Short Stories-Week 3 Grease Trap

Joseph White

 

In the years that followed, it comes as no surprise that I still thought of her. All throughout the sunlight’s
beaming through these narrow windows do I remember her long, black hair that
set itself, almost purposefully, yet gently, upon her shoulders. Those brown
eyes that seized my gaze and never let go and with a smile that nestled itself
deep inside my very core, she still warms my heart with every reminiscence. Her
name is Maria. The sound flows like golden, luxurious silk just from the simple
utterance of a mention. She has taken my life’s reins and steered my soul in
every which way until I am unable even to differentiate the ceiling from the
floor.  I triumphantly declare with joyful weeping that she has sent my emotions through a blender on an amusement
park ride that has no sudden drop, as though daring them to kiss the clouds. But
these are the years that follow and myself as I am now would yet still travel
back to those times, if only to watch in delight the deeds of which I now
profess. How can I describe the crushing defeat that she in fact had already fashioned for herself
some thing to belong to? Some being or another who, by simple science of first
come, first serve, had so parasitically tethered him to her. It was at this
moment of jealous outrage that I purposed to myself the irreconcilable act of
his demise. I had morals, I suppose, then, but the thought of him cradled and
cared for in her arms brought about a certain rustic flavor that ate away at my
fiber, as a mouse who sneeringly nibbles a piece of discarded rubbish. She was
mine after all and it could only be in this manner that Maria would discover
this truth for herself.
The question of how demanded the better part of my time. Surely, it must appear as
though he, the clumsy oaf, had somehow fashioned in his ineptitude the slightly
tragic, but in no way suspicious, ending of his own life. If only that lady
would smile on my odds! Scene after blood soaked scene played and rewound
itself, only to play again and again, within my envious mind until I could not
even look at my kitchen sink’s garbage disposal without imagining the
possibilities it held. It was at this moment, I confess, that at the pinnacle
of my frenzied cunning I saw the perfect method of his disposal. Honestly, it
was really quite straightforward. I knew this ridiculous excuse of chap and he
knew me, or, in order to best suit my vicious intent, he thought he knew me as
a quiet, timid, hardworking fellow. Oh but if he really knew, he would tremble
at the very mere mention of my approach! It was either chance or His will that
predestined our common unfortunate service in the vile deception of commerce
what deserved a fast-food restaurant title and, perhaps contrary to the former
circumstance, I relished within the current coincidence. I would use anything
and everything provided to achieve what I knew to be to absolute final
solution. 
The barrels! Yes, of course. The greasy drums had sparked my interest. How long do
you suppose it would take the authorities to discover and, even still, make any
recognition to a lump of a creature who had been so long encased within the
sticky oil? At the time I was not certain and lesser still did I care, but my
internal schemer would find itself quenched if the ignorance of reason and fact
be its liquid salvation. The conditions were as perfect as I could sanction them. On the schedule were only
the names of us two “privileged” employees. I picked up an early morning shift
that started at three o’ clock. His shift would be due to end at four, but from
his sagging shoulders and the way he dragged his feet as he walked I could tell
he was keen to clock out much earlier. An entire hour, I laughed to myself, is
all I could ever need to dispatch this oblivious fool. I watched closely the
time because if he did not clock out then who else would be left to blame but
myself. I was sure of my ability, but I would not permit anyone else the beneficial
indulgence of testifying to my unique and utter disregard for this individual.
Slowly the clock ticks. He stares at it longingly, tapping his foot in the
anticipation of being able to end this rough day, but I gaze with such ferocity
that I imagine its hands would have felt very inclined to rush against logic
and reason to its designated numbers without my say so. Finally, the time
reaches four o’ clock and without a second to look back, he punches out the
last hole on his card. “Hey Adam,” I called out the fowl-like scratches of letters on his
nametag, “Give me a hand with this barrel? I
can’t lift it myself.” I gave as a pathetic an act as I could muster, straining my
