Stuart walks to work. On his walk he sees pink insulation like guts hanging from the cavernous chest cavity of the black dumpster. He sees dozens of flies crowding on a flattened squirrel who has something green leaking from one intact eye. The flies scatter at his approach, the buzzing a soft warning.

The walls of the restaurant where Stuart works are an off-white stucco. There is a sewage leak in the parking lot and Stuart holds his breath as he enters the building through the back door. It’s 11am and there are few customers; the old ladies who get a coffee each (no tip) and nurse it and gossip for three hours most Thursdays, a couple teens playing hooky, and Moe.

Moe is a homeless man with yellow-tinged eyes and only one hand, the pinky and ring fingers necrotic black. He has five or six teeth and wears a flannel trapper hat in all seasons. The hat is waxy with grease. With him is always a pink floral suitcase and five or six plastic bags full of dirty napkins, used takeout containers stained orange, and old coffee cups. A few weeks ago Moe asked Stuart to fill up his coffee cup with hot water. Inside was a spider and a web. Stuart was busy that day and couldn’t be bothered to clean the cup before he filled it. The spider spun floating around and around the steaming water, legs curled like frayed wires. Moe didn’t say anything.

Moe isn’t allowed in the restaurant anymore, not after he clogged the men’s toilet with some of his clothing. But the opener is this sweet college girl who’s only been working here for three months, and more often than not Moe shuffles in anyways because she doesn’t have the heart to kick him out. Jesús, who’s worked here 13 years, says that Moe has been around forever.

“We invited him to our house parties back in high school. Got him real fucked up. It was funny seeing him like that.”

Stuart sets his stuff down, double-ties an apron around his stomach, and affixes his name tag. Great flavors. Great Staff. Stuart Kobanski. He does his first loop of the floor.

“You want some more fries?” he asks the teens.

“Hey man, can you get that homeless guy out of here? He reeks like piss.”

Stuart buses the greasy plate.

Moe gazes out the window at the empty parking lot.

“Hey Moe,” says Stuart. “Ready to get a move-on?”

“Not like I got much choice in the matter,” grumbles Moe, stuffing bags into bags. Stuart walks him to the door.

“Hey Moe, maybe you should get those fingers checked out.”

“Not like you care,” says Moe, the door shutting softly behind him. The other patrons visibly relax.

“You handled that so gracefully,” gushes one of the old ladies.

The next morning there are millions of flies by the dumpster, swarming over a long and narrow log. The pink suitcase, jaw torn open, hangs empty from the dumpster. As Stuart walks by, the flies part to reveal Moe’s lavender face weeping green, a look of pure rage frozen in his eyes. Stuart stops and stares for a moment, then walks again quickly. He feels guilty but profoundly relieved.