Styrofoam and Other Hazards
by Bobbie MetevierAndy had mastered it. He flipped a burger into the air. The patty turned once, narrowly missing the drop ceiling, before coming to rest on his spatula. He flipped it again; not high this time. He only meant to slam the pink side onto the grill.
The Styrofoam ceiling, he knew, was a hazard. His boss, Biggy Simms, had been issued citations. But OSHA was slow. (Andy guessed that money passing palms had a lot to do with their speed). They'd given Simms two months to take out the ceiling and fix the one beneath. Only two weeks had lapsed.
Usually Andy didn't think about such things, but Margaret kept reminding him. She was good at delivering warnings and imparting wisdom. Never mind that she had only been hired three weeks ago. Hazards were her business, and she pointed them out with regularity.
She waddled around the corner now, dragging a clear plastic bag.
"Flipping burgers high is a fire hazard," she said. "That ceiling is Styrofoam."
For someone who put such stock in hazards, she paid little attention to her appearance. Her hair stood on end, and her crumpled apron looked as if she'd slept in it.
Annoyed, he flipped a burger higher than he ever had. It hit the ceiling. It stayed on the ceiling. Grease splattered and sizzled. Andy ducked right, but not before spits of oil fell against his cheek.
"Shit!" He grabbed his stinging face and stumbled against the grill, scorching his stomach and searing his shirt to his flesh. He backed away, slamming into the shake machine.
It took Margaret only seconds to drop the trays and pounce.
"The hamburger is stuck on the ceiling," she said. "It didn't come down. Andy, didn't you hear me?"
Andy held his cheek. He didn't know which was worse--the burns or Margaret. He sidled past her and headed toward the employees' bathroom. Each excruciating step pulled at the seared flesh of his stomach.
He stood before the bathroom mirror now. Like a child removing a band-aid trying to avoid the sting, he tugged gently at his shirt tail. He bit down. Finally, the shirt gave way. So did some of his skin.
"The burgers are burning," Margaret called from the front. "Did you hear what I said?"
Andy lurched from the bathroom and stumbled to the grill. The burgers were burning; fire wafted up from six patties. He shooed one patty to the side with the tip of his finger. Grease caught on his thumb, scorching his nail bed. Fire crept higher, lifting off the patties as if they were tiny gas burners set on high. Flames ignited his sleeve.
"Andy, your shirt is on fire," Margaret said. "Did you hear me, Andy?"
Andy jerked left, colliding with Margaret. She flew against the shake machine, her head crashing against the chrome. Flames crept up his arm. He dashed past Margaret, racing toward the back of the restaurant, his mind on the double sinks.
His arm sizzled beneath the cold water now. He groaned, taking pleasure in the brief respite from pain.
"Andy, the ceiling is on fire. Andy, can you hear me?" Her voice came from far away. Andy guessed she was somewhere in the dinning area.
"Just get out," he screamed. "Get out."
He saw it now. Black smoke curled around the shake machine. It entered the open kitchen like an expanding entity. He ducked right, but to no avail--another citation for noncompliance. The back doors were broken, bolted from the outside. When supplies came in, Andy always had to run outside, unlock the chain, and pull the bolt. The locking apparatus was the only thing holding the doors closed.
Mr. Simms had been given three months to comply. Only two months had lapsed.
Smoke tickled the back of his throat. He dropped to the floor slithering toward the open entryway. His already-burned flesh stung as he fought to stay beneath the smoke.
Tongues of flame darted around the corner. He turned his head sideways, gulped clean air from beneath the cupboard and dragged himself through the smoke. At the open entry indecisive flames teased and prodded, touching his flesh and then retreating. His skin blistered. His hair furled.
Andy gave a final tug. He pulled himself to the hallway and stopped, fighting for air. No clean pockets left. He smelled it now. The burning. His flesh. His clothing.
"I can take this away if you help me," Margaret called. "I can fix this if you take care of me afterward."
"Help me! Anything you want, Margaret. I'll do . . . anything you want."
The world blacked out.
Paused.
And then returned.
Flames crept backwards across the laminated banners above the counter. The advertisements for cheeseburgers, Friday specials, and free refills curled and flapped. The flames above the grill began to subside, even as he watched. Tendrils of smoke and thin strobes of flame rushed beneath the front counter, as if a vacuum were sucking up the fire.
Margaret? Where was Margaret?
He didn't remember it all, didn't know how she had rescued him, or how he had come to be in the dinning-room. He had no idea why the burns he'd sustained, over large portions of his body, were closing and healing over.
I can take this away if you help me - I can fix this if you take care of me afterward. He tried to stand, but couldn't. His skin wasn't yet ready. Not quite. He watched as new flesh crept across his arm.
The fire was gone now. A final gulp from beneath the counter and everything crept below deck. Even the acrid smell had gone north.
Just an electric feeling in the air, like dryer static. Andy's hair stood on end, and gooseflesh broke out on his right arm.
