"Bob," Mario Senzale

Today on Midwest Weird: “Bob," by Mario Senzale.

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Mario Senzale is a South American writer and mathematician currently living in Indianapolis, Indiana.

Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.

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Episode Transcript:

This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.

We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.

Today’s episode: "Bob," by Mario Senzale. Read by the Midwest Weird team.

Linda was away on a business trip. I had the place to myself until Thursday. My plan: to make that Irish stew my mother taught me. The one Linda says is too much work. I put some Miles Davis on the turntable, poured myself a glass of Chardonnay, and started cooking. The knife went through a potato. Clean. I reached for another one when I heard the TV.

I walked into the living room, knife in hand. A man was on my couch. Dr. Phil’s hair, khaki pants, white shirt, average height, a bit overweight, the kind of face you'd see at a PTA meeting. He was watching the TV.

"Who are you?"

The man didn't look at me. He just kept watching the screen.

"How did you get in here?"

He changed the channel like I wasn't there.

"Excuse me sir. Sir, you need to leave."

He settled deeper into the couch. Found a Gordon Ramsay show and loosened his belt.

"Ok. I'm calling the police."

The cops showed up twenty minutes later. Two officers. Gordon Ramsay was yelling at somebody. The man leaned forward slightly.

"Officers, this man broke into my house and won't leave."

The older cop looked at the man. His whole face changed. "Oh, that’s Bob."

"You know him?"

"Sure," the officer said, that warmth you use for a friend. "Everyone knows Bob."

"Ok… can you get him out of my property?"

The cops looked at each other.

"Has he threatened you?" the younger one asked.

"Well, not really, but -"

"Did he break anything?"

“I don’t think so… he did break into my house, I think."

They both stared at me like I'd said something inappropriate.

"You think… Look, if he hasn't done anything wrong, there’s nothing we can do," the older cop said. He glanced at Bob. Bob was watching the TV, calm and attentive. "Have a good day, sir."

They left. Bob did not.

I finished cooking the stew, put it in the fridge and went straight to bed, hoping Bob would be gone by morning. At night, I had the urge to pee. So I walked to the bathroom. The door was closed, light underneath. I knocked.

“Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom.”

Water running, vapor coming from below.

“Sir! Bob!”

I heard him shifting around. Unhurried.

I tried opening the door, but it was locked. I knocked harder.

“Bob! Bob!”

Nothing. I knocked again and again. The water stopped.

“Bob! I really need to go!”

He took his time. My bladder did not. Ten minutes later, Bob emerged. Naked. His penis swung as he walked past me without looking. I rushed into the bathroom, cleaned myself, put my underwear in the washer and went back to bed. Bob was lying there. On my side. Asleep. I grabbed my work clothes from the dresser and moved to the couch.

In the morning, Bob was gone. Thank God. I brushed my teeth and went to the bus stop. And there he was. Bob. I got behind him. The bus pulled up. Crowded. Bob stepped on. I could not. The doors closed. I watched them leave and waited for the next one. It started to pour.

I went to Francesca’s, my lunch spot. One chicken parmigiana left, three people ahead. Carbonara, lasagna, risotto. I saw the girl from the counter boxing up the chicken as I got close. She knows me, I always go there.

“Hi, I’ll have the chicken par-“

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s taken.”

She passed the box through my left shoulder, a hand grabbed it, and I turned. Bob. I looked back at the girl.

“Excuse me, I think I was here before.”

The girl looked at me. “He made the order first. I’m sorry.”

Bob took the box to the window table and ate slowly, cutting the chicken into perfect squares. He looked up once, caught my eye, chewed.

I ordered a salad. I should go on a diet anyways. I ate the leaves from a table in the middle of the room. No view.

That evening, I came home to find Bob in the kitchen. Eating stew. My stew. The one that’s too much work. I walked up to him.

“Excuse me, that’s mine.”

He didn’t respond. I grabbed the bowl and pulled. He grabbed it with both hands, looked me in the eyes, and growled. I let go.

“You’re crazy. Crazy!”, I told him from a safe distance.

