Eating Crow

conclusion

by James Wasserman

Table of Contents
Part 1 appears
in this issue.

Harold woke up with some of the worst heartburn he’d ever had. He chowed down on a full pack of Rolaids. He called for his cat — took a look around the house — there was no sign of Harold Jr. Must be hiding somewhere, Harold thought, probably in the same place I lost my sunglasses. The cat food was still there, even slightly overflowing the dish.

I’ll take care of you later, Harold thought, I’ve got bigger and better things to do right now.

He looked inside his fridge briefly. Same old crap. There was some thing that he couldn’t see clearly: maybe the size of a football, covered densely by plastic wrap. Who knows what that is, Harold cogitated. Then again, he didn’t recognize most of the things in there; it seemed like the food items that were in there were in the advanced stages of decomposition and death. Harold didn’t really care. He went to work.

Harold’s superior was impressed again by his expediency. He took the report without hesitation, and gave Harold a few days off. No complaints, Harold thought.

* * *

Much of Harold’s little vacation was spent in front on the television. He just stared at it like a vegetable. This was his life.

With the Dingo Diner’s file out of his hands, he was forgetting all the sordid details already. He considered asking Freedman what happened to those people, but thought it was too much trouble and fathomed that he might be opening up a 2-ton can of worms.

What happened next blew the top off the can and threw it into space.

The news came on, which Harold usually ignored, filtering the boring tales out of his head. However, the news did feature one section that automatically caught Harold’s attention.

And Isaacs never recovered... the investigation of the Dingo Diner is being scrutinized for negligence...

A picture appeared on the screen. An apple-cheeked, slightly heavy woman smiling into the camera for some occasion, no doubt.

Judy Isaacs was 24 years old... not expected to live.

Harold’s heart thumped like a jackhammer. Someone had apparently died some short time after Harold’s inspection. Really, really not good.

He decided to return to work immediately and face the consequences, if there were any.

Melvin Freedman looked concerned, but tried to maintain his usual jolly self. “Harold, did you read the file on the Dingo Diner?”

“Of course,” Harold replied, “it’s my job. I can tell you now, though, that this file is pretty old and the writing is terrible. I saw some pictures, though, and inquired about them at the scene: Praise, Rodriguez, Schmidt. Well, I didn’t remember to inquire about Rodriguez, but at any rate, I received no information.”

The mention of the names made Freedman look nervous, which he unsuccessfully tried to veil. “Yes, well, there were some... casualties.” He said no more on the subject.

“At any rate, a woman named Judy Isaacs died of food poisoning earlier today. See if you can guess where.”

Now it was Harold’s time to feel nervous. “Well... I assume you’re referring to the Dingo.”

Freedman nodded. “I know you do good work,” Freedman said (Harold made a footnote that his laziness had been successfully hidden), “and I know I can trust you to be honest with me.”

Harold nodded, his face grim. “I presume you’re going to ask, Melvin, if I left anything out of my inspection.”

Freedman nodded again. “Just for the record, did you miss something?”

Harold paused. “As you can see, Melvin, I completed the evaluation. As you know I put a yellow light on the storage, some mold and mildew...”

Freedman interrupted, “And that was it.”

“As far as I know.” Harold thought that was a pretty good cop-out line.

“Well, as you know, there is an investigation being reopened. Lots of unfortunate things could happen.”

Harold got the health-inspector-who-fucked-up notion. What other unfortunate things could happen? After his little unproductive chat with Freedman, Harold walked towards his office. There he sat and waited as if frozen in a purgatory state; just waiting for the inevitable fallout that would most likely jeopardize his job, or worse.

Nothing happened for the rest of the day.

* * *

Something happened the next day.

Harold came into work sweating and biting his nails; it was definitely a red alert day. He hadn’t slept much; his normal lazy, nonchalant self was breaking down. He didn’t usually feel much anxiety, but for some reason (of course, it was a very good reason) was cracking up now.

Food poisoning in the goddamned place a day after I inspect it, Harold thought, that looks really great.

Truth was, he was nervous and disturbed not because of this Isaacs girl’s death, but because of the consequences might hit him.

You murdered her.

The thought had popped right out of nowhere, presumably from any shred of conscience Harold still had.

It was still shredded. I did no such thing. Besides, I could make a plea that they must have hidden something so well even I couldn’t find it. That’s right; The Great Harold Keeler was fooled by these people.

He stepped into his office. He glared at the clock as if it, a piece of machinery, had malevolent plans for him. The gears would come to a stop and he’d be here forever, his nerves getting shakier and shakier.

* * *

Doomsday began at 11:23 a.m. There was a knock on his door.

“Come in.” Harold said.

It was his worst fear; and that was his current priority over the fear that he might lock his keys in his car.

Two policemen, one tall and heavier and one a small speck of a man (how did he get on the force anyway?) walked in.

“Uh... please, sit down.”

“We prefer to stand, thank you.” Said the smaller cop. The powerhouse didn’t make a sound, as if he was trained only to speak when spoken to.

“At any rate, I assume you’re Mr. Harold L. Keeler?” he spoke again.

“You’ve got him.” Harold said, suddenly realizing the irony of what he’d just said. You’ve got me! I did it!

“I’m Detective Hobbes, and this is Detective Rainer.” The small man said.

“Pleasure.” Harold said.

“We’re just here to ask you a few questions.”

“Shoot.” Another ironic statement.

“Are you aware of the Dingo Diner?”

Harold started sweating again; he tried to conceal it. This was going to be a long “chat.” “Yes...” Harold began, figuring he might as well hurry this up by just coming clean with the basic facts. “I was the inspector assigned to make an evaluation.” Harold continued.

“Could you summarize to us your findings?” Detective. Hobbes said.

