"No. Well, yes. But that's not the point. The point is, we care."
"We?"
"Hermann's Meat. We're like a family here."
"And Mr. Hermann is the father?"
"Exactly," Robin answered.
The truth was quite different. Hermann, the smiling sausage maker on the front of the package, was the artistic creation of a large company which sourced its meat from several different locations. 100% Pure, it proclaimed, in large type. On the back, under Contents, in extremely small print, were the words Miscellaneous Farm Animals. Or, as some of the less enthusiastic factory workers liked to say, the finest lips and assholes money can buy.
"Let me show you your wagon."
Robin led Oscar to the back where several metal rickshaws, their seats replaced by a refrigerated box, lay slowly rusting. On the side of each was a picture of Hermann proudly holding up a fat red sausage impaled upon a double-pronged fork.
"Don't worry," Robin assured him. "They're quite light."
This was true but only when empty. Fully loaded, they were a backbreaking burden. The idea had come from the owner himself. While touring one of his factories, he noticed that machines did most of the work and his employees just stood around and watched. The least they can do is sweat, he thought, and suddenly remembered a photo he had seen of Chinese coolies pulling an overloaded cart up a mountain. Inspired, he sacked his sales force and replaced them with students and other derelicts, many of them homeless, whom he had sell his sausages door to door. But, for some reason, people were reluctant to buy food from salesmen who smelt. They also had a tendency to eat the sausages themselves. You'll never get ahead that way, he told some poor old wino. First you sell the sausages. Then you give me the money. Then I pay you. Then you buy the sausages from me. It's called capitalism and only works if you're willing to wait a month for dinner.
"And this," he said, spreading out a map atop Oscar's wagon, "is your territory."
Colour coded, it had several thrusting lines and X marks.
"What are these?" Oscar asked, pointing at an X.
"Conflict points."
"With who?"
"Sloboda Sausage."
"Who?"
"Sloboda Sausage. Our competitor."
"Goodness!"
"It's dog eat dog out there."
Oscar had always disliked that expression, especially when people used it approvingly, as a sign of seriousness, when really, all it meant was that they hadn't bought dog food for a very long time.
"Here," he continued, handing Oscar a walkie-talkie. "In case things get ugly. Or you run out of sausages."
"What do I do?"
"Just press the button. A dispatcher will send reinforcements."
"Okay."
After hitching Oscar's wagon to the company truck, Robin drove him out to a suburban area and dropped him off.
"Radio in when you're ready to come back."
"Okay."
Suddenly alone, Oscar wondered what to do. He had never done sales before. Good products sell themselves, he had heard. But how? In front of him was a house. He knocked. A middle-aged woman in curlers and a face pack answered the door.
"Excuse me," he said, sweating profusely, "but would you like to see my sausage?"
"Fuck you pervert!" she cried and slammed the door in his face.
Wow, he thought. It's true. Sales is tough.
*
Oscar's next few attempts were equally unsuccessful. For some reason, people were suspicious of a stranger selling meat door to door. One man even asked if it was stolen and seemed disappointed to discover it wasn't. Of course! he realized. Sloboda Sausage! They were spreading slander, telling people Mr. Hermann was a thief. Oh, the injustice of it all! Poor Mr. Hermann. Standing all day in front of a sausage grinder and for what? To have his meat tainted like that? His honour must be defended.
"Let me assure you," Oscar began. "Hermann's Meat is not stolen."
"Heavens!" the old lady cried, missing everything but the word stolen. "Teddy, come quick. There's a thief at the door!"
An old dog, spread out on the sofa and too tired to move, reluctantly opened its eyes. Although hard of hearing, it caught the anxiety in its owner's voice and so, barked once in acknowledgement. That ought to do it, he thought, as his head fell back onto the sofa. But then he smelt the husky odour of a male intruder. With his knees trembling from the effort, he slowly got up, dropped down onto the carpet and trudged towards the door.
"Woof! Woof! Woof!" he warned, as Oscar retreated to his rickshaw.
