Wendell Holmes cooked short order at a greasy spoon diner on East Colfax.
A very good cook, he could flip an egg with his right hand while turning a burger with his left. His gravies were never lumpy and his soups always divine.
Each morning, Wendell woke early to coffee with cream and sugar and bagels with butter. Each evening ended with ten or so beers in front of his rabbit-ear sporting Magnavox. What happened in the hours between was more drastic. He ate bits and pieces of eggs and ham, cheese and turkey, french fries and bacon slices. All day on his swollen ankles, he hid behind toasters, ducked under cabinets, and gorged in the lonely chill of the walk-in refrigerator.
How long must this have gone on? Though they noticed, and who could not, no one made mention. They just watched him grow. And grow he did. With each bite, another square millimeter popped into the toxic waste-line.
Confrontations were mostly met with anger.
Wendell turned red and lashed out. He grabbed his chest, his vision blurred.
Wendell Holmes was a very good cook.