Without a Head Stephanie Mirah
I’m not sure where he went. It’s been longer than usual this time. He typically only walks for fifteen. No, he probably won’t mind you’re over. I am his personal assistant. My mom said I needed a summer job, and he pays 14 bucks an hour. So, here I am I guess. This is where he works. That is a disassembled bobble-head and then this is his desktop computer and this, in my hands, is a peanut butter and fluff sandwich. See how it’s oozing from its cut? That’s because he loves extra fluff. I tell him that maybe I should cut back on the fluff or replace it with something healthier like jelly. But, I should have known. Jelly made that grown man curt.
popping off the head and plopping into a can I took out weeks ago. Don’t know why he kept the body. I don’t ask. Oh no, his sandwich is melting. Almost as bad as his mind. All over everywhere. I’ll have to make another. Between us, he hasn’t published in over a month. The heads are getting mad. I bet if he could, he would stick his thumb underneath their necks and pop them off, too. But writers have rules and fluff is better than jelly and he has to be careful. He wouldn’t want sticky keys now.
The first time I was here, I made the wrong sandwich. Smeared jelly on the bread, and he only offered me a huff when I gave it to him. No words. Just a breath and a forceful shove of the plate back into my hands. I got the hang of it, though. Found the fluff in the cabinet behind the canned ham and baked beans. Learned to make it right all on my own. He types slower than his mind. That’s why he isn’t here. He never laughs at my jokes about it. “Better slow that mind down before it accidentally medals in speed skating,” I say while he sits slumped with his head in his hands. He huffs at jokes like that. I know they’re funny. He goes on a lot of walks to “re-center.” Like he is now. And then I am left waiting with his food. Yeah, I haven’t figured out why he hasn’t gotten rid of the whole thing, yet. Only the body of it remains. He claimed the eyes were “too real,” and he didn’t want it watching while he wrote. I tried to remind him that it was a gift and that it is rare for bobble-heads to be bugged with recording devices. But there he went,
Roasted Jenn Gaudio Spring 2019 • 101