"Good boy!" the old lady said. "You sure showed him. I'll bet it's a while before he tries that again."
Teddy placed his nose against the screen. Sausages, his nostrils told him. Fat, juicy sausages. But it was too late: they were gone and all that remained was the tantalizing after-aroma. Duty done, Teddy plodded back to the sofa, crawled up onto it, sniffed around till he found his favourite spot and slowly lowered himself into it. Then, ignoring his excited owner, who kept prattling on about how she had just escaped death, he closed his eyes and drifted off, dreaming of sausages.
*
"Sausages, eh?" Martin asked, pretending to think it over. "You got any samples?"
"Of course," Oscar answered.
"Then come on in."
Martin led him down a hallway made narrow by opposing piles of junk. The kitchen was no better: an avalanche of utensils, most of them broken, covered the counter; a flute organ of empty cigarette packs climbed to the ceiling; the fridge was secured by a seatbelt; a dusty box of bent nails tumbled out onto the table; and the calendar was over a decade old, its faded tractor seemingly driving away in disgust. For a moment, Oscar thought he was in an antique shop - until he realized that everything was worthless.
"Well," Martin said, "what are you waiting for?"
Digging a pot out of the sink, Oscar washed it off, tossed in a sausage and a bit of water and set it on the stove.
"Not bad," Martin admitted, his mouth full of meat.
"So... how many do you want?|
"All of them."
Oscar was overjoyed. He had sold them all. And on his very first day! Mr. Hermann was bound to be pleased.
"Really?"
"Yup."
"And how would you like to pay?"
"Pay?" Martin asked, clearly insulted. "I'm not gonna pay."
"No?"
"No, trade. I'll give you that box of nails for them."
Oscar looked at the dusty box. "Sorry but I can't do that."
"What? A box of bent nails not good enough for you?"
"Well..."
"People like you," Martin continued. "Always wanting something for nothing. You know how hard I worked to get those nails?"
It was true. He had spent almost an hour pulling them from some broken boards he had found in the garbage of a building site.
"Sorry."
"You should be. You gonna take those nails or not?"
"No."
"Then get the hell out."
"Can I use your washroom?"
"Only if you pay me a dollar."
"A dollar?"
"Water isn't free you know."
"But I don't have any money."
"Then go somewhere else."
Oscar returned to his rickshaw and started pulling it down the street. I should've gone before I left, he realized, feeling his bowels bulk up. Trapped in a suburban desert, Oscar looked around for a place to void himself but saw nothing. Unable to wait any longer, he parked his rickshaw in front of a car, lowered his pants, placed a plastic bag under his anus and let a large turd fall into it. Then, pulling up his pants, he ducked down an alley and deposited it in a garbage can. Returning to his cart, he found it being looted by some men.
"No!" he cried and rushed forward.
One of the men, who wore a uniform identifying him as an employee of Sloboda Sausage, pulled out a double-pronged fork and raised it menacingly. Oscar grabbed his from the side of the cart and
they battled, fork to fork and tine to tine, while the others continued transferring his sausages to their car. An evil look formed in the man's eyes and his lips shifted, inching over into a crooked smile. A deft flick of his wrist and Oscar was speared, the stranger's fork still sticking in his gut as he fell screaming to the ground.
"Man down!" he cried, clutching his walkie-talkie. "Man down!"
Pausing only to retrieve his fork, Oscar's opponent jumped into the car and they took off in triumph.
Oscar lifted his hand and looked at his shirt. A pair of holes were slowly staining it red.
I hope they have dogs in Heaven, he thought, and passed out.
*
What the? Martin wondered as he watched Oscar drop the bag into his garbage can. Didn't give permission for that. Illegal disposal, that's what it was. Compensation for sure. All he needed was the evidence. As soon as Oscar was gone he went out to retrieve the bag. Picking it up, he saw Hermann's face and felt something heavy. Sausages, he assumed, and opened the bag - only to find himself holding a fat lump of shit.
Disgusted, he threw the bag down and stormed back to the house.
