Chuck died by choking on the pit of a green olive from a slice of vegetable lovers pizza. Chuck wasn’t even a fan of vegetables, but the girl behind the counter messed up his order for a meat lover's and she was cute so Chuck didn’t want to come across as one of those guys who makes a big scene. Chuck had been grimacing through the slimy slice of vegetable pizza and thinking to himself of sly ways to get the girls attention and dashingly let her in on the personal sacrifice he had made in her honor. Chuck did manage to get the girls attention, however it wasn’t until after he had been pronounced dead, and instead of her taking him into the stock room to let him lick tomato sauce off of her naked body, it was when she exclaimed to her co-workers, damn, cover the register for me, I think I have to call the manager.”
The Manager had been needlessly concerned about the risk of a lawsuit, which never even crossed the minds of Chuck’s parents, who were happy that they still had three other children—all with the good sense to chew their food 20 times before swallowing. The angriest comment came from Chucks father at the funeral, who when prompted for a eulogy had said simply “Its a damn shame, what a waste.” Maybe the Cosmos agreed with Chuck’s father, or maybe it was just another one of God’s cruel jokes, but by some freak act of nature, Chuck’s body was re-animated. Chuck awoke inside a red satin casket with his childhood-favorite football team’s logo embroidered inches above his face. Chuck’s memories came back to him like torn pieces of photographs blowing in the wind. He didn’t miss his past, because most of it was mundane and uneventful—even to the most casual of observers. Chuck’s blood had been pumped out of his body and replaced with formaldehyde, which burned inside his veins, but after a few hours it became tolerable and gave him a nice buzz, like drinking an entire six-pack of cheap beer. Clawing out from the grave bothered Chuck the most; it took three months to do. It tore off just about every one of his fingernails, and wore chuck out pretty frequently. It was more exercise than his body had received over his entire 25 years of existence. Other than the mud, and the torn fragments from the suit he had been wearing (as his spotty recollection served, the suit belonged to his father in the seventies but did not fit his father anymore, and used to sit in Chuck’s parents’ closet, waiting for a new purpose, which apparently they had found). As Chuck staggered out of the cemetery, his mind raced from “food” to “where am I?” back to “food” and then to the instinct of “where to go?” Chuck had no wallet and soon he discovered that none of the popular downtown clubs would let him in without identification. Chuck only understood the key points of these altercations, but the basic gist was easy for him to grasp: “no” means “no” in just about every state of consciousness. Chuck ran into two of his friends, Ron and Cindy, who were taken aback by seeing him. They had only heard of his passing the month prior, when they were invited to a wake (of sorts) thrown in his honor by his ex-girlfriend Luna. Ron and Cindy bought Chuck a beer and broke the news to him that Luna had hooked up with Todd, the guy who seemed to always out-perform Chuck at everything, from finding work, to capturing people's attention when telling stories. Both Ron and Cindy were impressed when Chuck took the news considerably well, and had only seemed phased when the waitress took away the empty glass from him “I have to say, commented Cindy, you really seem to have matured since we saw you last.” Ron agreed, and as the three parted ways, Ron took chuck aside momentarily and leaned in to tell him that, “There are plenty of fish in the sea, its time to move on with your life.” Ron patted Chuck on the back firmly, which saved the both of them from an awkward moment, as Chuck was poised to bite off Ron’s nose. Instead, Chucks head and upper torso slumped loudly into the plate-glass window of the restaurant. “Is he going to be alright?” Asked Cindy, concerned for Chuck—for the first time since she had met him. “He’ll be fine.” Ron assured as he held Cindy around the waist and led her away into the night. Ron had been correct. The words that he had spoken to Chuck had affected Chuck more profoundly than words had ever affected him before. There were, in fact, ‘many more fish in the sea’, and Chuck found himself submerged in the nearby river for hours, devouring all the fish that he could lure with his own rotting flesh. Once Chuck was fed, he staggered out of the river with a stomach full of terminally poisoned and polluted river-fish, and glowing with a new lease on life. Chuck wandered through town, and saw that the buildings and the people whom he had seen in-passing his entire life, seemed to stand out more vibrantly and newer than ever before. It seemed that there was no end to the nice people who came out of the woodwork every time Chuck found himself caught in a collision with a moving vehicle or when he stumbled down stairs and embankments of all kinds. It was the Help Wanted sign in the window of the chain restaurant, the Paisley Parrot, that caught Chuck’s attention—or, more accurately, the collection of dead flies splayed on the windowsill that lured his gaze.
