Cooked Rice or Well-fed Maggots?
by Edward Burke
Some commodities markets had been behaving peculiarly that summer. This did not strike me with much force until I finally decided to get that pesky boil lanced, after it had been bothering me for over a month. I couldn’t make arrangements for the procedure until after I’d traded my jujitsu instruction membership to a third party for a nominal gain, I lost over fifty dollars on that one: I’d expected when I signed up to recover the membership fee even after inflation, but inflation had revved up higher quicker than I’d expected. By delaying the procedure, I’d probably risked developing gangrene in my left wrist, but then with the shirts I wear a size too large the sleeves are a little long anyway, and besides, I’m right-handed.
The day he performed the lancing, Luce recalled for my benefit and edification (not really: Luce is something of a show-off, but he is one skilled lancer, better at that than his tattooing practice, so I never quibble) that common maggots can help keep a serious wound from turning gangrenous, at least in the short term. He’d read an account in some World War I memoir. Since he himself was taking care of the painful boil, I went ahead and decided to submit the deep gash in my left leg to the hungry fly larvae for a couple of days. Sure enough, another two days and the lanced boil was well on the way to healing painlessly, and Luce removed the maggots one by one with tweezers, then washed and cleanly dressed the gash in my leg. (Later in the week, my wrist did grow pretty stiff, but at least gangrene never set in, much to my surprise and relief.) He charged only $110 (USD) for the lancing—a fair price, still cheaper than any doctor. We’d both insisted on boiled utensils, no charge. Therapy with the “sterile” maggots ran another $90, plus I got to collect all of them in an old plastic medicine canister: that very afternoon, I pulled them out one by one with my own set of tweezers and fried each one of them on the end of a cigarette—no need for them to enjoy their profit for too long, thought I. They squirmed mightily, betrayed, but I don’t like having my DNA in circulation. When I’d told him about my intentions for the maggots, Luce praised my aesthetic sensibilities.
Famished after this ordeal, I strolled to my favorite Chinese restaurant with a slight limp for some hot pepper fried steak, with mushrooms. My left leg throbbed below the knee; I’d neglected to count on pain meds but figured I could tough it out. The fried rice and mushrooms melted effortlessly in my mouth: this was the best thing to take my mind off my most recent trip out-of-town.
Early the following week, a shipment of rice arrived from Noirleans that I’d been expecting, although it was not quite as large as the contract order, or so I thought, the order seemed somehow light. I checked the weight on the consignment sheet, but it still seemed a little light when I lifted the box: but I was too tired that day to investigate any further. I kept it in the system anyway, bound for Memphis, after which it was supposed to be picked up by some Indiana trucker bound for Chicago, or maybe it was Battle Creek, Michigan, I forget now. (I never track shipments north of Memphis anyway, the same for Nashville and Knoxville, except sometimes for loads bound for Lexington and Louisville.)
The next week, Candy called from Noirleans, she had an extra hundred pounds of shrimp to move, fast. I had no open fulfillment orders pending and was about to hang up, when out of the blue I wondered about who sourced the shrimp for my Chinese restaurant. I put her on hold and made a quick call to check, and good thing, too! I told Candy they could take it, and she was so happy she said she’d drive up and deliver it herself. I told her to pick me up at the end of the day the next day after work for the delivery, and I’d take her to the restaurant and treat her to supper.
She got in ahead of rush hour: the shrimp were floating in ten sealed bags, still frozen in the icy water of the cooler. She drove us to the restaurant, and we off-loaded the shrimp for cash, then went around to park in front. Inside, we both ordered something with shrimp and talked over old times as we waited for supper. When our plates arrived, we both dove right in—and instantly, we both paused: something about the shrimp…we eyed each other over our plates, continued chewing, and both swallowed our first mouthfuls. The aftertaste was even worse, a thick cloying slime that could actually choke you unless you immediately flossed. Most fortunately, Candy kept a spool in her purse. After pulling off quick a length for me and one for her, I intercepted our waiter to ask about our order. He disappeared and returned ten minutes later with two fresh plates, taking the first two away.
