’t mind admitting she did things for that starchy white shift I never conceived of. The weight I have in my rump and thighs, she has elsewhere. Her hair was short and black. Her eyeshadow was green and premeditated. “I worked at a burger place before,” she said, pretending to chew gum. “You can call me Burger Queen.”

  I could see right then we were going to get along.

  Burger Queen turned out to be excellent with shakes and male customers. We spent our lunch hours at the chicken place across the highway, conspiring to perfect a code for insulting the manager and yelling orders at the same time.

  * * * *

  It was late one night shift. Everyone else had deserted. I was mopping the linoleum when I heard a scraping and whimpering at the service door. I opened the door and swung the mop into the thing’s face.

  With a sort of liquid snort, it eeled under my arm and fell in a heap against the grill. It looked like a tall, stringy man made of gritty, burnt hamburger meat in jeans, track sneakers, and a dirty undershirt. Its hair was a tangle of french fries. Its mouth, a wedge of onion smeared around the edges with ketchup. Its eyes were pickle slices, and it had no nose.

  Since it wasn’t making any moves, but only gibbering with its little head cocked sideways on the end of its neck, I beat it with my mop into the walk-in freezer and slammed the door. I figured the guy on the morning shift would attend to it the next day. I was on overtime already.

  But the next afternoon, Burger Queen pulled some potatoes out of the walk-in, and when I was gossiping to her over the fries pit, she put her mouth to one side and stared into her scoop and said, “Have you seen what we’ve got in the freezer?”

  I said yes and suggested we call it Burger Creature.

  When business was slow, and our manager was taking his afternoon coma, we looked in on Burger Creature again. He was crouched in a corner by the floor drain, nibbling at his fingers and drooling Coke syrup. Queen stood with one hand on her hip and massaged her eyes, unsticking one of her lashes. Then she leaned on the meat rack for support. I took another look at the Creature, scratching his french fries with his thin, brown fingers and smiling a sweet ketchup grin. Then I leaned against Burger Queen.

  “What do we do with it?” she asked with the most mournful expression on her pretty, smeared face. “I mean, we can’t cook it!”

  “I suppose we could take it on as an apprentice.” I still don’t know why I said that. Genius probably. Genius.

  * * * *

  The Creature turned out to be an obedient pet and helpful with simple tasks like after-hours mop-up. We let him out secretly, and he was content to look through the garbage or press his face to a window, watching the cars go by and gurgling to himself.

  Burger Queen was very attached to him. She’d lead him by the hand to a counter she hadn’t wiped, get him to spring his rear up there, and she’d rest her arms on his knees and bitch about the day’s bastards. Then she’d mess his head of fries, say, “You’re cute,” and walk him back to the freezer with her arm slung around his waist I’d just chew my split ends and watch the two of them.

  During the day he lived among the buns, counting inventories on his fingers and wetly humming the commercials he learned from my radio. He had a talent for fitting himself into things, and if I opened the freezer without knocking, I’d catch his fingers folding the flap of some carton down over himself. His favorite hiding place, the box that came with the orange drink/purple drink fountain, was a reliable place to dump him out of when he was asleep.

  A playful kick in the side would send him to his work, murmuring and squishing at his eyes.

  We even bought a new undershirt for him. But we couldn’t coax him into trying it on. He just stood in a corner with his arms pressed to his sides. We thought he might be modest, so we left him alone for a minute, but he stayed inside his old rag. I tried to pull it off him, but it came loose with a sucking, tearing sound, and I let go. Where the strap left his shoulder, I’d seen a rut. He whimpered for a while, and Burger Queen stroked his arm. I handed her a napkin, but instead of wiping her hands, she used it to dab some mustard off his cheek. I never messed with him after that. He was thin but tall.

  We used to debate the question of Burger Creature’s origin. Queen’s theory was that he’d been a gawky, horny boy who’d stuffed himself with greasy food until he became a mass of acne and mail-ordered a pimple cream that turned him into Burger Creature. Unlikely.

  I think he just assembled himself from the garbage at a landfill project. I can see him clawing up through the clay, running from a bulldozer, jumping into the scoop of an outbound garbage truck, and hitchhiking by instinct toward his source: a burger joint.

  There is another possibility. There’s the chance that Burger Creature was designed and molded by one of the corporations who own these franchises, but he escaped or was abandoned. He could be a reject from Research and Development. Maybe there’s a whole race of them in production. Waiting to be released.

  Behind the counter, life went on.

  “Two big Cokes. One no ice. Two fries. Two double cheese vodka stinking drunk with no mustard.”

  * * * *

  “Girl Burger, I’ve been thinking,” says my partner to me, “why not let Creature out in the open all day?”

