Sadie the Sadist: X-tremely Black Humor/Horror (22 page)

I extract a coronary artery.

You don’t need a German to make this recipe; any nationality will do. I’m using Marcus, and I believe his heritage is Mexican, or maybe Spanish. In any case, Archuleta County is named after his family. The point is: use whatever knuckles you have on hand (or foot), even pig will do. This is a great dish to make in autumn, when evenings are chilly.

Ingredients:

2 pounds knuckles, fresh or smoked

Salt (for fresh knuckles—use salt sparingly; too much is bad for your health)

Ground black pepper

1 teaspoon caraway seeds

1 clove garlic, minced

¼ to ½ cup unsalted butter

1 onion, finely chopped

2 apples, coarsely chopped

½ cup dried mushrooms

Juniper berries—I get these bluish berries from a Juniper tree down in the courtyard

1 package sauerkraut, 26 oz.

1 cup amber ale

2 cups broth (see Sadie’s Basic Soup Stock recipe)

Preparation:

Score the skin of the knuckles. Combine salt, garlic, and caraway seeds in a bowl. (Omit salt if you’re using smoked knuckles.) Rub the knuckles with the garlic and caraway combination, making sure the mixture penetrates the scored skin. Melt butter in a skillet. Brown meat and remove.

Rinse sauerkraut. Add more butter to the skillet. Sauté chopped onions on medium heat until golden, add sauerkraut, apples, mushrooms, a few Juniper berries, ale. Bring to a boil. Place the knuckles on top of the kraut and lower heat. Add broth and cover. Cook for 1—1.5 hours, until meat and kraut are tender. Add water or stock as it cooks, if necessary. When done, remove the knuckles and cut meat from the bones. Place sauerkraut on a platter with meat on top. Serve with rye bread.

When I get home from work, first thing, I run to the bathroom to see Marcus.

I changed the doorknob, so it locks from the outside now. Not that Marcus can climb out of the tub. Lack of feet would make that difficult, but his right leg is completely gone, so walking is impossible. I’ve removed his left leg to the knee, but he still has both arms. I suppose he could hoist himself out of the tub and, if he managed to escape the bathroom, he might
drag
himself across the living room (unless he’s taught himself to hop on the stump of his remaining thigh). Then he might open the front door and slide (or roll) down the stairway to the courtyard.

I fiddle with the bathroom lock, afraid of what I’ll find. Even though I’ve loaded him with Xanax, lately his mood has been foul.

My fears are unfounded.

He’s in the tub, asleep.

Actually, he may have drifted into coma.

Having reassured myself that Marcus is safe and sound, I head to the kitchen to make a soothing cup of Kava tea. It’s late, almost time for bed, and I don’t want to risk caffeine. Kava-Kava is a plant popular throughout the Pacific islands, including Hawaii, Polynesia and Melanesia. When steeped, the roots of Kava-Kava produce a sedative effect which I find relaxing.

I need to relax. Lately, despite increased dosages of Xanax, my nerves have been on edge.

While my tea brews, I untangle the rubber tubing of the pump I confiscated from the supermarket, then I return to the bathroom and plug the pump into an outlet. The motor whirs, so the thing works, but I need to figure out how to hook it up to Marcus. I don’t want to wake him, so I fill the sink with water (I need to find a source of blood), stick the tubing in his ear, and rev the motor to high speed. The water spurts with so much force I may have ruptured his eardrum.

His eyelids open, and he stares at me like I’m some kind of monster.

The damned pump spews water all over the bathroom, all over me. I manage to turn it off, but not before my socks are soaked. The wool clings to my toes, and my feet feel like they’re suffocating.

I sound like my father.

The horror of this realization sends me into a downward spiral. If I’m turning into my father, what hope do I have for the future? Cans of store brand soup and burnt white toast, hours watching
Jeopardy
without knowing any answers, cataracts, and thinning hair?

I glance at the mirror to check if I’ve gone bald. I need another dye job, my roots are showing.

At times like this, it’s important to
think positive.

Sitting on the toilet, I pull the wet socks from my feet, toss them on the floor.

Marcus makes an annoying wheezing sound.

In an effort to improve his breathing, I rip the duck tape from his mouth.

