High Carb Diet

High Carb Diet

Earl Ambrust did not like his name. Ambrust was ok. Various members of his family had told him he was Dutch, English, or German, but he didn’t know if this was reflected in Ambrust or not. But Earl? He was 25. Who goes around in their 20s named Earl? For a time, he thought of going by his middle name, James, but never got around to it. James was his grandpa on his mother’s side. He had a Grandpa James, yet here he was named Earl. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to him. He took some comfort in knowing he would age into his name. In not too many years, there would be Grandpa Cody’s and Grandma Haley’s running around. Earl found this a little creepy.
          A recent college grad, he was about as normal as you could get. He was of average height and build, and his brown hair was cut in a style the lady at the beauty shop had called “unassuming standard male", or “USM” for short. Apart from two polyurethane testicles, the result of a drunken firework mishap back in high school, there was nothing unusual about him at all. He liked sports, but not obsessively, and his favorite color was beige.
         Earl was flat broke. Six years out of the work force, plus student loans, plus the move to the Big City to start his career as a cubicle occupant equals flat broke. Cobwebs lined his wallet and lint populated his pockets. The change on his dresser was mostly pennies. To save money, he did many things. When hungry he ate only Ramen noodles and potted meat product, a diet that did net him a savings but also increased his toilet paper consumption 2-ply. When thirsty he drank water from an actual, real live faucet. However, he made sure to pour it into an old Evian brand water bottle he had laying around if he was going to be out in public. When the barren, howling emptiness of sobriety got to him, he drank the cheapest beer he could find. Lots of it.
         He had been in the Big City for only a few weeks and though he had no money, he did have a job and a place to live. To make the move and rent his small apartment, he had sold the SUV his parents helped him buy just before he left for college. It was his seed money, his investment in getting his life going. Now the remainder of his life stretched out before him, a series of days on and days off, of vacations and busy times of the year. He one day hoped to marry and adopt children, to move out to the ‘burbs and get a house and become a commuter. He would grow old, retire, sell the house, move to a warmer climate, then, like everyone else, keel over dead. A few decades later, no one would remember he was ever even here.
         Earl was all set.
         Not having a vehicle meant being afoot, and being afoot was a problem when the cubicle you occupy is eighteen blocks away. Cabs were too expensive, but the bus was just fine, costing only change to ride. To get to the bus stop, he walked four blocks through a pleasant residential neighborhood where tall houses stood shoulder to shoulder and the plant life was very well-groomed. He didn’t have to do this. There was a stop on the corner of the block where he lived, but it was usually crowded. The few times he did catch the bus there he ended up standing most of the way to work.
         Besides, he enjoyed the walk. It was invigorating in the morning and relaxing in the evening. In the morning, he walked it with a spring in his step, his head full of future plans and dreams. Coming home in the evening his pace was slower, more deliberate, his head full of the acceptance that most plans and dreams go unrealized.
         On Wednesday, Earl saw something on his walk that would change him in a very profound and permanent way. It would shake him loose from the very foundations of his life and transform him into a new man with new ways of looking at things and new things to value. Whether this change was a good or bad thing will be for you, the reader, to decide.