  I looked at her, opening a carton of foil wrappers, then at Creature, squeegeeing a window in the early morning light. Was he beginning to look normal to her?

  “Because the customers would see him. How’s that?”

  “Would they really? I mean, think about it. I mean, do they see you?”

  I knew what she meant. Nobody looks at you when you run counter. They look at your uniform. “Will that be all, sir?” “No, that’ll be it” Unless you’re built like Burger Queen, you could be anything.

  “You mean have him take orders?”

  “Why not?”

  “Does he know how?”

  “Of course he does. He’s been watching.” She proudly pecked him on the cheek and licked her lips. “I’ve been waiting to try it, and with the manager called in sick . . .”

  “Hangover.”

  “Overdose of grease . . . there’s no better time. People are groggy in the morning anyhow.”

  I took the squeegee from him. I was counting on one thing: nobody sees specifics at a burger place. Only a network of chromium and yellow parking lines and plastic cups and grilled meat. Who could possibly fit in better than Burger Creature?

  While I unlocked the place, Burger Queen tied an apron on him. He stepped toward the customer window. His hands wandered unsurely up his front and into his mop of french fries. He looked around as if he’d lost something. He rummaged through some drawers and pulled out a disposable white two-corner cap. He fitted it on his head. He stood up straight. Something inside him snapped into place.

  Our first customer pulled into the parking lot and climbed out of his Impala. He looked like a salesman on the road, the middle-class equivalent of a hungry truck driver. Creature was standing behind the counter. The man pushed through the door. We pretended to be busy. The man put his elbows on the counter and read the menu board.

  “Double hamburger and a vanilla shake.” He stared at the formica counter top. “And french fries.”

  Then the Burger Creature did three things at the same time and never slowed down. With one hand he grabbed a carry-out box and snapped it open with a flick of the wrist. With the other he slung two patties off their wrappers onto the grill. Flipping on the gas, he stepped to the frier, dumped
fries, wiped counter, pulled cup, pumped vanilla, pushed burger, shpritzed milk, shook fries. He was working in front of himself, beside himself with a frightening reach, opening shelves with his sneakers, casual, perfectly timed, unstoppable. He was in his element. Burger Queen was beaming. He set the order on the counter and rang it up on the register.

  The man looked at the price on the register, pulled two dollars from his wallet onto the counter, scooped his change out of the change scoop, took his order in one arm, and pushed out through the door.

  Burger Queen hugged Creature around the waist He wiped his hands on the back of her uniform and seemed confused by the attention.

  We sat and watched him through the noon rush. Years of training could never have produced such a short-order cook. He kept a dozen orders going at once, and still had time to sit on the sizzling grill and keep the burgers company. But we had a bad moment when he ran low on meat. I caught him ripping a chunk from the inside of his arm, and Queen used up half a tin of Band-Aids, trying to make one stick to him. Also, if you watched close, you’d see him use a healthy spit in place of the bottled ketchup. The customers loved the service regardless.

  A couple of high-school kids even talked to him.

  “You’re new here aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “I didn’t think I ever saw you here.”

  He shook his head.

  “Well, you sure are keeping busy.”

  He smiled.

  “Yeah, I may try to get a job here over the summer.”

  The kids walked out, cracking jokes, giggling, chewing.

  He fit in so well.

  That night, humming softly, Burger Queen walked a weary Burger Creature to the freezer with her hand on his back. She tied his sneaker laces, folded his gangly legs into his box, and tucked him in with some brown wrapping paper. I left her there, watching over him under the dim buzz of the fluorescent light I think she was waiting for me to go.

  * * * *

  The manager showed up bright and early the next afternoon and pulled a thermos of ready-mix martinis out of his briefcase. He was back in the pink, and Creature was back in cold storage, whining like a lonely TV dinner.

  “I’m celebrating!” quipped the manager, his thumbs feeling for his belt under his paunch. “I’d ask you to join me, but you girls have to face the public.”

  We smiled, teeth brushed, uniforms spotless. “Right, sir.” Burger Creature howled behind his door.

  “Do you know why I’m celebrating?”

  We shook our heads. “No sir.”

  “Because next Friday at two o’clock, the regional manager is giving us a surprise inspection.”

  I slipped Creature one of his special favorite burgers with extra pickles. I heard him writhe in ecstasy against the other side of the door.

  “I want the golden arches hosed down. I want the trash can lids oiled.”

  I slipped Creature some fries to wash down his burger.

  “Maureen, look at me. I want the freezer cleaned up.”

  I slammed the door.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Four ground beef fingers were sticking out the door, tying themselves into knots of pain. Burger Creature said his first word: “Ahnggg.”

  I looked to Burger Queen for some instant genius. She dug her plastic nails into her blouse and screamed.