arms superficially and rubbing my back in a façade of pain. To my non-surprise,
he presented me a look of weary surrender and annoyance. He reluctantly set to
work assisting his weaker companion with the duty of carrying the awkwardly
handled barrel out the back door into the dimly lit parking lot. There are only
two lights in this establishment, one on the other side of the initial exit and
the other at the end of the lot. The strain of carrying his cargo resulted in
the job being only half-finished, for at which time Adam fixed to pull from his
standard work slacks a cigarette.“Got a match?” He said, with doubt in his eyes. “A match? Is it a match you want? I gotta match, best match in the whole world!” I
exclaimed. “So, can I use it for a second?” He was giving me the most curious look, as if I couldn’t
understand something he was trying to explain.   “I suppose, but only for a moment. I need to light my own fires, ya know?” I handed him the
pack of matches I kept in my back pocket. “Phew!” He said wiping the sweat from the sagging wrinkles of his forehead with one flabby
arm. He stood still, lighting his cigarette and squinting as though trying to
make out something in the distance. “This shit’s pretty heavy, can’t believe I got it this far without a break. Not too much farther, I said quietly to myself. “Ya know, at first, it seems like
were so far away from that dumpster from the back door, ya know, but look.” I looked in the pointed direction of the farthest corner of
the lot, “We’re more than halfway there already. Took no time at all, really, quicker than a blink
of the slowest eyelid and we’re done.” He took a quick puff on his cigarette, blowing the smoke in
my direction. I watched it rise up past the roof and onward into the chilly
night air. I looked down to see him staring at me with the same curious look as
before. “What’s a matter with ya? Ya look pale…and yare shivering. I think what ya need is some
warmth in those bones.” I could see that he wanted me to say something, anything,
but I just stood there, seething inside for lack of patience, but grinning like
an idiot in his face. He shrugged, knowing that was the most he’d get from me, and
stamped out his cigarette with his typical work loafers. He took a deep breath
of crisp air in response to just having filling his lungs with cloudy toxins
and stretched, a great back-bending extension, and prepared to continue the
journey I so desperately needed him to complete. “Well,” He cried out loud, “Lets get this over with so I can
get some sleep. You know what they say don’t ya? ‘The best rest goes to those
who’ve made their bed from sweat’.” Or blood, the afterthought rose from my mind. We finally reached the other lit end of the lot, Adam practically dragging his container of
leftover fats and crumbs, along with the barrel of grease, when I quickly asked
one more favor of him. I needed him to lift the lid of the slimy drum. That got
the most puzzled look from any man I’ve yet seen. “What for?” With a slightly more aggravated tone, he spoke. Please, I said, explaining that when he left I would have
more waste to put into the cylinder. He shrugged and proceeded to pry open the
top, exposing the oozing contents. We both cringed at the smell, but I
recovered quickly, taking advantage of his slight ailment, and pulled out a
knife which had been carefully concealed in my right sleeve. As he coughed and
sputtered over the barrel, from behind, I watched how effortlessly my right arm
turned the sharper end towards myself and, starting at the left ear lobe, began
the smoothest sailing of steel on flesh which docked itself in a port somewhere
below his right ear. Understandably, he appeared shocked at such an
occurrence’s existence, but I must point out that he suffered from a shortness
of breath most of the time anyway, thus, I am certain there must have been some
accustomed familiarity to his situation. While he carried on, I reminded myself
of a hissing snake as I whispered in what was left of his shredded ear, “She’s mine…Maria, but you knew that already didn’t you? She was always mine and never
yours anyway. Thanks for taking care of her, if that is what you would call it,
hah! Thank you. Thank you so very much!” I was not impolite, I shook his hand and bid him adieu
before his placement inside the barrel. He sunk slowly, eyes darting every
which way before placing themselves squarely on mine. I imagine that he didn’t
have much to look upon after I returned the lid to its proper spot upon his
head. At the time I didn’t realize, but the company I work for recycles and
reuses its greasy snippets, which led to my wondering years later of just how
many pieces of the world and everyone in it could Adam retain claim to be a
part?