This is the second of a three-part series, the first of which appeared in the December issue (tinyurl.com/yscuv2d9).
Where I Got the Worms
I got the worms from my sister; the one with the baby-wet-her-pants doll. That is to say, she made getting the worms possible. My sister gave me enough frequent flyer miles to go just about anywhere in the world. I don’t know why; it wasn’t my birthday or anything. It was late one morning, and after my fourth or fifth call to her at work that day – I wanted to know where I could get some empty shoe boxes to store my bottle cap collection – she just gave the miles up.
I said, “Whaddayamean, you’re giving me 180,000 miles? Why for?”
She sighed, like she had a headache, which she often complained about.
“I just thought it might be good for you to take a trip, Phil, that’s all. You know, get out of town. It’s not as if you have that much going here.”
I could tell that any minute she was going to say something about all the money mom and dad had spent sending me to college, without me even getting a degree.
“Whaddayamean, not that much going? I told you, I’m trying to get my bottle cap collection sorted out so I can sell it on eBay – it’s worth a mint, you know – and I’m working with my pal Fred on starting one of those ‘write your name on a grain of rice’ franchises. We’re thinking, if it works for rice, why not green beans, or radishes…”
“You want to start “a write your name on a green bean” franchise?” my sister asked, as if it was another one of my stupid ideas.
She never let me forget about the money she loaned me for my failed Jello-shot
business, that had a free toy in every shot.
“Listen, I don’t want to hear about your vegetable naming plans. I’m going to call the airline and transfer the miles to you. Figure out something to do with it, okay, Phil? And don’t go selling the miles to someone, or giving them to Fred, or trading them for more bottle caps.”
“Okay, okay, I’ll take ‘em. Thanks, Sis.”
“You’re welcome,” she said, and hung up.
I thought, ‘cool, free miles.” Maybe Fred and I could go to Reno together. But that was stupid; I lived in San Francisco, and we could take a bus to Reno. Then I thought about those miniature liquor bottles you get on long airplane trips, and how well they would go with my bottle cap collection. I called the airline and asked them to book me on the next available flight as far away as my sister’s miles would take me.
The gal on the other side said, “Anywhere?” and I replied, “anywhere.” She said “anywhere?” Long story short, I ended up flying to New Delhi, India.
This guy on the plane – he gave me his empty liquor bottles before switching to another seat – told me about this place where they throw corpses into the river a few hours’ bus ride from Delhi. I’ve seen lots of road kill in my day, but never actual dead bodies, so I decided to go there. After a long, noisy, smelly and crowded ride in a poorly ventilated bus, I found the cheapest hotel available. I was assigned a room with bars on its window, a cement floor, and a hole in the ground that served as a toilet. Actually, it was kind of creepy, and I didn’t get much sleep on account of all the snoring and hocking sounds in the rooms next door. Still, I only had a few hundred bucks, so it had to do.
I got up before sunrise, anxious to see the bodies. Sure enough, little fires were burning alongside the river, and inside the fires were bundles wrapped in white cloth I hurried closer to get a better view, and saw skulls and rib cages poking out of the wood and flames. My mouth got watery, in that pre-vomiting way, but I couldn’t stop looking, like that time I ran over a stray kitten while I was parking my car, and it lay there, not moving, squished and dead.
I watched as two Indians put a bundle into a small canoe, paddled out to the middle of the river, and dumped it in. No priest, or speeches, or nothing. Stranger still, the body floated by a group of people who were in the water bathing themselves. The men were topless, while the women were fully clothed, but everybody was scrubbing away under their garments as if they were at home in the shower. Next to the bathers another group of women were slapping pieces of fabric against some rocks that looked like tombstones. Maybe they were the clothes of the dead, being cleaned for their final trip to heaven.
I was taking it all in, still feeling squeamish, when this American guy walks up to me and asks where I was from. He tells me he’s been living in India for over a year, and invites me to take a walk with him. I had nothing better to do, and was ready to leave anyway, so I said ‘sure, why not.’