  The manager yanked open the door, froze, then went reeling back into the grill, slamming the door, his greasy eyes wider than I’d ever seen them.

  “Aaauih!” he said.

  “Sir?”

  “It’s a... There’s a ... a goddam thing in there...a...filthy ugly whatthehhell I don’t know a pickle a meat a . . . with allgreasy and...”

  “Now, sir, it’s true we haven’t cleaned up in there for a while, but . . .”

  “No! Nooo! Waving its arms! Dancing goddammit! It was dancing! Pouring ketchup over itself! I think it wasdrinking the goddam ketchup! Bun on its . . . lettuce in its hair! Thin . . . greasy . . . hamburger!”

  I shrugged coyly.

  The freezer banged open, and Queen jumped back, mouthing my baby, my baby in mute hysteria and bouncing everything she had. Pickle-eyes bulging, his french fries trembling, flushed like raw meat, Burger Creature filled the doorway, the front of him flattened by the slamming of the door. A burnt smell hit me. He roared the roar of an angry hamburger.

  “It’s going to eat me,” the manager whispered. He sucked in his gut, lunged at the service door, and ran into the parking lot, throwing a straw dispenser behind him. He jumped in his convertible, backed over the curb into the side wall, shrapneling red and white tiles, and stripped gears out the entrance onto the highway. “Police!” he was yelling hoarsely. “Police! Garbage!”

  In her distress, Burger Queen ripped the top button off her uniform.

  “You better move on,” I said to Creature. “Try the drive-in ten miles west Follow I-12. Get out!”

  Creature was panicked. I could tell. He dove over the grill, scrambled through the customer window, slid around a glass door, and staggered off across the asphalt toward the open highway.

  Burger Queen ran after him, and I saw her pull his arm. She talked to him feverishly, biting on her lower lip. He bowed his little head and shook it slowly. Limp french fries brushed her nose. He started down the road with a wet glisten in his pickle-eyes.

  He jammed his fists between his legs in terror and nearly swallowed his mouth when he saw the red convertible bearing down on him. The manager had U-turned, chrome grill gleaming in the sun, teeth bared behind the heat waves and manic gasoline whine. Creature stood frozen. The manager revved into fourth gear.

  Waving her arms like a crazed cheerleader, Burger Queen ran into the path of the Corvair.

  Creature’s head shot out, his body snapping after. His sinewy legs coiled and sprang to new lengths. His head jammed down between his undershirt straps when it rammed Queen’s shoulder.

  The manager downshifted out of sight around the bend, and I was ready to see only a ragged patty on the blacktop, but Creature and Queen were lying in the roadside gravel in a cheerfully struggling pile of jeans and arms and ripped uniform.

  He helped her to her feet, straightened her bobby-pinned two-corner cap, and gazed into her eyes.

  Then he braced his sneakers, bent her over backward, and pressed his face to hers in the longest, most nose-breaking kiss it has ever been my pleasure to see. He stood her up. She stepped after him dizzily, her bodice rippling loose in the breeze, her makeup smeared under a mess of greasy sweet ketchup.

  He jogged up to a passing truck, grabbed the gate with one hand, and swung aboard. They waved to each other, slowly and wistfully, though Burger Creature’s arm was pulled slightly out of shape, until he disappeared in the smoggy distance.

  <>

  * * * *

  Doris Piserchia

  HALF THE KINGDOM

  A BIG BRIGHT ring of gold took shape in the air five feet above the curb on Turner Street. Tom Wegler came along and saw it hovering there, became curious and poked his head through it

  A bare foot shot past his nose and he looked down. Sprawled on some impossible yellow grass was a skinny naked man who yelled in terror and tried to scoot away from a cluster of shiny objects that dipped and bobbed in space over him.

  The shiny objects were silver dollars. Tom climbed over the rim of the ring, stepped onto alien ground, grabbed one of the dollars, started to close his hand around it, felt it fade away. Quickly he grabbed another. It dissolved. Then another. There were fourteen in all, and he stood watching in disbelief as the last one popped away in his palm. His head whipped up and around in time to see a mob of people appear over a low hill.

  About to clamber back to Turner Street, he hesitated when he realized that not a single unclad soul in the mob was paying him any attention. They seemed interested only in the man on the ground.

  The man was lifted and dusted off by solicitous hands, someone even lent him
a bare shoulder to sob onto, so he was obviously somebody important.

  Tom was still half in, half out of the ring when a hand touched his shoulder. A long-faced, shaggy-headed fat man stood grinning down at him.

  “My name is Gute. Congratulations. You get a reward for saving our king from the Glof.”

  “Reward?”

  The stranger pointed toward the skinny man who still wept and clung to the handiest shoulder. “Flax, our king. You’re entitled to half his kingdom or his daughter.”