***

         Earl did not like Wednesdays. Despite all the inane talk of it being “hump day”, he did not take comfort in knowing the week was half over. He liked Mondays. On Monday there was hope, a chance that the week would be different, more interesting than the last. By Wednesday, however, the proof was in. The week wasn’t going to be different or interesting but exactly the same as every other week before it. He liked Thursdays and Fridays too. He liked them for the same reason: the week was almost over. The boring, unvaried, bland week was finally drawing to a close. He liked Fridays more than Thursdays, though, because Fridays were closer to the end of the week than Thursdays.
         It was sunny as Earl headed to the bus stop. He did not know it, but it was the first day of Fall and at 7:30 in the morning, the air was chilly. The bright sun promised heat later in the day, but Earl found himself shivering as be walked. He took a sip of the coffee he had brewed himself. He couldn’t wait to begin getting his coffee at the Starbucks across from work. Only peasants and connoisseurs brewed their own coffee and he found both annoying. He did not want to be classified as either. Despite it being Wednesday, he was in a fairly good mood. On Friday he would receive his second paycheck. The first had gone toward getting his tv and internet turned on as well as a few other bills, but this check he had earmarked entirely for recreation and clothes. The thought of actually going shopping made him smile. Sure, at this point it would be Wal-Mart and Target, but it was a big step up from Good Will and the Salvation Army. Well, maybe not a big step, but a step nonetheless.
         The best part of getting paid was asking Lindsay out. She occupied a cubicle a few cubicles down from the cubicle he occupied and she was really cute. He kept tabs on her around the office. If she was by the water cooler, he suddenly became thirsty. If she was by the copy machine, lo and behold, he had to copy something. During a flirtatious chat with her, she had mentioned that she “wasn’t really seeing anyone at the moment”, which meant that she was really seeing someone at the moment but was open to his advances. That was good enough for him. He would start small, asking her to lunch on Sunday followed by a stroll in the park or a movie.
         He imagined marrying her and spending the rest of his life with her: Mr. and Mrs. Earl and Lindsay Ambrust. Of course, he would have to break it to her that he had two polyurethane testicles and, apart from a few droplets of clear viscous liquid, could not even ejaculate. If she wanted to be a mother they would have to adopt because the thought of purchasing another man’s semen and sticking it in his lovely wife Lindsay bothered him immensely. He would have to break this to her, too. A tiny laugh escaped his mouth and he shook the thoughts from his mind. This was all tenth date stuff anyway.
         “Slow down, buddy,” he whispered. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
         About halfway to the bus stop, Earl glanced over at one of the tall houses that lined the street. It caught his eye because the large bay window on the ground floor was brilliantly lit with white, clean light. Almost fluorescent, it was noticeable even in the bright morning sunshine. As he came level with the window, he could see clearly into the house. Standing in the living room was a middle-age woman. She was dressed in a navy blue pantsuit. In one hand she held a loaf of bread. She gripped a small boy of about seven or eight by the wrist with her other hand. She was beating him over the head with the loaf of the bread. Not just beating him, but pounding him with it. She would rise up on her tippy-toes, swing the loaf of bread in an arc over her shoulder and bring it down with great force right on top of his head. She was doing this over and over again.
         Earl stopped walking and looked openly into the house, not believing what he was seeing. Although out on the sidewalk he could not actually hear it, he imagined the sound of the loaf of bread striking the kid’s head like this: WHAP! He watched for several minutes and the woman would not stop nor even slow her pace. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! came the bread again and again. The poor kid, tears streaming down his cheeks, was trying to pull away but the woman was just too strong. Was this abuse? he wondered. Could one actually be abusive with a loaf of soft, fluffy bread? Earl looked at his watch and knew if he stood there any longer he would miss his bus. He reluctantly pulled himself away, feeling conflicted.
         At work, he could not focus on occupying his cubicle. His mind kept going back to the woman and her brutal bread. Should he talk to someone about it? Should he just make a call and report a kid being abused? He didn’t know. He knew for a fact he didn’t want to bring it up to Lindsay. Child abuse was a serious matter and would be very difficult to be flirtatious about. He had a few other people around the office he had become friendly with, but the weirdness of the whole thing gave him pause. These were people he wanted to become actual friends with, to go out with after work someday. It’s hard to become friends with your coworkers if they think you’re a fruitcake.
         It was weird, too--deeply weird. Earl hadn’t seen anything that weird since Curly, his old college roommate, had pooped on those two girls, Bethany and Courtney, from the second story window of the dorm.
         He relaxed a bit and began to chuckle. Grandma Bethany and Grandma Courtney, he thought absurdly.
         He chuckled and chuckled.