Truthfully, he doesn’t look good. He’s lost a lot of muscle and his hair’s gone grayer—even the hair on his chest. The Saint Christopher medal he refuses to take off sits in a scraggly nest of gray. I’m not sure what I ever saw in him. His complexion is the color of toothpaste, greenish-blue. The whites of his eyes are bloodshot, the corners crusted with yellow stuff. His lips are crusty too, and it takes a lot of effort for him to move them. The grimace he offers me is not attractive.

“Would you like some Kava tea, Marcus?”

I have to lean close to hear him.

“Fuck you.”

He says fuck a lot. I never realized how much he cursed, until he moved in. It’s amazing what you learn about another person when you live in close proximity.

“Have some tea. It will relax you.”

“Fuck you, you fucking psycho.”

“Is that your professional diagnosis?”

“Fuck, yes.”

“I don’t think that’s how a psychiatrist should speak.”

“Go to hell.”

“Would you like some sauerkraut? It’s homemade.”

He tries to sit, but with one stump, he has trouble gaining traction and slips to the bottom of the tub. I reach behind his head, attempting to rearrange his cushions, but he slaps my hand away.

“Marcus, I’m trying to help you.”

“Just kill me, bitch.”

“No need for nasty names.”

I pull away his blanket, revealing what remains of his left leg. I wrapped his stump with duck tape to stop the bleeding, but it’s leaking greenish pus. Nothing much remains of his right leg, just a ragged bit of thigh. It looks red and swollen. The duck tape bandages make it impossible for me to tell if his stumps are healing.

I poke his knee, checking for infection.

He grabs my wrist and bites.

“Oooowwww!”

He sinks his teeth deeper, breaking the skin.

I jerk my hand away.

“Animal!”

Holding up my wounded hand, I watch blood ooze from my wrist and trickle down my arm.
My blood.
It’s staining my uniform.
I don’t deserve this kind of treatment
. I’m trying to control my temper, but there’s only so much I can take.

I run my tongue over my teeth, feeling the sharp points of my canines.

He’s thrashing his arms, trying to escape, attempting to stand on his stump, but he keeps falling.

I remind myself not to yell, to practice nonviolent communication, but how can I feel empathy for a person who bites me like a rabid animal?

“Kill me, Sadie, please. Get it over with.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to spend the holidays alone.”

“Labor Day?”

“There’s also Columbus Day, Veteran’s Day, Halloween, Thanksgiving and
Christmas
.” I emphasize Christmas, because it’s a sore point.

“You have your dad.”

I snort.

Last year, when I visited my father, he insisted we go Christmas shopping, so I took him to the mall. Macy’s. I parked the car, we got as far as
Shoes
, and then he took off, shooting through the store at about fifty miles per hour. Spotting his orange
Suns’
cap bobbing through the crowd, I attempted to follow him. In case you’ve never been there, Macy’s is a madhouse during the holidays. I lost him around
Men’s Wear
. Had to call Security.

We found him fingering the panties in
Women’s Lingerie
.

Marcus
knows
this story, knows the trauma it caused me.

“I’m sending socks for Christmas.”

Marcus groans.

“I’m not going to see my father. I’d rather shoot myself than spend another holiday with him.”

“I’ll lend you a gun.”

I bare my teeth at Marcus, growl.

“The holidays are meant for family,” he says, sadly.

I know he’s thinking of his daughter.

“You miss Caramel?”

His lower lips trembles. It’s kind of gross to see a grown man cry, and Marcus is blubbering.

Really, I have no idea why I used to find him appealing.

“If you’re good, I may let you call your daughter—”

“Please—”

“Just don’t bring up Daddy again.”

After locating him in
Lingerie
, I dragged my father down the escalator and out of Macy’s. That’s when the alarms went off. He’d stuffed the pockets of his jacket with several Miracle Bras, four animal print thongs (zebra, leopard, tiger, and giraffe), a chartreuse garter belt, red satin chemise, and pink Baby Doll pajamas. He returned his treasures and, thankfully, Security didn’t press charges. But I didn’t discover the teddy (black lace, crotchless, size 4X) until we got back to his place. He wore it underneath his flannel shirt and corduroys, refusing to take it off even when he showered.

Recalling that nightmare, I let out a long sigh.

And then I sniff.