“Thinking of applying?” Mused a large bellied man standing just behind Chuck. “Unghk,” Replied Chuck—mostly passing gas.
“It’s not so bad really, several very fine young talents have gotten their start working at the Paisley Parrot.”
Chuck slowly turned around and focused his eyes on the stranger. He was hearing one of the trademark paisley polo shirts and pleated black slacks of the establishment. He wore a button with several electric lights that flashed around the engraved lettering that proudly read Manager. Chuck opened his mouth wide at the sight of the flashing pin and drool ran freely down his chin. The large man chuckled, “So you’re already making eyes on the managers position, hungh? Well this position here is just for Dishwasher, but new openings come up all the time, come with me and Ill give you the tour, see if it’s not the place for you.” The large man led Chuck inside and gave him the tour. By nightfall Chuck was working on a trial basis, until he could produce two forms of ID and fill out the paperwork properly.
Chuck cleaned dishes like a pro. He worked tirelessly, the steam and scalding hot temperatures never seemed to faze him, and he was never distracted by the idle conversation that surrounded him. Chuck occasionally received a cold glance or two from the occasional waitress who would catch him eating the congealed leftovers clinging to the dirty dishes, but all in all, Chuck was the ideal worker. After a few weeks, Chuck was given the special worker form reserved for workers who had problems producing proper documentation, and although it meant less money per hour, Chuck more than made up for it in the overtime he worked. Managers gleefully chuckled to one another over the fact that you practically had to pry Chuck away from his sink and dish rack, to send him home every evening. After a month or two the wait-staff took up a collection and bought Chuck some new clothes and a day treatment at a local spa. The treatment did wonders for Chuck’s self esteem, The body-oils masked his personal-odor problems, the massage worked-out much of that pesky rigor mortis that had been plaguing him, and the steam room worked-out the mud that had built up in his pours. The real test for Chuck was a few nights later, when Debbie, one of the lead waitresses, had a bit too much to drink, and overcome by his remarkable 'listening skills' as she bared her innermost thoughts to him, became consumed with passion and gave herself up to him sexually. Their passion was intense, and at times Debbie even thought that she might have broken him. Chuck’s drive was relentless however, and the two found themselves in a consuming acrobatic wrestling match into the wee hours of the morning. As the two lay in bed, panting and sweaty, staring mutually at the ceiling and listening to her alarm clock squawking repeatedly and endlessly in the distance, Debbie turned to Chuck with a smile and asked “how did you do that thing, you know, with your….”
“Hungh?” Inquired Chuck as he tried to fish his tongue out from the deep cavity of the back of his throat
“I know, it’s crass to talk about it. But at one point it felt as if you were caressing and teasing me with hundreds of little worms, deep inside of me. “
To this, all Chuck could do was shrug.
Debbie kissed Chuck and arose from the bed to take a shower. Chuck lunged forward and planted his face squarely in between the succulent orbs of her backside. Debbie spun around and slapped Chuck across the jaw with a laugh ”You are an animal! You almost gave me a hicky, I have to get ready!” Debbie assumed that her point was made because Chuck lay motionless, facedown on the mattress. Debbie retired, half reluctantly, into the shower. Chuck arose from the mattress and searched through the clumps of hastily discarded clothing to find his dislodged and propelled jawbone.
Chuck was gone when Debbie emerged from the shower—also missing was old Mrs. Barnaby from the apartment next door, who disappeared without a trace, leaving her front door wide open. Debbie’s morning-glow faded into guilt and shame as she reflected on having shtuped the guy whom everyone agreed had obvious developmental problems. Debbie resigned to herself that she would keep the evening a secret, so-as not to be ridiculed, nor to hurt her chances at getting back together with Dave the bartender
Shortly after the mandatory 8am quarterly staff meeting, where management had encouraged the entire team to be more like Chuck—tragedy struck. Chuck’s hand was caught in the guillotine style doors of the high-pressure dish washing machine, and by some fluke; the machine had continued to operate. The force of the spinning jet sprayer severed Chuck’s fingers, half his palm, and fractured a bone in his forearm. The corporate offices were called and it was agreed that Chuck should receive a sizable check to reward his remarkable silence. Because his injuries prevented him from working the dishwasher, Chuck was promoted to Manager of the Front of the House. Debbie was concerned at first that there might still be hurt feelings between them after their indiscretion, however she soon learned that Chuck was equally capable of being a 'big person' about the whole affair and he never let it effect their working together. There were a few times however that Debbie swore that she could see the hint of pain behind his charismatically distant stare
Chuck’s main responsibility as manager was to answer any and all of customer’s concerns that came up from time to time every night. On one occasion however, Chuck found himself confronted by a particularly difficult customer who had demanded to see the Manager after he was served the wrong entrée.
