Free Lunch
Stream of Consciousness: 1
A line of protestors and reporters stood outside of little Charlie Martinez’s home. The flashes from their cameras seared his retinas, causing him to see brown flecks every time he blinked.
“Get away from the window, Charlie. You’re making them antsy.”
Charlie looked at his father and pouted. His dad avoided the glance and stretched out his arm, clicking the volume button on the remote until it was deafening.
A portly man wearing a bright red cap spewed spittle and hateful words onto the foam covering of a reporter’s microphone.
“Sir, why are you so opposed to Charlie Martinez getting free lunch at school?”
“Because I work hard for my fucking money. I don’t understand why my hard-earned dollars got to pay for some wetback whose parents probably aren’t even here legally. That’s un-American!”
Charlie winced as his father slammed his fist onto the counter, rattling the dishes in the cabinet.
“I’m from Houston, you racist prick,” Charlie’s father screamed into the television. “I bet they wouldn’t give a damn if you were a fetus. They’d probably parade you in the streets and shovel food down your throat like there was no tomorrow.”
While Charlie doubted the sentiment, his father’s point was hard to argue. After all his friend Greg Morris, who was an actual twelve-year-old-sized fetus, received free meals after his mother was forced to carry him to term. She died before he was fully developed, and surgeons removed him from the womb to save his life. While Republicans considered Greg the mushy face of the pro-life movement, they had trouble looking at him. Regardless, tax dollars still funded his nutrient paste, while fully formed orphans were forced to compete over the rodents infesting their walls due to budget cuts.
“Is it okay if I take the bus?”
“Sure, but don’t talk to the media.”
Charlie gave his father a kiss on the cheek and walked outside. The reporters lining the lawn flashed their cameras and shouted a flurry of inaudible questions. Charlie walked through the doors as they whooshed open and took a seat next to one of the dead fifth graders sitting in the middle aisle.
“Hey, Charlie. Rough morning?”
“You bet,” Charlie said, removing a small bit of brain matter off the leather seat and placing it in the dead boy’s lap. “Sometimes I wish I could trade spots with you. Then they would ignore me.”
“True.”
Charlie felt bad after saying the thought aloud. It felt cruel, but he knew it was true.
The bus bounced down the street and the scenes from outside unfolded like a flipbook. A woman in a Free Palestine shirt made a TikTok video on the streetside and then headed into a bagel shop. Two live streamers taunted a homeless man with a bag of food while asking for shares and likes. Three hipsters stood in a parking lot discussing the pitfalls of capitalism while watching Whole Foods burn down and then walked into Walmart after they got bored.
“Think you could help me out real quick?”
“Sure.”
The dead boy handed Charlie a tube of Gorilla glue and pointed to a loose piece of skull above his right eyebrow.
“Just a dab. Too much and it burns on the inside.”
The bus pulled up to the curb and Charlie hopped out, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. Several politicians argued outside. Something about defunding public schools, but Charlie was pretty sure all their kids went to private schools. Even the ones who were against defunding.
“Fucking freeloader!”
Charlie looked up to see the man with the red cap from earlier. He wore army fatigue bottoms, and he had a large tattoo of a rifle on his arm with a banner. The banner said I almost served but then 9/11. His shirt had a picture of Republican Jesus, with brown hair and blue eyes. He sat atop a tank, crushing the skulls of illegal children underneath the treads.
Charlie walked inside and waved to Greg, who was sitting in his wheelchair.
“gwup gwup gwup.”
“Thanks, Greg.”
Charlie patted his large fetal friend on his fleshy shoulder while his caretaker wheeled him around. A woman in a white paint suit quoted scripture to Greg, occasionally vomiting into her emesis bag whenever he Gwuped.
History class proceeded in the usual manner. Mr. Jones talked about the Jim Crow era, while Brandon Klein said his father told him Jim Crow was a myth like the holocaust. Apparently, he’d done his own research.
The lunch bell finally rang, and Charlie snaked his way through the overfilled halls. A lunch lady stood behind the counter, plopping a ladle's worth of instant potatoes onto tan trays.
“You the free lunch kid?”
“My name is Charlie, but yes I’m the free lunch kid.”
She reached behind the counter and pulled out a crumpled brown paper bag.
“Bon appetizer, or whatever those French fucks say.”
“Thanks.”
Charlie scooped up the bag and sat down at the table next to Greg.
“Gwup gwup.”
“Probably another sandwich. It’s always a sandwich.”
A gelatinous white fluid dribbled down Greg’s feed tube and the fetus made a chittering noise. Watching Greg eat used to ruin Charlie’s appetite, but both were victims of controversy, and they grew closer over the years. A thumping noise sounded from the cafeteria window, startling Charlie. The man in the red cap smashed his face against the window, brandishing a middle finger. His swollen legs wept from reddened pustules decorating his calves.
“Don’t worry about him, that’s Clyde Burke. He’s going to die from a massive heart attack while jerking off to transgender porn in a Subway bathroom.”
Charlie looked up to see a bearded man with brown skin and thick black hair wearing a Jack Johnson t-shirt. He wore small circular glasses that reminded him of the Beatles poster in his father’s room.
“Who are you?”
“Gwup gwup.”
“Jesus, like the Jesus? As in Jesus Christ?”
“The one and only. How are you, Greg?”
“Gwup.”
“Good to hear, anyw-”
“Why are you doing this to me? Why do I have to go through all this for a fucking bologna sandwich?”
“Go through what Charlie? Some angry guys in red caps shouting some slurs at you?” Jesus said, pursing his lips in a mild annoyance. “Look at Emmett over there.”
“Who?”
“Emmett. Come on Charlie, you literally glued his head back together this morning.”
“Oh, yeah, Emett. Sorry, I forgot about him.”
“Everyone does. Charlie, we’re in the middle of a Holy War and I need your help.”
“What do you expect me to do, and a Holy War? Who’s even fighting? Atheists?”
“No, the atheists are pretty okay, and the Satanists don’t bother anybody. Only in movies.”
“Then who?”
“Gwup gwup gwup.”
“Very good, Greg,” Jesus said, shooting the fetus a wink. “Republican Jesus. The Jesus of rhetoric and misinformation. Idolatry and double standards.”
Charlie looked back out the window, seeing the accumulation of judgmental visages.
“Well, what can I do?”
“You can start by biting that sandwich little dude.”
“Gwup.”
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Author’s Note: This story is my first entry for the Stream of Consciousness workshop hosted by
. Every year I read either Naked Lunch or Ulysses to see if I can understand it a little better. I never do, but I always appreciate the prose and find myself taking something away from it. This was a Naked Lunch year. Whenever I saw the words I immediately thought politics and free lunch. I set a timer for 15 minutes and just wrote. I’m not even sure if it makes sense, but I had an absolute blast. If this is your jam, considering subscribing to and keeping an eye out for the next workshop!Fellow participants:
I think I got everyone, but if not feel free to tag them! Let me know what you think.
I love this. I won't lie I did laugh at some of the dark humor bits, but the horror is great. Very dystopian. I wish you had a picture collage of jesus with a sandwich. If you ever put that up there let me know. Well done. Also, incredibly relatable.
I’m glad I’m not eating my breakfast right now -gwup gwup!
Entertaining, thought-provoking… here on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean it feels entirely possible in a Black Mirror way that this could happen if science allowed it and politics careered off the rails and took a turn back on itself down a tunnel towards something even more unspeakable.
A well-spent 15 minutes!