Nothing Bent, but something else for Free

So when we last left our hero... that is how I feel like I should start this post. What is a reader (and a writer) to do when the protagonist meets an infinite number of variations of themselves, and then one of them turns into Mr. Bad-Ass himself, Harold the fuzz-head? Cue the cliffhanger music.

Well... you see... there's this philosophy class I've been taking (if you follow me on twitter, most likely you know this) and there's this major freaking paper that I am working on, and studying for the exam... and well, something had to give.

Sorry for all the um, ahs, and ellipses -  but no Bent Highway Chapter this week. And the collective crowd of virtual readers say, "awwww." Or I hope they say that. So dear readers, (over 2000 of you in November, or a couple of you are visiting the site way too often), I feel like I owe you something. In Bent Highway's place this week, a never before published story, right here, right now. I present Jacob's Butter. One man's struggle with... well, just read the damn thing. I think you might like it.

But please come back, as I am not planning to leave M at the mercy of Harold for very long.

Jacob's Butter

The first time the butter talked to him, Jacob thought the noise came from his ancient fridge. But, as he chomped down on his toast, he heard it again clear and plain.

"Fat."

Jacob sat up straight in his chair and spun around, looked behind, and under the table.

"What the?"

"Fat," the butter repeated.

Jacob picked up the dish and peered at the swirl his knife had made in the butter. He rotated it back and forth, and then laughing at himself, he put it back on the table.

"Am I dreaming?" he asked out loud. The butter did not respond. Jacob continued eating his toast, one eye on the butter. He said, "Pssst " a couple of times. The butter was silent.

Satisfied that it must have been his imagination or some strange food hangover from last night (he'd ate the entire cheesecake before bed), Jacob finished his breakfast and went to work.

The next morning, while cutting into a thick slab of Swiss cheese, one of the holes widened and said,

"Careful."

He jerked up in his chair and slammed his knife into the cheese. Jacob held the knife there, gripping it like a dagger, his knuckles were white.

"Ow," said the cheese.

Jacob’s hand flew off the knife.

"He’s kidding, that doesn’t really hurt," added the butter.

"You can, you, I, wha --" his chest tightened and he couldn’t catch his breath.

"You see there’s your problem. You’re on the edge of a heart attack, babe. Ease up. I mean holy cow, you knocked off that whole cheesecake the other night. You know what that does to your arteries?"

Jacob watched the swirls in the butter move up and down. That’s it, he was having a heart attack; and instead of hearing God, he heard dairy products.

"Relax, Jacob, you’re not dying. We just need to talk, babe. You’ve been hitting us pretty hard lately."

A bagel rolled out of a bag and split open. "You got’s any idea how high I raise your glycemic index?"

"Where are you from?" Jacob stuttered.

"Me, I’m from Brooklyn," the bagel said. "Those guys are from Jersey, the cow, not the place."

The butter and the cheese laughed.

"He slays me," said the butter. "Listen up here, Jacob. You’re not going nuts and you’re not dying… yet."

Jacob leaned in close.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You know what we mean. That spare tire you're carrying is not sponsored by Goodyear."

"More like Sara Lee." The bagel guffawed.

Jacob found it chilling to watch a bagel laugh so openly.

"Listen to me Jacob, it's not too late for you. We're here to tell you how to turn it around."

"Could I really die?"

"Damn straight," said the butter. "Here's what you gotta do…"

Jacob knew being lectured by a yellow slab of fat was whacked. But the butter was making sense. The butter told Jacob what to watch out for, where to cut down and what to completely change. Then he talked about exercise, getting enough sleep, and how a vitamin or two wouldn’t kill him. Jacob listened. It told him that he had to start taking care of himself if he wanted to be around for his wife and kids. A swirl opened and closed quickly, which Jacob took as a wink.

"I don’t have a wife or kids," he said.

"You could if you shed a few pounds," said the cheese. Jacob noticed it spoke with a European accent.

The butter gave him a thumbs up with a little driblet.

Jacob got up from the table. He felt faint -- he no longer felt hungry. The food said goodbye to him when he left for work.

*    *    *

At work, Jacob didn’t tell anyone what had happened. He didn't feel hungry all morning. He decided to skip lunch. At coffee, he eyed the brownies suspiciously.

"C’mon Jacob, they don’t bite, " said Michelle, a plump brunette that worked one cubicle over.

He jerked back when she shoved the plate in front of his face. Jacob saw the worried look on his co-workers. He gave a strained laugh and told them he was just trying to cut down.

"One brownie’s not going to kill you."

"Just not in the mood for sweets today." Jacob's forehead grew hot as he spoke.

He left the coffeeroom and went back to his desk. He ignored the rumbles coming from his stomach and tried to concentrate on the rows of figures on his computer screen.

When he got home he was starving. He threw his coat off and headed for the kitchen. Jacob stopped when he heard voices.

"Hey Jacob, c’mon, you left us out here all day."

"I’m melting, I’m melting."

Then a bunch of laughter.

Jacob avoided the kitchen and went to go watch TV. A few hours later, he tiptoed into the silent kitchen. He opened the fridge and guarding the light with his body, he picked up a coil of garlic sausage.

"Jeez, can’t a fella get some sleep," the sausage shouted.

Jacob jumped and flung the sausage against the wall. It hit with a splat and woke up the rest of the food.

"Jacob, where you been?" asked the butter.

Jacob ran out of the kitchen and went to bed.

Over the next few days, he couldn’t bring himself to eat anything, not even at work. Thankfully, the water cooler and the coffeepot kept quiet. His coffee did burble at him once, making him stir it so frantically that half of the liquid spilled onto his shoe. He thought he heard a Danish snicker at him.

By the end of the week, Jacob was exhausted. He phoned in sick and went back to bed. He really did feel like he was dying now, and he might have, had he not listened to his bedroom mirror. He was laying in bed moaning when a soft clear voice drifted across to him.

"You're already looking much better. Come see," the voice called to him.

Jacob stood in front of the mirror. The Goodyear did look a little smaller.

"But you must eat something. This is not a good way," said the mirror. Jacob thought there was a hint of Chinese in the voice.

"I can't eat things that talk to me," he said.

"The solution is quite simple."

*    *    *

An hour later, Jacob finished a meal of poached salmon, green beans, (no butter), tossed salad with lemon juice and a big glass of sparkling mineral water. The waiter tapped him on the shoulder and gestured at Jacob with his fingers.

"What?" asked Jacob in a loud voice. He watched the waiter’s lips move. "Oh, just a sec."

"Will there be anything else, sir? Perhaps from the dessert cart?"

Jacob pocketed his earplugs. "No, I'm good."

END

Jacob's Butter is from the soon to be released collection of my short fiction, Ethical Aspects of Animal Husbandry and Other Tales of General Weirdness.

And yes, that is the real title.