“Now don’t bite my head off man, I just want what’s coming to me!” exclaimed the man, noticeably frightening his blind-date sitting across from him.
Chuck responded with a concerned, but puzzled, expression.
“Don’t give me that look. I've been offended, and I don’t expect to get billed for either of our meals once you bring me my correct order, don’t bite my head off.”
Chuck pondered the possible meanings of what the man had said.
“I can see it in your eyes, you’re thinking of giving me shit. Don’t do it, don’t chew my ass out just because I expect a higher degree of service. Don’t bite my head off.”
Chuck considered the man’s ramblings for a moment and then reached out with both hands and plucked the man’s eyes out of their sockets. Chuck then handed them apologetically to the man’s date.
There was a considerable motionless silence on the restaurant floor following the incident, other than some gargling from the man, who writhed around on the floor in shock. The blind date placed the eyeballs in her purse as a souvenir, left a sizable tip for the waitress, and exited the restaurant. She did not accompany her date onto the ambulance. Three businessmen who had observed the incident approached Chuck during his break and told him that they liked his ‘aggressive style’ and his ‘out-of-the-box’ thinking. One of the men even mused that he exhibited ‘out of the universe’ thinking and there was an uncomfortable pause as the men regarded the safety of their own eyeballs—until a warm smile crossed Chuck’s face.
Chuck performed quite well at the office. Many people mused that he could even be executive material if he could just learn to keep his hands to himself when it came to the ladies—and the deliverymen as well. Chuck’s only real snag happened during a trade convention in Las Vegas when Chuck killed a cab driver and a cigarette girl, but even that was covered up by his fellow co-workers who helped burry the bodies and swore to keep this trip—as with many of their trips before—a secret between the men. After a year at the office, some of Chuck’s old friends decided to pay him a visit. They all commented on how good he looked, how nice the office was, how grownup he had become. They all agreed that dieing was the best thing that had happened to Chuck. Before they all left, as everyone was standing by the elevator doors saying their goodbyes, Mike, Chuck’s old roommate, handed him a one hundred dollar bill
“I know it’s not much to you now that you’re making so much loot, but I wanted to give you back that hundred dollars that I owed you.”
Chuck looked down at the bill in his hands; a teardrop slowly wove its way down his cheek—forging a salty trail that was followed by a stream of ensuing tears. The friends waved goodbye and Chuck returned to his cubicle, where in private he could wipe away the tears that filled his eyes, which soon became blood pouring from his eyes, and eventually moss falling from his ocular cavities.
The President of the company called Chuck into his office a few weeks latter and informed him that he seemed to be wasting-away out there in middle management. He offered Chuck an Executive position. Chuck was overjoyed; the feeling seemed to strain the deteriorating organs in his chest. Chuck decided to celebrate by taking himself out to lunch at a local posh restaurant. After enjoying a wonderful meal of perfectly undercooked meats—just the way that he liked them, Chuck thought he heard a familiar sound. He looked from side to side and adjusted his eyeballs within their sockets. He focused on the couple sitting at the table next to him. It was Luna and Todd. They sat at their table; hands intertwined, and stared into one another’s eyes adoringly. Chuck’s fixed stare inevitably caught their attention and Luna, after a moments pause, exclaimed, “Chuck, is that you?”
Chuck sheepishly nodded yes.
“Wow, you look great, I mean it.”
Chuck produced a business card from his breast pocket. The card, like all of his cards, was wrinkled and slightly damp from being in his suit, which he had been wearing when, he slept in the park the night before.
“Wow, that’s a really big firm.” Commented Luna, showing the card to Todd
“Pretty, big.” corrected Todd politely
Luna extended her arm to Chuck and exposed the sparkling diamond ring on her finger. “Todd just asked me to marry him.”
“We’re spending our honeymoon snorkeling in the Marshall Islands, have you ever been Chuck?” Asked Todd.
Chuck shook his head slowly.
Luna and Todd excused themselves graciously and exited the restaurant in an Olympic perfection of synchronized bliss. Chuck watched them go, and as their images faded from the focus of his glare through the glass front door of the restaurant, he could feel a tugging in his chest. It was his heart exploding deep within his cavernous chest. The contents of his heart spilled out through thousands of small holes in his body that had worn away over time. It would have felt funny, like the tickle of a litter of kittens—all suckling the same spot. It would have felt like something at all, had that not been the moment when Chuck died, again—and for the last time.