But just as quickly as the moment came, it passed. The experience, though brief, rendered everything back to the way it had been. No soot. No stains. The ceiling shone clean and white. Even his tattered clothes had lost their tatters.
"Care for me." The voice came from beneath the counter.
"Margaret?" He leaned forward, his stiff body reluctant to move.
"Care for me."
But it wasn't Margaret's voice. It was guttural, neither male nor female.
"Margaret?" Andy lifted his arm; it creaked upward as if grating on a rusty hinge. He grasped the cord of the window blind and pulled himself to stand. By the time he reached his destination, the stiffening subsided. He felt like a man who had spent too many hours in the gym, nothing more.
"Care for me."
Andy looked down and saw it. It. A troll-like creature leaned against the bottom shelf. The short and oddly wide thing possessed a skeletal face, chiseled and blunt. Its left eye was frozen, as if peering intently at the ceiling. The body, easily four feet wide, appeared gelatinous and shimmering.
Andy grasped the counter and backed away. "What are you?"
"I am your Margaret. You must care for me."
Andy continued to back away.
"You must care for me."
"No," said Andy. "This can't be happening. This shit can't be happening."
"You must care for me. I fixed it. I can give it back."
Andy shook his head. He splayed his fingers across the counter, ready to leap over it and charge for the door. It was then that his arm began to sizzle. Fire poured from the mouth of the thing, ricocheting off the counter, climbing toward the hanging banners.
"Okay. Okay." Andy screamed. "I'll care for you. I'll care for you. I will care for you."
Tears began to roll down his cheeks.
The thing inhaled the regurgitated flames momentarily obscuring the hideous face.
"Take me to your car."
Andy only nodded. Then placed his hands beneath the gelatinous flesh and hoisted the thing against his chest. He carried it to his car, placing it across the backseat.
"I have to give it back slowly," croaked the thing. "Drive until I say. Any place you want."
Andy drove. He took side-streets first, then the highways. He adjusted his rearview mirror, taking random glances at the thing.
"Stop!" The thing croaked.
Andy slammed on the breaks. A pickup truck blasted through the intersection and ploughed into an embankment.
"He just has a broken leg," said the thing. "Now drive."
They circled Arcadia Road and drove across the Dunlap Bridge, before the thing, again, ordered him to stop. This time a low pillar cracked along the bridge, as if it were made of glass.
I have to give it back slowly.
"What are you?" Andy whispered, squinting at the pillar.
"I balance nature," it said. "There is one of us in every part of the world, Andy."
"Why Biggy Burger?"
"Why not?" croaked the Margaret-Thing.
Andy heard bits of Margaret in its voice now. He glanced into the rearview and saw that the girth of the troll had shrunk, its torso growing taller. It seemed to Andy that the troll took these things in vertically.
It was Andy's idea to have Margaret break the crossbars where the train tracks intersected Mound Road. "The damn arm never goes down when it's supposed to. A lot of people have nearly bitten it out there, Margaret. If you bust it, they'll have to fix it."
She was almost back to normal, just enough bad left in her to snap the hazardous arm.
It was done.
They made it back to Biggy Burger before the early rush.
Mr. Simms worked the dayshift at the restaurant. It wasn't so much that he worked, really; it was more like he schmoozed, walking around in his silk tie, tugging on his cigar when the dining room was empty. He usually stayed on awhile, overlapping their shifts by a half an hour. Tonight he stayed longer than usual, debating on whether or not he should venture into the predicted storm. The forecast promised tornados, winds blasting to eighty miles per hour.
"Where's Margaret?" asked Mr. Simms. "She hasn't been coming in late, has she?"
"No," Andy lied. "We've been slow. I asked her to hand out some flyers I made up. She's down at the University."
"I hope she beats the storm," said Mr. Simms.
Andy gently flipped a burger. Mr. Simms watched him work, hovering near his right shoulder. "That's a hell of a fine idea, Andy. Having her pass out flyers shows initiative. And the way you fixed those back doors over the weekend and you've plans to redo my ceilings. I like that in a worker."
Mr. Simms went to the cash register and withdrew a handful of bills. Andy knew about the poker games in Greely County.
"You really think it'll be okay, Andy? You don't think we'll get that tornado, huh?"
"No, these things usually blow over, sir."
"I'm gonna go then," said Mr. Simms. "Goodnight, Andy."
"Goodnight, Mr. Simms."
Later, Andy heard scratching coming from the back of the restaurant. He turned off the grill, went to the breakroom and unlocked the large window. He lifted the short, hulking troll through this window and placed it on the counter.
"Care for me," it croaked. "Tonight, after our shift ends, care for me."
"Yes." Andy nodded.
"I have a storm brewing in me," it said. "I have to give it back slowly."
©Bobbie Metevier
Bobbie Metevier recently began writing fiction, and has published both in Withersin Magazine and The Harrow. She lives in Rochester Hills, Michigan with her husband, two children, and a dog named Weeners.