Moments later he heard Oscar scream and, looking out the front window, saw him fall to the ground with a fork in his gut. Grabbing a broken Slinky from the nearest pile of junk, he flew out the front door and began battering him about the head and chest.
"Wha?" Oscar asked, prodded to consciousness by the pain.
"Get up!" Martin ordered, still swinging the Slinky. "You're staining my lawn."
"Sorry," Oscar replied as, protecting his head with his hand, he tried to get up. A sharp pain reminded him of his wound.
"I've been stabbed," he explained. "Call an ambulance."
"Hell no," Martin said. "I'm not paying for that."
"Then call my boss," Oscar pleaded, holding up the walkie-talkie. "He'll take care of everything."
"Everything, eh?"
Martin dropped the Slinky.
"Okay then but it better be worth it."
But it wasn't. Not only did Robin refuse to pay damages, he wanted Martin to pay for the sausage he ate. Furious, Martin continued to argue his case, all the while ignoring Oscar's repeated requests for an ambulance. In the end, unable to squeeze any money out of him, he seized the walkie-talkie as partial payment and went back inside. His first thought was to sell it at his weekly garage sale but soon found himself entranced by the brutality of the wienie war. Just like the old days, he thought, when his family had huddled around the radio in eager anticipation of news of Al Capone and his cronies. Martin had even met him once. Big Al had come north to hide out and was in need of a soda. Martin got him one and in return Big Al gave him a nickel. Ever after Martin had defended him. Sure, he was a gangster who had murdered many but anyone who gave him a nickel couldn't be all bad.
It was some time before Oscar realized that Martin had not gone to call an ambulance. Unable to radio in, he reluctantly got up and started pulling his rickshaw down the street. Several cars sped by, each interested enough in his blood-soaked shirt to stare but not enough to stop. One guy even looked at him in disapproval, as though silently suggesting it was his own fault for being a pedestrian. Eventually, a woman called the police - not to help him but rather, to rid the neighbourhood of an undesirable element. Officer Bankowski immediately knew what had happened: another casualty of the wienie war. Several people had been forked and even more robbed. At first, Oscar refused to abandon his rickshaw but relented when the policeman pointed out there was nothing left to steal.
Upon arrival at the hospital, Oscar was given a form to fill out. Address, it asked. He hesitated. Should he put Pete's place as his own? It didn't seem right. But if not, where?
Sensing his discomfort, the receptionist laid her hand on his.
"Is there anyone we can call?" she asked. "Anyone at all?"
And so Myrtle got her wish.
*
In the days that past, Myrtle became increasingly accustomed to Oscar's presence. Having successfully installed him in the guest room - Nonsense, she insisted, refusing to let him return downstairs, that sofa is too small - she made progress on other fronts as well. Eat, she said, plying him with food. It'll help you recover. Soon they were having dinner together every night while Pete fumed below. Discovering his love of film, she began bringing videos home with her. Dinner and a movie. It was like a date, except they never left the house. Night after night she waited for him to make a move but he never did.
Maybe it was the movies. For some reason, he was inordinately fond of childish fluff, especially that stupid series about animals that find their way home. Didn't he realize they had been ditched? Oh sure, the owner always acted happy when they arrived home but she wasn't fooled: tossing a kitten from a car was the easiest way to lighten your load. Not that she would ever say so. He would be horrified and that would be the end of everything.
She tried to get him to watch something else once by bringing home a pair of videos. Double feature, she said. He liked that. Reminded him of the Palace. They watched a kids film first and then she slipped something a bit more adult into the VCR. Nothing too racy. Just mature material with the occasional sex scene in the hope it would give him ideas. Far from it: the first flash of a tit, he blushed bright red. A virgin, she realized. Not that she was surprised. A guy his age, obsessed with kids movies... what did you expect?
