Ye Liveliest Wickedness

By Cherry Gerrard

The macabre and supernatural add to the atmospherics of this beguiling collection. From the descent into madness of a man trapped in the Polar ice to a gruesome American Civil War discovery far grislier than the usual horrors of war, or the oddly ribald haunting in New Orleans to the downright bizarre man who comes to a restaurant every day to gulp down vast quantities at the shrimp buffet while his forlorn waitress seems to gain weight on his behalf. Gerrard achieves a delightful balance of whimsy and the grotesque.

• Language: English
• Publisher: World Waters
• Release date: May 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9780974521787

Book preview

course).

Book I: Luna Umbra

New Moon

Returning to the table, the man set the heaping plate before him. Deftly he slid into the seat and then wriggled in firmly. His napkin was plucked delicately from the table and the tips pushed deep into his shirt collar. The peach linen reflected curiously from the polished silverware. He brought simple contents from the buffet, but he reviewed them with intense, manifest scrutiny.

I wondered what was so fascinating about it. His plate was piled high with pink, unpeeled shrimp. The mound of morsels rose like a pyramid. Circling it were four lemon wedges, all placed carefully apart from each other. He was very particular about that: they were at 0°, 90°, 180°, and 270°. They all faced inwards, paying homage to the shrine of nourishment.

The man’s lips cracked into an anxious grin. Seeing his pink, swollen tongue momentarily peek from behind the coffee-stained teeth made me grimace. There was something very unsettling about his mouth. His short white mustache was stained with a hint of pink.

He was ready to begin.

With a grand sweep of both hands he pushed the entire affair onto the tablecloth. Shrimp dropped to the linen and lemons cascaded after. The backs of his hands became greasy and covered with lemon juice. He brushed them absently upon his pants.

After cracking thick, knobby knuckles the man began to peel. The meat was deposited once more onto the grease-smeared plate. Those large hands did not appear a part of the man who utilized them with such precision. Though his waist was trim, his hands were bloated. They bobbed in the air before him, not possibly part of his slender person, but like swooping, pale vermin.

Slowly the plate filled with the shrimps once again, now peeled and ready for consumption. The linen beside the plate had since grown wet and slimy beneath the detritus, but the man paid it no heed. I thought he looked like nothing more than an unthinking robot, some sort of shrimping machine.

Yet I sensed this was not so. Beneath the mildly sweating forehead and knitted white brows lurked a thinking man. His mind orbited the plate’s growing contents with unparalleled marvel. He throbbed with anticipation of what was to come next.

Finally the plate was full and the table loaded only with discarded shells and shrimp legs, barring the lemons. He excitedly snatched up the citrus and squeezed the pulp viciously. The lemons were horribly mangled in those powerful hands, the rinds actually splitting and the juice dribbling from his clenched, hammy fists. The renewed mound of shrimp flowed with the fluid like a volcano smothered in molten lava. Once bereft of their precious juice, the crushed lemons were cast aside as so much useless rind.

This ritual lasted nearly five full minutes. To my further disgust, he shoveled the shrimp into his mouth and gulped them down in barely a single breath. Once through, the man wasted no further time with contemplation or digestion. His napkin was already ripped from its home and tossed to the table, and he departed. He was intent upon the buffet line once again.

***

Oh my God, I groaned to Wayne. He’s back again.

Who?

The shrimp guy.

Wayne echoed my moan. What, is this guy European or something?

I shrugged, not understanding his reference. I don’t know. I guess he kind of looks European. Why?

You know, lot’s of Europeans come in late and stay all afternoon. Those countries with siestas and all that.

I have no idea what you’re talking about, but no, I don’t think he’s European. He’s too nice.

What’s that supposed to mean?

Most Europeans I’ve served are really demanding and think of waitresses differently, like a servant and stuff. You know, Americans are friendly to waiters.

You think? he acknowledged, lost in thought.

Well, maybe not here in Chicago... I muttered.

This man, Mr. Arno, had returned yet again after discovering the peel-and-eat shrimp buffet four days ago. The first day he had not eaten anything, but had seemed very excited when he spied the buffet. The next day he returned and began his strange ritualistic eating. He was nice enough, but he came in late and left even later. We had to keep the buffet open for him, and I had to waste all damn afternoon. I normally only had two hours between lunch and class, and now I had to rush even more. Not surprisingly, he was sitting at table 29.5. He always sat at the little half-sized table by the pillar, and always did his shrimp thing. He was so weird!