Marcus messed himself again. Adult diapers may in order (my dad uses those), but how will they stay put with just one stump?

“Want a bath, Marcus?”

He doesn’t answer.

He appears to be unconscious.

Shaking his shoulder has no effect.

Neither does nibbling his earlobe. It’s so tender, my canines slide right through the flesh.

Pump or no pump, he won’t make it past Labor Day.

No Marcus for the holidays.

I know I should feel
sad
. I recognize the word, can even mimic the behavior. Rubbing my eyes, I make a sobbing sound and manage to squeeze out a few tears. But I can’t fathom how sad
feels
.

Maybe that’s a good thing.

Is
not
being sad the same as being happy? If happy is the antithesis of sad, I
must
be elated. According to the self-help books I’ve read, happiness is a sign of enlightenment. I don’t feel a smidge of sorrow, so I guess I’m pretty evolved. I used to call myself Sad Sadie, but lately my outlook has become cheerful. I attribute this amazing transformation not only to positive
thinking,
but positive
action.
I want to reiterate this point: Wishing for change won’t make change happen. You have to
be
the change and change your
actions
. Don’t fall into the trap of magical thinking.

Like Marcus.

He’s definitely on his last leg—also his last arm. Gangrene has set it. I checked it out online at the Mayo Clinic’s site, and in the state of his condition, surgery is the only alternative, so I hack off his right arm.

He really thinks I’m going to let him call his daughter?

Work, work, work, work, work, work, work.

Last night is a blur. I didn’t sleep, and now I’m going to be late.

I pedal my bike faster, hoping to avoid impending rain. The weather report calls for thunderstorms all weekend. Dark clouds cloak the mountains, and I already felt a sprinkle. Riding my bike may have been a mistake. I consider turning back to get my late husband’s truck. (The thing still starts. I used it recently to haul a load.) But, due to the Grand Opening tomorrow, a refrigerated trailer of meat is parked in back of the supermarket and there’s no room for employee vehicles.

The rain becomes a deluge as I reach the parking lot.

I secure my bike on the new rack—really it’s the old rack painted green—and run inside the store. Dripping wet, my hair frizzed out like a clown, I head for the time clock. The cashiers appear more stressed than usual; CRMs hover around the front end, like hawks suffering from Attention Deficit Disorder. Courtesy Clerks scurry past—wiping down Self-Checkout, replacing garbage bags, trying to avoid the wrath of Checkers and CRMs.

I wave to Wendy, but she doesn’t notice me.

Strangers from Corporate are holding a meeting at the entrance of the break room, so I have to squeeze past them. For days now, they’ve been huddling around displays, rearranging shelves, giving instructions and confusing everyone. The Store Manager is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Of course, that’s normal.

After clocking in, I head for Produce. My coworkers are hard at it, heads down as they sort through bananas, avocados, lettuce, mangos. The displays have to be perfect: peppers facing the same way, cucumbers in neat rows, garlic stacked into a pyramid. People will be here all night preparing for tomorrow.

I spot the Produce Manager, slip around the Salad Bar attempting to avoid him.

“Sadie!”

“Yes?”

I stop walking, turn toward him. He looks more distraught than usual, and I wonder if he’s drunk.

“Your number one priority is labels. Crawl around the bins and make sure no stickers have attached themselves to the new floor.”

“Crawl?”

“That’s the only way to find them.”

“But, if no one can see the labels—”

“No arguments. Your next number one priority is raisins. No holes.”

“No holes in raisins. Got it.”

“And your number one, number one priority is—”

You guessed it: corn. I need to cut, shuck, wrap twenty cases. Everywhere you look in Produce signs say: Colorado Grown. And Olathe corn is the star of the show.

The war on bugs is serious, and I’ve tracked the numbing of my hands to pesticides. Through research online, I’ve discovered that pesticides are a derivative of nerve gas. It doesn’t kill bugs, it numbs their tiny brains and wrecks their tiny neurotransmitters. These days, when I shuck corn, I wear heavy rubber gloves and a
Breaking Bad
respirator.

The freight elevator is stuffed with a pallet of dairy, so I’m forced to take the long way downstairs. I head through Bakery, stopping to sample carrot cake, then continue through Meat and Seafood. I slip through the insulated doorway and hurry down the stairway.