SOUP’S ON!

by

Cindy Rosmus

          “No!” I told Donny. “No soup!” Through gritted teeth, I added, “You’re . . . not . . . getting . . . soup . . . from me!”

          The “Soup Nazi,” from Seinfeld, I sounded like. But too bad.

          “You don’t care!” On speaker, he sounded even whinier. “I’ve been homeless for a year!”

          Outside my building, a new neighbor eyed me like I was scum. Pulled his French bulldog past me.

          “All I want,” Donny said, “Is a dollar and thirteen cents for a can of soup. Chicken noodle. Not even the name brand.”

          Two years ago, we had a thing. My place after the bar closed. Overpriced beers-to-go, sometimes a slice at that pizzeria that stayed open late. Once he even paid.

          “One-thirteen. One-one-three,” he said sarcastically. Like “one-three-zero” was such a huge jump.

          “No!” I yelled, so loud I scared birds out of a tree. 

          Donny. And soup. This weird connection. Mostly chicken noodle. Picky bastard, he liked it just so. At self-serve joints, he’d hold up the line while carefully scooping enough noodles without too much broth or even lumps of luscious white-meat chicken. “Too much,” he’d mutter, like a mad scientist on the verge of something great. More Mr. Hyde than Dr. Jekyll.

And oyster crackers vs. saltines, or bread. “Excuse me!” he’d yell at the overworked cashier. I cringed.

“You kidding me?” Someone behind us always said.

          Sure, he was homeless. He couldn’t keep a job.

Picture that nitpicky noodle-nabber at work. Anywhere. Once my dad hired him to help paint an apartment. Donny took so long fussing over woodworks, he got fired. “‘Father of the Year,’” Donny said, laughing.

On my way upstairs, his last text came: “PLEASE!” With a screenshot of a red-and-white soup can.

Shoplifter!, I thought.

That’s when it happened.

The minimart was blocks away, but I still heard the crash. Of all things, the truck that smashed Donny was loaded with no-frills canned stuff: fruit cocktail, gravy, beans.

Soup.

When I found out he died, I couldn’t cry. Instead, I felt sick. Inside, it was like worms came alive in me, eating me up.

Pain or not, that night, I woke up to the strangest smell. Delicious, like the world’s homiest chef had filled a pot with savory ingredients, and they were simmering on my stove.

I had to be dreaming.

Clutching my stomach, I got up and headed to the kitchen.

On my way, I kicked something that sounded metallic, and it rolled under the couch.

In the dark kitchen, a huge, steaming pot appeared to glow on the stove. I edged closer.

Inside the pot, golden noodles waved hypnotically. Like they were communicating with me. Like they loved me.

I couldn’t stop watching them.

Even after they changed into long, fat worms. Strangling what looked like hairless baby chicks.

Then vanishing.

No soup, Donny whispered, from far away.

Not even for you.