I swear to God, if he comes tomorrow I’ll quit. This is a fine dining restaurant - for dinner anyway - not the Tuna Bucket Buffet.

I looked over to Wayne, but he was absently flexing his muscles beneath his uniform. I could always tell by the way the tendons in his neck tensed and popped. He had a deplorable fixation with his bulk and was adding to it every day. This he bragged about more than his grades, or even his steroid use.

I rolled my eyes in wonder at him. In particular he always flexed when I was around. I guess he thought it turned me on. I told him a dozen times that I couldn’t date him even if I wanted to, which I did not, because he was only seventeen.

Wayne, I chided, Stop it.

Hmm?

You’re flexing again. You are almost as obsessive as Mr. Arno.

Wayne’s pale features were flushed red with the combination of his excitement whenever he was around me, his constant use of a tanning bed, and the excessive acne that was a secondary result of steroid use. His pimples and freckles fought for dominance over his face and in particular on his pug-like nose. He swept aside his pale blond hair in a further act of self-posturing.

If you want to talk about obsession, he retorted. Then let’s talk about it. I can’t believe you let go of your script for more than five minutes today!

Don’t remind me! It’s at home, and now all this time is wasted. Tomorrow I’m bringing it for sure.

I had less than two weeks remaining to memorize all my lines. I was playing the lead female role at the Cook Community College’s performance of Cyrano de Bergerac. Not only was I being graded on my performance, but if I did well I could get accepted into the Emoting Society. Oh that would be awesome. Usually I went nowhere without my script, but after my hairdryer broke this morning I forgot it in my anger. I am helpless without my routine.

Look, he’s doing the shrimp thing again, Wayne giggled.

I had no desire to watch the horrible ritual yet again, so I left the serving station and strode down to the kitchen. I wanted to escape the two most annoying men ever known. Well, man and boy. I had no luck. Wayne trailed after me, continuing, He shoveled it all in, and now he’s on his second plate.

Wayne was not tall, but he still towered over me. I was very small. Five foot two, eyes of blue, one hundred two, I liked to say. I knew I was pretty, but I thought my nose was too big. Obviously Wayne didn’t. I swear he talked about me more than even himself, if that’s possible. I’m sure it never crossed his mind that I was twenty-two and not about to date a high school kid. It’s not like he loved me or anything. He just liked my ass.

Wayne, I said, turning on him suddenly, I am going to have a cigarette, all right?

Sure, he said, standing a bit too near for my comfort.

Okay, then stop following me. You need to keep an eye on Mr. Arno.

Who?

Mr. Arno. The shrimp guy.

Ok, yeah. Sure, he said as he skipped away. He acted pleased to be doing me a favor, as if it weren’t his job. I sighed quietly, but was thankful for a few minutes of respite from his constant harassment. He was a good kid, very smart, but just so... annoying!

I worked my way through the kitchen and to the back dock. Through the greasy metal doors was the smoking area. I stepped into the concrete cell walled with the brick of the building. The area was dominated by the huge garbage dumpster, and was only reached from the kitchen or the ramp leading to the alley. I wrinkled my nose at the smell. Strange smears of black and brown streaked across the concrete, indicating years of dragged canisters of restaurant refuse. Potato peelings were mercilessly driven into the concrete.

My favorite spot was blessedly free of stains but weeded with cigarette butts. I kicked aside browned and smashed filters like dead leaves, and leaned against the cool brick.

I fished the lighter from the half-empty pack and lit a cigarette. I sucked it all in, loving it. Only slowly did I let out the smoke. I never used to smoke so much, but after meeting the trying Mr. Arno, and having to endure the extra hour daily with Wayne, I found the numbers increasing dramatically.

Tomorrow I would bring my script again. Wayne had offered on more than one occasion to help me with my lines. To my chagrin I realized his help would only make sense. How else to pass the time, while waiting for Mr. Arno to finish his creepy lunch? I would just have to make it very, very clear to Wayne that this was not an invitation for any late-night script readings or anything. He tailed me like a puppy following its master. The cigarette went too fast, and I dropped the butt and kicked it into the depths between the dumpster and the ramp.

When I returned Wayne was dropping a greasy plate onto the cart, a look of profound disgust directed at it. The service cart in the kitchen was designed for this purpose and loaded with stacks of other, more soiled plates. Yet there was something unsettling about the unique grease-stains on that one plate. I knew instantly it was Mr. Arno’s.