“Well... I thought I did a pretty thorough job. I gave them a generally fair report; I did mention some warnings, though.”

“Well, I have your report here and it sounds quite positive.”

Harold clenched his teeth. “Well, at the time, they probably did a big sweep before I came so I’d get a rosy picture. It was a pretty big place behind the counter. I’d think that anyone would be fairly lost trying to navigate the place alone.”

Hobbes spoke again, as if Detective Goliath was a mute. “This is your job, is it not?”

Harold nodded. “Of course.”

“Have you heard the name Judith Isaacs?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Or rather, it was an unfortunate accident. I was shocked. I admit I... felt a little personal responsibility. What a horrible loss of life.”

“I’d imagine you might feel partly responsible...”

Harold interrupted, which was probably a bad move. “Yes. I have not slept and my nerves are shot. Just the thought that I might have contributed to this terrible tragedy. Especially since I had just inspected it, and all of a sudden someone dies of food poisoning.”

Hobbes put on a confused façade. “Who said anything about food poisoning?”

Harold nearly had a heart attack, but caught Hobbes’ game. “My boss told me.”

Hobbes seemed to return to a relatively relaxed demeanor. His little ploy had been foiled. It was sort of a memory bluff. “Ah, and that would be Mr. Melvin Freedman?”

“Yes.”

Hobbes nodded. “Well, Mr. Keeler, I have one question: did you read the Dingo Diner’s file before you inspected the place?”

Harold tried to keep his composure. “Of course. I always do. Take a look at it, though. It’s so indecipherable I couldn’t get much from it, except for those three people who were apparently dead from food poisoning at the restaurant.”

“Who?” Hobbes asked.

“Uh... let’s see... Praise, Schmidt... someone else, too...”

Hobbes raised an eyebrow. “Sounds to me that you haven’t fully read that file.”

Harold became somewhat irate; again he was able to conceal it. “I will say it again: if you yourself would look at that file, you’ll see it’s almost impossible to parse through. I really only received some information about the poisoned people.”

Hobbes looked confused again, again a façade. “Mr. Keeler, I think you’ve got your facts a little confused.”

Harold shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“Who said these people were food poisoning victims?”

Harold was startled. He didn’t know if it was another bluff. Same question, more difficult context. “Well, I just assumed...“

“Boy, looks like you took a really extensive scan of that file.”

Hobbes stood.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Keeler. We may need to speak to you again.”

Both men exited the office. It was like this Rainer guy was a mute, maybe Hobbes’ protégé or something of the sort. He’d not made one contribution to the discussion. At any rate, Harold felt that the “interview” had gone O.K. but was concerned about his exposed ignorance regarding these peoples’ identities. Read the file, Read the file, Harold thought, if these bozos would look at the stupid thing they’d know how opaque it is.

Harold decided to flip through the file again, given his new concerns.

It was still a bitch. He flipped to the section containing the pictures of the deceased. It seemed that someone had spilled coffee, or something wet that blurred the text. Not much here, he thought, not my goddamn fault. I’m not a bloody cop.

The sloth part of Keeler took over. He slammed the file shut, aggravated. Why should he be doing all of this shit? The cops should be dealing with it. He decided that was enough...

DECEASED.

“Oh, shut up.” Harold muttered to himself, “I did my damn job here. Not my problem.”

He went home.

The place stank. As if something was festering there, a bitter irony of his work as health inspector. He opened a beer...

And suddenly jerked in shock.

Something grey. Grey or white. Like a worm, a snake or something, slid out of the can.

Harold dropped the beer.

The phone rang.

As if in a daze, unable to process what had happened, he answered the phone.

“Mr. Keeler? This is Detective Rainer.” The voice said.

“Uhh... Yeah, what can I do ya for?”

“Mr. Keeler, this is very serious. We need you to come down to the station. Look at some things. Something happened at the Dingo Diner this morning. A man...”

Harold interrupted him. “Yeah, sure, sure, I’ll call you back.” Slammed the phone.

He looked at the beer can.

It was covered in grayish moss. The snakes – or whatever they were, had multiplied. Slunk across the floor like worms squirming in the rain.

The pain in his stomach intensified.

“Man oh man oh man.” He whimpered, stepping back and almost tripping over the couch.

A voice.

Someone was calling his name, a faint, hollow whisper.

It was coming from the refrigerator.

Harold realized that his apartment had gone even more dirty than he had imagined. The floor was sticky. On the handles of the fridge, the door, even the beer can...

Grey moss. And it moved. Squirmed.

Harold held his breath. Easy, dammit! his brain screamed.

He approached the fridge.

An inner voice jabbered in his head. It was the old Keeler, not the frightened baby he was turning into now.

This is all shit, buddy, it said, you didn’t kill anyone. This is in your imagination. Who cares about the Dingo? This isn’t your business. The cops. You don’t investigate this stuff... you just give...

Lazy, lackluster reports. The stamp of approval on places...

DECEASED.

The word screamed in his mind.

So did he.

The place — his place — had turned into a zoo. A zoo of...

Things.

Squirming things. Grey and green things. Things that looked like hands, had tendrils...

His stomach revolted. He vomited.

It was bloody.

And it moved. Towards the refrigerator. The sound started again. It was calling his name, from deep within the appliance.

Harold...

Quivering, he opened it.

I... I...

It was that thing. That wrapped glob he hadn’t recognized. There were two things, however, that he did notice.

The voice was coming from the glob, first of all, among all this moving moss...

And it looked like someone he recognized. From a file he neglected, discarded, pushed, stapled, penciled, filed away—

Judy Isaac’s head.

He was aware only of himself starting to faint, falling over... and a bloody hand, from the muck he had vomited onto the floor, wrapping tightly around his neck.