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Ketchup

Patrick Thibeault

    The first bite is soft bun and salty patty. The middle is where you get the pickles, the onions and the ketchup. Those few bites are the pinnacle of gastronomy when it’s eleven at night and you’re driving home from the bar. You only order two because you know damn well that you could eat a dozen of these heaven-sent burgers. Americans know what’s what, you think to yourself.
    Within five minutes they’re gone from their crisp yellow wrappers and you’ve swung by the gas station to dump the evidence in their garbage. Only then do you go home.
    You risk waking up the wife either because the dog will bark when you’re crawling around in the dark or because you’ll start snoring like a dying tractor the second your head hits the pillow. You’ve offered before to sleep on the couch on nights like these but she says she can’t sleep when you’re not in the bed.
    The dog doesn’t bark. He’s going deaf. You lie down and fall asleep. As far as you can tell, you don’t make a sound.
    In the morning, you’re up first. You put the dog outside, take care of your own business and get the coffee ready. She likes hers with that sweet hazelnut creamer. You like yours black with a spoonful of honey. When she comes down, she’s already dressed. She says she’s channeling Bonnie Parker. You could see it with the beret. But the rest, to you, looks more like a throwback to the 90s, all padded shoulders and oversized. “The better to hide my gun and knives with,” she says.
    The job today is out in Spruce Falls, a dumpy little pulp and paper town in the mountains. You get into the car and head out.
    “It smells like McDonald’s in here,” she says as she closes the door to the car.
    You put down the windows. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say.
    Once you’re out of the city, the drive is nice. The highway winds its way through the mountains, opening up on valleys where the corn is knee high. The leaves on the trees are a violent green. You suggest to stop for a swim at Long Lake after the job but the wife says the water won’t be warm enough. Not yet. You know the real reason is that she never likes to swim, regardless of the temperature of the water. When it comes to water, she’s a cat and you’re an otter.
    You arrive in Spruce Falls. There’s a faint smell of sulphuric, rotten eggs on the air coming from the mill. The Great Northern Pizza is already open. They serve breakfast, lunch and dinner here. Small town joints don’t have the luxury of relying on high volume. They must make do with long hours.
    You both walk in. As in every small town, there are tables full of white haired coffee sippers at this hour. The backwoods gossip column. They look at you coming in and, satisfied that they don’t know you, return to their conversation. Places up here don’t need security cameras. These old codgers have already registered every detail about you. It’s why you wear jeans and a black t-shirt instead of something like the costume your wife insists on wearing. You’re featureless. She’s like something out of a made-for-TV movie.
    You sit down. The waitress, a forty-something woman who smells of cigarettes and broken dreams, comes to the table with two cups of coffee you didn’t ask for.
    “Is Carmen in today?” your wife asks as you pour sugar into your cup and stir it in.
    “Yeah,” the waitress says. “What can I bring you to eat?”
    “Nothing for me.”
    “I’ll have steak and eggs,” you say. “Steak rare, eggs over easy and white toast please.”
    The waitress walks off and disappears into the kitchen.
    “You won’t have time to eat,” your wife says.
    You shrug. Last night’s beer is still rumbling its way down your gut. Your body wants salty, fatty proteins with a mountain of fried potatoes covered in ketchup.
    In the kitchen, you see one of the cooks poking her head out to look at you. Must be Carmen. She matches the description: rotund, bespectacled and a mouth like she’d been chewing rhubarb. Your wife waves to her. She puts her hand up as if to say hi back but the smile on her face is the same the old people gave you on your way in. It says, “We’re saying hi but you’re not from around here, you’re not one of us. Therefore, we don’t trust you.” You laugh to yourself because they shouldn’t trust you. This is stranger danger in its truest form. Foxes in the henhouse.
    Your wife gets up. You grab her arm. “Can’t we wait till after I’ve eaten?”
    “No,” she says.
    I grunt as I get up. Your wife’s already in the kitchen. You hear her saying hi to Carmen before the sound of the .45 pops twice. By the time they realize what’s going on, you’ve already shot every coffee sipper in the place. Blood and brains drip from the wall sconces.
    Your wife comes out of the kitchen. She throws you a bagel and you both walk out.
    “I don’t like sesame seeds,” you say once you’re back on the road.
    “We can have breakfast once we’re back in the city.”
    Your stomach grumbles. You should’ve eaten something before leaving the house. There might be some leftover pizza in the fridge. Cold pizza sounds good right now.

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