Wayne wiped his hands and then saw me. Instantly he pounced like a vulture on a dead carcass in some desert.

Number three is done!

"Ugh, you mean he had three full plates of shrimp?"

Yep! he fairly bounced with enthusiasm. Though I had enjoyed the mental comparison to a vulture, his behavior was still much closer to a dog. He was so innocent; it was hard for me to be annoyed. I resolved to try harder.

I strode up the ramp that led to the dining room and leaned against the wall. I tried vainly to take my mind off this last customer’s eating habits or Wayne’s lack of social grace. But if I couldn’t do it with a cigarette, I had no chance of doing it here.

Miss? came a voice from the man at table 29.5. Instantly I was there, hoping for the magic words.

Yes, Mr. Arno?

I’ll take the check at your convenience, he said kindly. His smile was somewhat disarming, almost letting me forget his disgusting practices. The teeth, though slightly stained, were genuinely revealed in the smile. Yet I couldn’t look at them without thinking of the horrendous quantity of shrimp they would destroy. But then again, he rarely chewed anything, but rather swallowed the vast number whole.

Stupidly and without thinking I slipped into waitress-mode. No dessert?

No, he answered rather mechanically. I was thrilled at the word. Just three plates. I can’t handle any more at this phase.

First Quarter

Desperately I glanced around. Perspiration beaded upon my forehead, and I felt immensely uncomfortable. The grease-smeared plate at table 29.5 was ready to be collected, along with a huge mound of shrimp debris. There must easily be hundreds of broken and split shrimp shells and legs piled obscenely on the table. Of Mr. Arno there was no sign, meaning he was en route to the buffet line yet again.

Where was Wayne? He was always hovering when I didn’t want him, and now that there was work to do he was gone. No, there he was, unfortunately busy clearing another table. I sighed.

I strode over towards the pillar with purpose. My mind was bent on reaching and clearing the table before the strange, white-haired man returned. He was nice and all, but he was just too damn creepy. At least he tipped well. He had been coming for a week now, and had never varied his bizarre routine. Indeed, it had grown by an additional plate for every day! It was already showing on him, too. His formerly trim figure was already stretching from his gross intake of shrimp. Ugh! As if he didn’t cut into my free time before... but now I was really getting angry.

I snatched up his empty plate and scooped shells and legs and lemon-rinds onto it. There was far too much for me to collect onto the one plate, I noted with revulsion. The unpleasant task temporarily eased, I hurried towards the service station. I was halted mid-way.

Miss?

I froze in my tracks, but the word were not from him. It was the ladies at table 26. They were apparently two housewives enjoying a late lunch out. One, I noticed had the most profound purple hat on, even in the dining room. Instantly I sized up their character as only a waitress can.

Yes, ma’am?

We were wondering, what’s the secret of this shrimp?

My nerves flashed like lightning, but I realized their request was completely innocent: they had no concept at all of Mr. Arno’s fierce shrimp predation and bizarre eating habits. They had both shared a small, appropriate portion of the peel-and-eat shrimps. The shells were resting neatly on a side plate.

I smiled my charming smile. The secret? Well, we all have secrets, but...

I leaned forward conspiratorially. They mirrored me with interest.

Some say, when the moon is full, they dance around the fire in their underpants.

Both their eyes widened in surprise at my statement, and silence hung heavily. Suddenly Purple-hat burst into laughter. I smiled, pleased that I had read her correctly. Her friend, however, did not react as I had anticipated and frowned at my levity. Before she had any room for criticism I continued. I’m sorry, just teasing. I assume you meant you want to know more about how they’re made?

Through her frown she nodded. Purple-hat was still smiling.

That I don’t know. As far as I know, they just boil them. I know Chef takes great care in selecting his ingredients. I’ll go ask him if he can come out and speak with you.

Thank you, that would be lovely.

Instantly I shot to the service station and then down to the kitchen. I was only too happy to be rid of the horrid pile of shells and legs. Disgusting, the leftovers of other people’s food. Fortunately I was getting over my repulsion at Mr. Arno’s eating habits. I had hardly eaten all week after watching him shovel shrimp into his mouth.

Wayne materialized from the dining room bearing a massive oval tray loaded with plates. Deftly he eased the weight onto a serving stand. I had to admit, he was exceptionally strong. That, of course, didn’t mean I wanted to talk to him.