***

         That evening as he approached the house with the big bay window, Earl expected the worst. He expected the kid to be lying there dead at the woman’s feet, bread crumbs covering everything, including the woman’s navy blue pantsuit. He expected her to be leering out the window at him, an insane grin plastered on her face. Instead, he found the house dark. Beige curtains had been drawn over the window and the house had become just like the other houses on the street. Perhaps it was a little darker and less lived-in looking, but more or less. He shook his head and continued home.
         In the morning he was in the process of forgetting about what he had seen. It was weird, sure. It was odd. It may have been illegal, but it was over. Today was Thursday. One more day until payday. He planned on asking Lindsay out today and as he walked to the bus stop he went over in his head how he was going to approach her. He was a little nervous about it but he was also pretty certain she liked him. He felt confident in a positive response.
         As Earl came to the house, he saw that the light was again spilling out from the bay window, cascading over what served as the front yard--a neatly manicured patch of grass framed by two perfectly square bushes. Unlike the morning before, it was overcast and the bright light seemed even brighter.
         He stopped in front of the house and looked in. The same woman was there in the same navy blue pantsuit. She was beating the same kid over the head with the same loaf of bread. Her hand was clamped onto his skinny little wrist in the same iron grip. Involuntarily, Earl backed away a few steps. He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t stop. A part of him wanted to run, but where? Better yet, why? A shiver went up his spine as he looked into the little kid’s face. It was bright red from his futile struggling and wet from his tears. Again and again, the evil woman brought the loaf of bread down on his head: WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! WHAP!
         Suddenly, he felt angry, even violated. This was his morning walk and this crazy bitch was ruining it. Was that even her kid? And why bread? Why the hell bread, for God’s sake? He wanted to go up to the door and pound on it: Excuse me…
         Just then, the woman stopped and looked directly out the window. Her eyes were dark, flat. Her face lined, careworn, and square, mannish in its angularity. The loaf of bread, now flattened, swung limply like a pendulum next to the navy blue knee of her navy blue pantsuit. An icy fear settled around Earl’s heart as he looked into her empty, expressionless face.
         He ran.
         At work, he again had trouble focusing on occupying his cubicle. The sheer, blind, utter terror he felt when the woman looked at him had left him almost immediately. By the time he had reached the bus stop, panting, he was back to being angry--very angry--but mostly at himself. Now, sitting at his desk, he felt pathetic, helpless. He had decided to report the woman, though, and that was something. Before him on the otherwise empty desk sat a phonebook, open to the S’s. In his hand he held a yellow highlighter. It was a perfectly normal yellow highlighter apart from the printing on it side:

OFFICE SUPPLIES ARE COMPANY PROPERTY TOO
DO NOT STEAL!

         On the page before him was the number to Social Services, distinct from all the other numbers by the yellowness he had applied to it a moment before. He snapped the cap back onto the highlighter and looked over his shoulder. He was alone. Smiling, he slipped it discreetly into his pocket.
         He smiled and smiled.