What's worse, he seemed to be a Christian. Not the Praise Jesus type - on the contrary, he never mentioned God - but there did seem to be something, some deep bedrock of faith. The unconscious type, who believes without thinking. Probably thinks sex is a sin. Well, that was going to be a problem. This sitting and watching movies was all very fine and well but was going to have to lead to something more sooner or later. He must have desires. Everyone does. Unless of course he was gay, which Myrtle doubted. Nothing about him suggested he preferred men. No, he was just a guy who hadn't made it past puppy love - in his case, literally. His sexuality was a box that hadn't been opened but couldn't stay closed forever. Someday someone would find the key and everything would change.
And then there was Pete. Myrtle could hear him stomping around below, slamming doors and banging things in an obvious attempt to make his presence felt. Yes, she had stolen his friend but there was no reason they couldn't share. Truth was, they already did: Pete had him during the day and Myrtle, in the evenings. And he was always welcome to join them, especially for dinner. Sometimes, when she felt particularly optimistic, she saw Oscar as the needle that would sew them back together. How nice that would be! The three of them, eating and drinking and laughing. It was David's leaving that had caused things to go badly between them. Maybe Oscar could fill that gap.
Either way she had to do something, and soon. He was healing - too fast for her liking - and would undoubtedly return downstairs. Hardly a day went by without him alluding to the guilt he felt about abandoning Pete. Myrtle's counter - that he chose not to join them - was becoming increasingly ineffective. His injury could only hold him so long. Sooner or later she was going to have to find a way to get him into her bed.
*
Pete was furious. The one thing he had asked him not to do and he had gone and done it. His first thought was to storm upstairs and have it out with him right there in front of his mother but then he remembered that it was actually her house and if he played the landlord card, she might do the same. Better to stay downstairs and make him feel guilty. And so he turned on the stereo, certain it would bring Oscar running. But it didn't. You're just making it worse for yourself, he thought, determined to give him a firm tongue-lashing. For about an hour he strode about the basement, practicing his speech and working himself up into a frenzy. Eventually, however, his fury peaked and began to subside, mutating into worry. What were they doing? Dinner was undoubtedly done. The blare of a TV had followed for a bit but was soon switched off.
Pete looked at his watch. It was almost eleven! He felt like a father waiting for his d
aughter to come back from her date with a sleazy guy. Another reason not to have kids. Pete had never seen the point of children. Little thieves, he considered them, who steal all your time and money. Accidents happen. Nature was good at that. But to have more than one was just irresponsible.
When it hit midnight and all above was silence, Pete became downright panicky. Surely they weren't.... The thought disgusted him. He knew his mother well enough to know that Oscar wasn't her type but feared the free-floating nature of her sexuality.
The slut, he thought. She'll fuck anyone.
*
Pete hit the stairs as soon as he heard the door close. All night he had slept fitfully, repeatedly waking up in the middle of dreams about Oscar and his mother, sometimes together, sometimes apart but always unsettling. Once, to his shame, he had an erection. But all his fury melted the moment he saw Oscar's bandage. That he had merely been stabbed rather than seduced came as a great relief. At first he tried to persuade him to return downstairs, claiming that the lumpy sofa was better for his wound, but Oscar was dubious. Plus which he had promised Myrtle he would stay upstairs till his wound healed.
"Just don't do anything."
"Like what?"
"You know."
"No, what?"
"Sleep with her."
"Certainly not! I would never do that!"
"That's what you say but things happen."
"Really?"
"You don't know her. What she's capable of."
"We just had dinner."
"Just? That's the first step."
"Of what?"
"Getting you into bed."
Oscar was horrified. Could it be? Was it all just a plot to rob him of his virginity? Pastor Wilcox had warned him about such women, all those Delilahs and Jezebels whose only aim was to sap the strength of men. One had to stand firm against them.
"But she seemed so nice."
"That's how they do it. With love. But all the while you're like a fly in a web. Is that what you want? To be eaten by a spider?"
"Of course not!"
"Then be careful."
"I will!"
*
The second the waitress looked in their direction, Mabel raised her hand; pacified by Kelly's knowing nod, she turned to Myrtle.
"So," she asked. "Any news?"