He slurped the broth.

A couple of minutes later, he finished and stood. Wiped his mouth with the tablecloth, walked to the couch, and turned the TV on. Kitchen Nightmares. He sure loves those cooking shows. I went back to the fridge. He finished all the stew. My stew. I grabbed four turkey slices, defrosted two dinner rolls in the microwave, and made myself sliders. In the middle, still cold.

When I finished, Bob was gone. I turned off the TV and headed to the bathroom. On my way there, I saw Bob. On my side of the bed. Open eyes. Fully clothed. I grabbed clean clothes from the dresser. He followed me with his eyes. Then I rushed to the bathroom.

Maybe I’d been rude, trying to grab his bowl. I thought about it as I flossed.

I woke up to chatter from the kitchen. Linda was there, talking to Bob.

“Hi honey! Good morning! Your friend is hilarious,” she told me, luggage in one hand, Starbucks in the other.

“Linda, he’s not my friend. He’s Bob. I don’t know why he’s here or what he’s doing. I think he’s dangerous.”

“Chris, don’t be rude,” she replied with a frown.

Bob was doing something with his hands, like some magic trick or something. I don’t know. Linda smiled at the reveal. I went to the bathroom to get ready. My toothbrush was wet. Used. I brushed with my finger, got dressed and left for work.

I like work. Long hours, but it's quiet. Lots of cubicles but mine is next to the window. I can see the cathedral. I can see the pigeons. I can see… Bob. In my chair, grabbing the pen with his full fist, doodling on my notes. I think he drew a dick. With balls. I went to the reception desk and talked to Maggie.

“Maggie, there’s someone in my desk.”

“It’s Bob.”

“I know it’s Bob… wait, you know him?”

“Everyone knows Bob.”

I grabbed my face with both hands. What is happening?

“Maggie, what is he doing here?”

“What do you mean? It’s his desk.”

“No, no, no. Maggie, please. Don’t gaslight me. You know it’s my desk.”

“Chris, don’t be rude. You can use Gary’s desk. He’s on vacation.”

That night I got home late from work. I hung my jacket, dropped my keys in the bowl by the door. That's when I heard it. Sounds from the bedroom. I walked to the doorway. Linda in bed. With Bob. Her eyes closed, mouth open. Bob on top of her. Moving.

“Oh God! Oh God! Oh… Bob!”

I knocked on the bedroom door.

“EXCUSE ME!”

Bob looked at me over his shoulder. Didn’t stop. He kept moving. Kept eye contact.

“Linda!”

“Not now, Chris, I’m close.”

I stood there. Watching. Then I went back to the couch and turned on the TV. Hell’s Kitchen. I hear the moans from the bedroom. I can’t take this anymore.

I grabbed my keys and jacket and went back to work. There, I made a pillow with the jacket and placed myself under the desk. Gary’s desk. Not Bob’s.

Bob didn’t come to work the next day. He probably stayed home. Fucking my wife. Eating my food. At lunch, I had the chicken parmigiano. I went back to my desk in the afternoon. I watched through the window at the cathedral. At the pigeons. I stayed there for three days until Maggie found out. Then, I had to return home.

I arrived early. Nobody’s home. No Linda. No Bob. I turned the TV on and ordered delivery. General Tso’s combo. Notre Dame vs Bowling Green. The doorbell rang and I saw him. The delivery guy. Leaving. Bag in hand, Bob.

I watched from the kitchen as he ate my food. Loudly, grease on his chin. Wiped his mouth with the tablecloth, walked to the couch, and changed the channel. MasterChef. I stood there, not knowing what to do. Bob shifted on the couch. He ripped one. Smelled like rotten eggs and General Tso. He didn't flinch. I covered my nose. I hate Bob. Bob’s the worst. He left the remote next to him. I grabbed it. He grabbed my wrist. Then, he stood up. His face close to mine. He looked into my eyes. I tried to breathe. When I inhaled, he exhaled. He made me breathe used air. CO2. My chest burned. He didn’t stop. He never stops. I fainted. He stayed. It was too late.

Everyone knows Bob.

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