***

         Earl was not surprised when a recording answered his call. It was a female voice, very chipper, and it welcomed him to the Department of Social Services brightly. It then reminded him that strong families were not only the state’s future, but the nation’s future as well. Asking for his patience, the voice proceeded to go over his options. He was told to select 1 if suffering a loss of income due to spousal incarceration; select 2 to report nonpayment of child support; select 3 to report or discuss domestic violence; select 4 to speak to someone about teen and other forms of unwanted pregnancy; select 5 if he or a family member was mentally ill, confused, or simply troubled; select 6 to talk about consensual incest; select 7 to anonymously report a suspected case of child abuse.
      Bingo! thought Earl. We have a winner. He jabbed #7 with his index finger, not waiting to hear the rest, which, he supposed, went on to infinity. After all, strong families were not only the state’s future, but the nation’s future as well.
         A new chipper voice, also female, welcomed him to the Department of Social Services Division of Child Welfare. It then reminded him cheerfully that child abuse was everyone’s problem. There were only two options when it came to reporting child abuse: If the suspected abuse was sexual in nature, please select 1. For all other forms of abuse, select 2. Earl was positive that smacking a kid over the head with a loaf of bread fell under the heading “other forms of abuse”. He did not know the woman well enough to determine if what she was doing was sexual in nature, but if it was, he felt certain it was fetishistic.
         Earl jabbed #2 and waited while a computerized, instrumental version of Somewhere Over The Rainbow chirped in his ear. Without realizing it, he began to hum along with the tinny, artificial-sounding “music”. He felt good, like he was accomplishing something. He felt like he did that time he changed his own oil. His girlfriend at that time, Lacey, had to point out to him that he had used the wrong oil, 10W-something instead of 10W-something else, and, additionally, had poured it into the radiator. For a minute there, though, he had strutted around, proud of his dirty hands and the two or three beads of sweat on his forehead.
         There was a click in his ear and a real live person began speaking to him. She said her name was Marge and Earl had no choice but to believe her. He paused for a second, then said, “Marge?”
         “Yes?” said Marge.
         “Marge,” Earl repeated.
         “Yes,” said Marge.
         “Listen, Marge, I think I saw some abuse.”
         “What was the nature of the abuse, sir?”
         “Disturbing,” Earl said. No two ways about it.
         “Sir?”
         “Well, yesterday morning and now this morning I saw a woman beating a kid over the head with…with…” He suddenly felt unsure of himself, of how to say it.
         “Yes, sir?”
         “With a loaf of bread.”
         “I’m sorry. A loaf of bread?”
         “Yes.”
         “Did you say a loaf of bread, sir?”
         “That’s right. A loaf of bread.”
         “You saw a woman beating a kid over the head with a loaf of bread. Is that correct, sir?”
         “Yes. She was beating a kid over the head with a loaf of bread.”
         “I see,” Marge said slowly. There was a very long pause, then firmly: “Sir…”
         “Yes?” said Earl. He had to admit: he liked being called sir.
         “Sir, I find your humor very inappropriate.”
         Inappropriate? he thought. What?
         “This is the Child Welfare Hotline established by the people of this state to assist children in need…”
         “Oh no, you don’t under…”
         “…and you are using it for your own personal amusement.”
         “No, ma’am. I’m…”
         “Wasting valuable resources, that‘s what you‘re doing.”
         “Ma’am, I’m being serious ,” he said seriously, but the line was dead. Marge had hung up on him.
         As lunch neared, Earl came out of his funk, or whatever it was this whole mess had put him in. He was focusing on occupying his cubicle as well as he could and doing a pretty passable job of it when a boss out on patrol wandered by and appeared impressed with him. The boss said a few encouraging words he had learned at a seminar and continued on his way and Earl, inspired, furled his brow and occupied his cubicle even harder.
         Perhaps it would lead to a raise.
         The lunch break is a special time in any work environment, but today it was even more so because Earl was going to ask Lindsay out then. He looked at his watch and saw that he had a full half hour to fret and fidget. He began by cupping his hands and breathing into them, checking his breath. Then, as discreetly as possible, he sniffed his pits. Next, with a trembling hand, he checked to see if his fly was open. He again looked at his watch and saw that he had a full twenty-nine minutes to fret and fidget. He cupped his hands and brought them to his face and checked his breath again, beginning the whole process over again. It was a sort of a countdown, a countdown to Lindsay.
         Later, as he stood at the vending machines watching people feed their dollars in and walk away to the microwaves with their plastic-encased sandwiches, Earl felt hopeful. Although he didn’t see her right away, he knew she’d come. She always got a Chicken ‘N Swiss because she was watching her figure and he knew she’d be along anytime. As he stood there, Scott came up and visited with him, holding a Chuckwagon in one hand and a Triple Threat in the other. Both sandwiches had their plastic covering already ripped open in preparation for microwaving. Scott (aka ‘Scoot’) was a gregarious, talkative guy and the first person in the office Earl had met. He’d introduced himself as ‘Scoot’ because, according to him, he was always on the go and getting things done, which, Earl supposed, was entirely possible. ‘Scoot’ was going on and on about some game or other that had happened over the past weekend and apparently he was upset about the outcome. Earl wasn’t really listening. He was scanning the warren of cubicles on the lookout for Lindsay and when he spotted her, he cut things short.
         “Listen, er, ‘Scoot’, I gotta run. I have something to do.” He walked away quickly without waiting for a response and positioned himself strategically by the vending machine she always frequented so he could accidentally bump into her.
         “Oh, hi!” he said when she came around the corner. “Fancy meetin’ you here.”
         “Hello,” she said and smiled. “Ernie, right?”
         “Earl,” Earl said.
         “Right. How are you?”
         “Spectacular.”
         “Really?”
         “Well…maybe I’m just ok.” They both laughed.
         Earl took the plunge. “Say, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”
         “Really?”
         “Yeah. I was wondering if you’re going to be busy Sunday afternoon.”
         “Busy? Hmmm…”
         “Because I was wondering if you’d like to get together for a little lunch.”
         “Oh!” There was genuine shock in her voice. “Really?”
         Earl smiled and shrugged.
         “Hmmm, I think--yeah--I think I have something to do then. Sorry.”
         “Oh. Ok. Maybe we could get together next Sunday? If you’re not busy, that is.”
         “Um.” Her pretty blue eyes moved from side to side, searching. “Um, my Sundays are usually booked.”
         “Oh. Ok. How about a Saturday then?”
         “Um, you’re a real nice guy, Ernie, but I don’t really date anyone at work.”
         “Earl,” Earl said.
         “Excuse me?”
         “Earl.”
         “Right. Earl. Anyway, it could get really messy and I don’t really want that in my life or work environment.” She waved her hand in the air and made a face like she’d just tasted something really yucky.
         “Oh…ok.”
         “Anyway, it’s real good of you to ask, Ernie. I’m real, real flattered. Big time.” She touched his arm lightly and was gone.