The guy was really skinny, like maybe he’d missed too many meals. I offered to buy him breakfast, which fortunately didn’t cost much. It took him a New York minute to wolf down the rice and yogurt dish he’d ordered. I had a hard time finishing my vegetable plate – the potatoes and carrots tasted like they were soaked in sea water, they were so salty – so he ate that too.
We ended up back at his place. It was pretty much the same as my hotel room, except he’d decorated his cell with colorful fabric, and there were stacks of books tilting all over. He asked me a lot of questions about where were the cheapest cities to live back in the states, but they had to have good libraries. I guess he wanted to go home, which I couldn’t blame him. I was very thirsty on account of the salty breakfast, and kept licking my lips, hoping he’d offer me something to drink, which he didn’t. After a while he asked me if I wanted to see something, and I said ‘sure.’
He pulled out a glass beaker, pointed at it, and said, “these are my pets.” I couldn’t see anything at first, but I leaned forward and peered inside and there were these little black wormy things. Truthfully, they grossed me out, but I was a guest in his house, and I knew how to behave.
“Uh, what are they?” I asked.
“I call them girth worms.” He smiled at the beaker.
“Uh, huh.” I said He kept smiling, his eyes fixed on the worms. I was starting to feel nervous, uncomfortable. “What do they eat?”
“Me,” he said, and made a sound like a squeak, except I guess it was a laugh.
“Whaddaya mean, you?”
“Well,” he turned and stared at me as if he was seeing past my skin, into my organs and the bones around them, “these ones I feed post-digested food. The others live with me.” He patted his stomach.
I know I should have been polite – his house and all – but I was getting that clammy feeling I get when I dissect my cat’s hair balls, or take too long cleaning out the dogs’ cages at the animal shelter where I sometimes work for movie money.
“Well,” I said, trying not to look at him, “I guess I gotta go.”
“Oh, so soon?” His face looked like Jello slowly sliding off a tilted plate, which made me feel bad. Then, much quicker, his Jello-face bounced back. “Would you like to take a few with you?”
“A few what?”
“You know, pets.” He held the beaker up and shook it at me.
“Uh, I don’t know. I already have a cat…” His face started to slide again. “But, what the hey, why not. Give me some of those bad boys.”
His eyes popped like the snap of an old-fashion flash bulb, and he started fishing in the beaker with his hands. “Great. I usually take them with water, but maybe you’d like some juice, or something else.”
It didn’t take me long to realize he wanted me to eat those things. I had to think fast. “Wait, wait, wait, can’t I have them ‘to go’?”
“To go? You want them to go? Sure. Alright. Let me get a container for you.” He rummaged around his books and came up with an old peanut can that had a plastic lid, tipping it over to toss out some metal pieces that rattled around in it. He slid some of the worms inside, and handed the cannister to me, smiling the whole while. I took the can with one hand, and slapped my thigh with the other.
“Okay, then, I guess I better be going. If you ever get out to San Francisco look me up.”
“I will. I will. And remember to feed them.” He nodded toward the peanut can.
“Cross my heart.” I crossed my heart, and got up.
“Uh, before you go, it’s my, um, practice to drink a toast in honor of my departing pets. Would that be alright?” He gave me a puppy dog look. I didn’t want to stay a minute longer, but I was thirsty.
I licked my lips. “Oh, alright.”
“Great!”
He went over to the corner of the room, where there was small table with what looked like empty peanut butter, pickle, and mayonnaise jars on it. While he got the water together I looked around the room. It wasn’t that shabby. There was a rusted bottle cap lying next to my foot, so I bent down, picked it up, and thrust it into my pocket. I jerked my hand out of my jeans just as he turned around.
“Here we go.” He handed me a jar full of water. “Drink up.”
We stood looking at each other, neither of us drinking. I thought about the worms, and peered down into the glass. The water looked clear.
“Uh, you didn’t put anything in here, did you?”
“Of course not,” he grinned. “Now drink up!”
I felt a cramp in my leg and shifted my weight.
“Uhm, the toast?”
“Oh, of course, the toast! To the girth worms, and their new master!”
We clinked glasses, and I drank.
To be continued next month.