The Haunting of the Estranged Grocery Boy

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: October 25, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 25, 2017



Kelvin stocked shelves for a living. I was next door slaughtering cows, pigs, sheep; you could name any poor fucking livestock that was gonna be put on a plate, I was the many million bi-products as to why the average family was kept belly-full. Not that I gave a shit. I was just some “grunt worker” as my boss always said. When I cut open the stomach of a cow to drain its blood, I think of myself retired on a Christ forsaken beach in Malibu; mid-thirties. Yeah, now you’re laughing. Let’s hope I win the lottery. Let’s hope Kelvin does too because it’s horribly entertaining hearing him bitch and moan about the life he resents for 8 hours of the day. Some days are worse than others. He loves to really milk the whole thing like he’s got it worse than the chicken’s neck I’m about to snap. Krkkh! “I always put crackers in my soup,” he says to me in the lunchroom. “But they get soggy fast if you don’t eat them fast. Then you get indigestion. That’s life I tell ya.” Always seeing the pessimistic side of things you poor little guy. “Would you want to go to the bar sometime this week.” Sure. Yeah, it’d be great going out for drinks with a semi-depressed chain-smoking flake. Not to sound obnoxious or anything. This was actually just my internal dialogue trying not to burst into a laughing fit. “Sure man!” I actually say.


It’s 6 pm and he picks me up. I’m young and I don’t need to DUI. He says “nice shirt.” I guess he doesn’t usually see me in real life clothes. I went to his house once and it was an okay time. So we get to the bar and it’s packed; and loud, annoying daddy girls shout out for more drinks and brag about how much “booty” they have. “Fucking women I say. They are all the same. Fucking hate them.” It’s 9 pm now and Kelvin is in a miserable drunken, lamenting state. I just agree and go along with his rant. He then leans close to me and subtly touches my leg. “Do you need to go to the washroom?” Yes, I do actually. I finish my beer quickly and he smiles as he puckers up his prissy little Pink Raspberry Cosmopolitan through the little black straw. I think nothing of this and rush to go wizz. I stare down into the urinal and I see a black curly hair resting atop the cinnamon scented urinal biscuit. I give out and sigh with relief. I hear the door creepishly open. I don’t hear the usual loud boisterous college jock banter on about how many stupid whores put out for him. No. This was a very different kind of presence. I wonder ... “No don’t zip up.” I go numb. I turn around and I see Kelvin on his knees with his mouth wet and on the ready. What in the fuck are you -- “You said you wanted to go to the bathroom.” I instinctively push him aside despite all of my internal fear. I say “That’s not me dude. I’m getting a cab. Just--” He grabs my leg; he’s begging now. “I haven’t fucked a dude in six months. Please.” I like girls! “But guys give much better head. C’mon. C’mon.” I give him a friendly kick to the face to stop him from clenching onto my pant with his weird, faggoty claw. I peeled super fat; didn’t pay my bill or any of that shit. I never ran so fast in my life.


The next day at work, the backroom corridor is dimly lit and I’m strolling down to the compactor to dispose of the freshly rotten garbage. I’m keeping my eye out for Kelvin. I feel like all four of his eyes are staring me down, lapping like a sickly depraved gay puppy dog, wishing for the life of him to get that fine piece of ass I got. I go into the compacting area and open the green door. I throw down all that gross shit down the hole as I feel waves of nausea take over my composure. The lights from the outside corridor go dark as I hear a loud, jarring slam of the compactor door shut. It’s Kelvin. It’s dark but I can feel his presence once again. I hear the strike of a match and I see his orange fiery glasses reflect the fear of my face. He lights an oil lamp with his match. What kind of sick fuck is he? Where does he get a 17th-century oil lamp? Does he go out of his way to buy some English Renaissance lamp off eBay to use as an intimidation accessory for his heterosexual rape victims? Please Kevin, I don’t want this. I’m fucking straight, man. “I’m sorry. I need this.” I should have seen this coming. The prospect of homo-straight suck should have been something to look out for. He had me over at his house when his parents were away cottaging. The power had gone out when I arrived. He lit candles and opened his last bottle of SkinnyGirl California Rosé. I should have fucking known faggots drink that shit. We played chess for Chrissakes! Now I’m trapped; fresh meat waiting to be slaughtered. I should have been gentler on those poor chickens. This would never have happened. I can see his faggot sweat shimmering off his forehead. After he’s done he will just dispose of me down that shithole. Just like the same shit I dispose of every day I work in order to make a living. “I won’t tell anyone. I need this. I can’t be miserable anymore.” Misery. A short duration of pleasure for Kelvin in exchange for my newly realized misery. Will Kelvin be happier if I go through? He is already down on his knees convincing me that this will be the best job he’s ever done and the best I’ve ever received. There’s no point in fighting back now. “You’ll like it I promise. I’ve been searching for so long to find me a straight boy.” I feel his wetness lubricate my semi-erect phallus. The sensation stimulates my dangling organ. As my eyes are closed tight, I just hear Kelvin’s voice in a loop track, “Guys give much better head than women.” Could they? And now I see him playing with it like a ruthless gay child soaring on a swingset wearing sorority girl socks and Adidas rip-off brand flip-flops, singing “I’m the fag of the castle and you’re the dirty straight boy!” Is it almost done? I see tears streaming down his sad, miserable face as he deep-throats me, making that face like “Oh yes I’m a horribly experienced deep-throater.”


I wake up sobbing, sweating, hot and cold and no in-between. I say to myself that it wasn’t true. It never happened. I look down to scrutinize my possibly traumatized phallus. I think it was a dream. I get up and spray myself cologne; Calvin Kline … “Kelvin.” I wince to the scent. It smells different now. I think about Monday and how I need to slaughter those poor animals all over again. Maybe they are the same animals every day. Maybe they are reincarnated for me to slaughter them again on Tuesday. Is it better or worse for it to be that way? Is it that way for me too? Is it that way for Kelvin? Probably. I taste Rosé in my mouth but I don’t remember drinking last night. I go to my front door and I see an envelope placed carefully on the welcome mat. My name is written on it, and it almost looks like his writing. I quickly grab it and throw it in the fireplace.


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