***

         When he went home that evening, Earl did not get off at his usual stop in the pleasant neighborhood where the tall houses stood shoulder to shoulder, the plant life was very well-groomed, and the parents attacked their children with food. Instead, he rode all the way to the stop on the corner of his block and got off there. He did this because there was a liquor store right there that was having a sale on 30-packs of Keystone Light and he planned to drink as many as he could as fast as he could. Bedtime was 11 pm--if he could last that long.
         Even though he didn’t come home his usual way, he knew, he absolutely knew, that the house with the big bay window was dark and its beige curtains drawn shut. He knew there’d be nothing to see until tomorrow morning. When the morning came around, however, he was going to have a mythic hangover. A four block walk, no matter how pleasant, was going to be a colossal nightmare. Earl knew also that he was going to walk it anyway because he just had to see. He just had to see. Hell, he might even run it.
         By 10 pm he was sound asleep on the floor of the kitchen in a pool of his own urine.
         The next morning, Friday, he was late. If he was going to spend any time at the house and still make the bus, he’d have to hurry. There was no time for a shower. A change of clothes and a liberal amount of cologne applied to the groin area would have to suffice. The day was bright and as Earl bustled along the sidewalk, he barely noticed the burning inside his pants. Despite having drunk eleven beers the night before, he felt surprisingly good and looked for all the world like any average, ordinary guy hurrying along to see a woman beat a kid over the head with a loaf of bread.
         As he approached the house he saw the same clean white light spilling out into the world, appearing both eerie and clinical. A shiver danced up his spine and he stopped just before he was able to see inside. He didn’t want to look. Two more steps and he would be able to see in, but he didn’t want to look. Earl tried to remember something, to have a moment of revelry, maybe even a full-fledged flashback, but there was only the sound of traffic and the burning inside his pants.
         He took two steps and looked. The same woman was there in the same navy blue pantsuit. She held the same kid by the wrist in the same iron death grip, but the bread was gone. She was beating him over the head with something else, something brown and oblong. Again and again she brought the object down, hitting the kid right on top of his head every time despite his yanking and pulling and twisting as he tried to get away. Tears filled the kid’s eyes and ran down his red cheeks. His mouth made an O, a scream perhaps, but Earl could not hear. He imagined the brown object as having a different sound when it struck the kid, a deeper, earthier sound, a WHUMP!  rather than the sharp WHAP!  of a loaf of bread. He stood there looking into the house, not caring if the woman saw him or not. In fact, he kind of hoped she did notice him there. What the hell was her problem anyway? What the hell was all this supposed to be?
         Just then, Earl realized what the object was: an unfrosted bunt cake, the kind with the hole in the middle. Anger hit him like a hammer and he dropped the briefcase he didn’t realize he was carrying and marched up to door and began pounding.
         A goddamn cake…
         On the stoop he lost his angle and could no longer see inside. The door was windowless. He pounded again, harder. “Excuse me!” he shouted.
         He heard movement and pressed his ear against the door, nearly collapsing inside when the woman swung it open and said, “May I help you?” She said it very pleasantly. A polite half-smile sat on her lined face.
         For a split second Earl froze, not knowing where or even how to begin. The woman’s demeanor threw him. He had expected a raving lunatic, possibly even a minion of Satan, but instead got a perfectly normal person answering the door on a Friday morning.
         “Why are you beating that kid over the head with a cake?!” he suddenly screamed at her.
         “Because it’s his birthday!” the woman screamed back at him, just as suddenly, and slammed the door in his face.

The End
Michael Kindt