Chris McElwain

Pumpkinhead

Chapter 1

The other day, I read the following on a napkin:

My name is Jennifer Owens.

I am 20 years old, a virgin and I don’t know who I am.

I have done nothing worthwhile with my life up to this point.

And I have no reason to expect that the rest will be any different.

I was eating at Fatburger Restaurant,

And I found the note inside a discarded shake receptacle

(Vanilla).

I don’t generally dig through the garbage in public places

(Not since my run-in with the tyrannical staff of the Dairy Queen, at any rate),

But the restaurant was sponsoring a competition

In which millions of dollars were to simply be given away.

I had just ordered a Fatburger Deluxe.

Two patties with cheese, fresh lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and pickles, all smothered in a tangy secret sauce.

Delicious.

Awaiting my meal,

I examined the napkin.

Its cryptic message was illuminated with an array of decorative flowers and other scribblings.

These, I concluded, displayed no particular artistic talent.

The poem was what interested me.

Succinct and rather

Poignant.

I folded the napkin and put it

In my pocket.

My number was called

(533. I remember because it is half of 1066, the year of the Norman invasion of England).

I bit into my fat burger

And felt the grease

Roll down my

Chin.

Chapter 2

Later, it struck me

As I was masturbating to a taped episode of

The Cosby Show

(Sondra, the Cosbys’ eldest child, has long been the focus of some of my most persistent sexual fantasies)

Jennifer Owens.

Yes.

I recognized the name.

I could see it vividly

In black block letters on a white name badge

Bagging my groceries:

Freshly canned garbanzo beans.

Juicy veal cutlet.

Oreo brand cookies

Superb.

Jennifer Owens.

Yes.

It’s a small town.

Could there be two?

I reached a climax

(weak)

And decided I must investigate.

Chapter 3

I entered the lavatory

In order to

Prepare for my quest

By making my appearance more pleasing and presentable for the public world

Long ago

In my childhood, perhaps

Someone told me that my head looked like a pumpkin

(Due to the shape, I imagine)

And whenever I confront my face in the bathroom mirror

I am surprised that it is not orange

(Though the shape has not changed)

Yet,

As soon as I can no longer see my own reflection,

The image returns

And I am haunted by that cursed

Metaphor

I put down my comb

(Admiring the stylish green stem protruding from my scalp. Ha. Ha.)

And left my apartment

Complex,

Intending to change

A life.

Chapter 4

I walked boldly through the sliding doors

And into the grocery store where Jennifer worked

(Apparently owned by a Mr. Albertson, though I have never seen the man)

I learned that Jennifer’s shift did not start

Until that evening.

So I waited.

Finally,

She arrived.

The glint in her eyes

And the name on her tag

Made her unmistakable.

It was she:

The fast food Emily Dickinson herself.

Her very walk spoke of the angst contained on that soiled napkin.

Magnificent.

I approached her.

“Good day.”

I said.

(She did not remember me)

I made several remarks about prevailing meteorological conditions

In order to put her at ease.

(I did not wish to upset her plainly nervous constitution)

But I came quickly to my point

And produced her poem with an

Impressive flourish.

“Are you the author of this fine verse?”

I asked.

“Where did you get that?”

She replied.

Our discussion seemed to be going well until Mr. Albertson’s private mercenary force arrived to escort me from the premises.

Perhaps they mistook

The tears welling up in Jennifer’s eyes

For a sign of distress.

Or her cries of existential anguish

For a burst of panic.

As they dragged me out the sliding doors I tried to explain that all I wanted

Was to give a

Brief

Aesthetic

Critique.