I saw Chef walking by and quickly used the opportunity for escape.

Chef!

Oh, hey Lisa.

Hi, Uncle Tony. Chef Tony was a remarkably tall, slender man. He was almost seven feet tall, and my little figure brought me barely past his waist. He looked tired and hung over today. He had been drinking a lot lately. Just yesterday he shaved off his hair because he didn’t care anymore. Meanwhile he had not shaved his face at all. The thin yellow beard looked good on him, though. How are you today?

He shrugged. I nodded in understanding. He was going through a rough divorce with my Aunt Lisa. It was shame she drug him through the coals so roughly. He was a nice man whose ambitions had been slashed by her selfish behavior. I felt embarrassed to be named after her.

What can I do for you, Lisa?

Can you talk to some ladies at table 26 for me?

Sure, he replied with a forced smile. Introduce me?

Let’s go.

In the dining room the ladies were suitably happy upon my introducing Chef Tony. I stood by for a moment, and smiled in embarrassment when Purple-hat laughed anew at the shrimp joke.

When the moon is full! she giggled. I smiled good-naturedly, but it obviously wasn’t that funny. Was I doomed to be surrounded by strange people?

Miss?

My shoulders tensed. Yes, it was my lot in life.

Yes, Mr. Arno?

He was sitting at his pillar table behind me, hands buried in the mound of pink husks. His belly, grown alarmingly fast, squeezed under the table most disagreeably.

What was that about the full moon? It’s not for another eight nights.

Yeah? Well, it was nothing. Just a little joke.

Please, I want to know.

It was silly and not funny. I certainly did not want to have any conversation with Mr. Arno regarding shrimp! I had managed to avoid this most painfully obvious subject for a week, and wasn’t about to start now.

Really, I insist. I love the moon. She is so important.

Important?

Oh yes! he said earnestly. Indeed, he actually stopped his peeling for a moment. I had not seen him alter his routine even once in six days. His eyes glinted strangely. The most perfect pearl set in the most perfect sea of all, the sea of stars. Though she changes in appearance every night, why, even disappearing entirely from view once a cycle, she is always there. Always. You can learn so much from her and her ways. She affects every tide of every sea and every ocean everywhere. All life depends upon her.

... right, I said slowly, unsure of a proper response. I mumbled some excuse and fled to the station. This guy had serious issues! Upon my return, Wayne was once again waiting to pounce. He bobbed before me, flashing his rosy, pimply grin.

Did you read the paper today, Lisa? He asked, bubbling.

No, Wayne, I didn’t. Excuse me, will you?

They found the waitress from that other restaurant.

I paused in my descent from the dining room. What?

Yeah, he continued. They found her in a dumpster. She had that disease the other server who died a couple of months ago had.

That bloating thing?

Yeah, KBS, Wayne clarified, Kheoghtom’s Bloating Syndrome.

I was stunned. Though I preferred to ignore what Wayne had to say, there was no denying his intelligence, and I really was glad he knew some details.

It’s really rare, he continued. I don’t get what’s the big deal. The paper said she put on a lot of weight before she died anyway, from what I understand.

What do you mean, ‘anyway’? You make it sound like it’s OK to die if you’re fat.

Hey, he defended hastily. I didn’t mean anything by it. But I don’t like fat chicks. If she got fat... well, I don’t know. What do you want from me?

Wayne, I chastised, She’s our age and she’s dead. Don’t talk about her weight.

"Why not? I’m trying to gain weight. I gained twenty pounds in the last four months. All of it muscle." I noted his neck tense and the veins pop. These were the early warning signals that I never missed.

Whatever, Wayne. Let me go.

Wayne stepped aside so I could pass in the narrow hall. A momentary fear flitted through my mind about how I was feeling a little bloated myself. It wasn’t the right time of the month for that, but sometimes stress can change things. I quickly forgot the worry. Behind me I sensed Wayne feeling up his own biceps again, and I heard him mutter, Damn, I’m good.

***

Large hands manipulated the peel-and-eat shrimp, easily removing the small amount of meat from inside the shell. The legs, which had been curled below the small-bodied shrimp, were tossed to the linen as waste. Though the movements were done with a mechanized precision, they sometimes erred. The shrimp slipped from Mr. Arno’s swollen fingers, bounced off his ponderous belly, and landed on