As a side venture, this restaurant had begun dabbling in Spanish cuisine (dishes more elaborate than tapas), and the cook had found out the hard way about the tarragon: she was mortified to learn she’d been using entire kilos of it each week. Stock replenishment came to Candy’s mind and mine simultaneously, so we thought it safe to go ahead and marry the following weekend in Metairie.
The day he performed the lancing, Luce recalled for my benefit and edification (not really: Luce is something of a show-off, but he is one skilled lancer, better at that than his tattooing practice, so I never quibble) that common maggots can help keep a serious wound from turning gangrenous, at least in the short term. He’d read an account in some World War I memoir. Since he himself was taking care of the painful boil, I went ahead and decided to submit the deep gash in my left leg to the hungry fly larvae for a couple of days. Sure enough, another two days and the lanced boil was well on the way to healing painlessly, and Luce removed the maggots one by one with tweezers, then washed and cleanly dressed the gash in my leg. (Later in the week, my wrist did grow pretty stiff, but at least gangrene never set in, much to my surprise and relief.) He charged only $110 (USD) for the lancing—a fair price, still cheaper than any doctor. We’d both insisted on boiled utensils, no charge. Therapy with the “sterile” maggots ran another $90, plus I got to collect all of them in an old plastic medicine canister: that very afternoon, I pulled them out one by one with my own set of tweezers and fried each one of them on the end of a cigarette—no need for them to enjoy their profit for too long, thought I. They squirmed mightily, betrayed, but I don’t like having my DNA in circulation. When I’d told him about my intentions for the maggots, Luce praised my aesthetic sensibilities.
Famished after this ordeal, I strolled to my favorite Chinese restaurant with a slight limp for some hot pepper fried steak, with mushrooms. My left leg throbbed below the knee; I’d neglected to count on pain meds but figured I could tough it out. The fried rice and mushrooms melted effortlessly in my mouth: this was the best thing to take my mind off my most recent trip out-of-town.
Early the following week, a shipment of rice arrived from Noirleans that I’d been expecting, although it was not quite as large as the contract order, or so I thought, the order seemed somehow light. I checked the weight on the consignment sheet, but it still seemed a little light when I lifted the box: but I was too tired that day to investigate any further. I kept it in the system anyway, bound for Memphis, after which it was supposed to be picked up by some Indiana trucker bound for Chicago, or maybe it was Battle Creek, Michigan, I forget now. (I never track shipments north of Memphis anyway, the same for Nashville and Knoxville, except sometimes for loads bound for Lexington and Louisville.)
The next week, Candy called from Noirleans, she had an extra hundred pounds of shrimp to move, fast. I had no open fulfillment orders pending and was about to hang up, when out of the blue I wondered about who sourced the shrimp for my Chinese restaurant. I put her on hold and made a quick call to check, and good thing, too! I told Candy they could take it, and she was so happy she said she’d drive up and deliver it herself. I told her to pick me up at the end of the day the next day after work for the delivery, and I’d take her to the restaurant and treat her to supper.
She got in ahead of rush hour: the shrimp were floating in ten sealed bags, still frozen in the icy water of the cooler. She drove us to the restaurant, and we off-loaded the shrimp for cash, then went around to park in front. Inside, we both ordered something with shrimp and talked over old times as we waited for supper. When our plates arrived, we both dove right in—and instantly, we both paused: something about the shrimp…we eyed each other over our plates, continued chewing, and both swallowed our first mouthfuls. The aftertaste was even worse, a thick cloying slime that could actually choke you unless you immediately flossed. Most fortunately, Candy kept a spool in her purse. After pulling off quick a length for me and one for her, I intercepted our waiter to ask about our order. He disappeared and returned ten minutes later with two fresh plates, taking the first two away.
As a side venture, this restaurant had begun dabbling in Spanish cuisine (dishes more elaborate than tapas), and the cook had found out the hard way about the tarragon: she was mortified to learn she’d been using entire kilos of it each week. Stock replenishment came to Candy’s mind and mine simultaneously, so we thought it safe to go ahead and marry the following weekend in Metairie.
Edward Burke, under the anonym “strannikov”, has written flash fiction (absurdism, science satire, noir humor) since 2007 appearing online at Gone Lawn Journal, Metazen, Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Fictionaut, The Miscreant, The Earth Journal, and The Bookends Review.