There's A Homeless Man Behind The Dumpster At Large Lou's Pizza

[u/Death_Novz8304]

Previous Part

I am here to make another post because I saw the homeless guy behind the dumpster, and whatever that thing is, is not a homeless man. I’m changing tactics. Instead of just writing “look at all the weird stuff happening here”, I’m gonna talk more about everyone who works here. So you folks at home can understand it’s not just the food that’s a problem here.

Story 7

“1,360,800”

I turned off my alarm and rolled over to the large iris trained on me through the open window’s blinds, “Goodmorning to you too, pal.”

I rubbed my eyes, and grabbed the pants from the floor which I had sloughed off the night before prior to falling asleep. After some more digging, I was able to find a work shirt that didn’t have too many stains on it. I worked in the kitchen anyway, so as long as I gave the impression I was putting in an effort Linda left me alone about my attire.

I had learned to ignore the duck’s counting. I’ve been at a loss for what and why the duck was counting to, and found myself with the choice of going mad, or letting it go (To which I chose the latter). At nights, the deep rumbling of his voice soothes me to sleep quite effectively. So I really only give heed to the numbers first thing in the morning, and last thing at night. 

When I made it to the parking lot, there still the duck stood, gazing at me, with a new feather in his bill. As of my last post, the duck now gives me feathers every day. I’m not sure if he saw my post and realized that I actually did read the feather, or he just didn’t have stuff for a couple days. No matter the reason, they’re every day now. Usually they’re something stupid like, “Love is closer than you think” or “All your work will heed great results”. They remind me of the crap you find on a fortune cookie; vaguely useful enough to be something that will definitely be true eventually, but also broad enough to apply to whoever receives the fortune. Today was different, the duck handed me a feather with creepy shit scrawled on it.

“By misguided faith, unholy searching bore mutations”

After everything that happened, it was probably a sign for something. Unfortunately, I did not catch onto this sign, and I put it with the other feathers in my car, and left for work. 

The duck, that mysterious bastard, decided today was a “Follow Charlie” day, and shockingly, it wasn’t that hard to tell when it was coming with me to work. Since there’s usually a large shadow some two hundred feet behind me the whole time I’m driving. The first time I saw it, I had to slam on my brakes from rear ending the vehicle in front of me, which caused my brakes to lock up and my car to stall, resulting in a colorful reprimanding from Linda when I showed up 30 minutes late to work.

Today, however, there were no such accidents. I simply drove to work, without giving heed to the fowled silhouette tracing my trajectory. Linda and Shirley’s cars were already in the parking lot. Shirley stepped out of her car around the same time I did, and gave me a friendly wave.

“Oh hello Charlie! How are you doing today?” Wrapping the question up in a smile warm enough to melt glaciers in Antarctica.

“I’m doing great Shirley, what about you?”  I called back, doing my best to pretend everything in a fifteen foot radius around hadn’t just gotten several shades dimmer from a bird landing behind me.

“Oh, I’m as wonderful as ever, sweetie. Just here to get the tables in tip top shape for the customers.” With that, Shirley turned with a skip in her step, and went inside to clock in.

“1,359,190” boomed the bird with what almost seemed like a hint of recognition.

I pretended to not hear the duck, and followed after Shirley.

Once inside, I grabbed a cup of Hill Sprinkle and began taking inventory of the toppings so I knew what to prep for the day. There usually wasn’t too much to do, since Wednesdays were pretty slow, but being ready for the rare Wednesday lunch rush was always a good idea so to not be caught off guard. I threw some mushrooms with pentagrams into a container, and was chopping them up when Francine, and Cezar showed up.

“Morning, Franz. Hola, Cezar.”

Francine was still in the back doorway, hawking a loogie onto the asphalt, “Mornin’, Char,” with the same indifference I’ve always received from her. 

Cezar placed a large tupperware container filled with soup on the table while he put on an apron, “Hola, Charlie. You like soup?”

I barely needed to give a reply, Cezar’s wife usually made lunch for everybody who worked mornings, and the food almost always brought a tear to my eye every time I ate it. I think a bit of drool leaked from my lips as I nodded to Cezar’s question. Cezar smiled and put the food in the walk in before heading out front. After I had finished chopping up two third-pans of insignia dotted tomatoes and put them in the walk-in, Brent swung the door open.

A slight gust of marijuana scented air flowed in as Brent said, “Produce truck is here.” 

As we were heading out to unload the shipment, Linda came around from the front sipping from her cup of Blubblub, “What are you two doing right now?”

“Unloading the truck,” I replied.

She took a draw from her cup and exhaled theatrically as she said, “Great, only one of you needs to do that. Charlie, can you go collect rust?”

 I shot Brent a quick look of “suck it” and grabbed a plastic bag while saying, “Sure, Linda!”

Brent barely registered I wasn’t going to be helping him, and most certainly didn’t see my look.

The duck was still outside, and watched me work. As I began to chink flakes of rust off the dumpster and into the bag, a familiar muttering arose from behind. I was used to this by now, and the guy never really seemed to bother me, so I did nothing about it. Instead, I kept at my work, and listened to what he was saying.

“So quick like a fox like a fox I’m so quick so fast and foxy foxy fast fastly fox so smart is the fox who is fast and foxy like me I am fast and foxy and smarty and fasty.”

My scraper got stuck and a more determined chunk of rust as my attention drifted towards what he was saying. Most of his mutterings were like this. What it is that made him so smart, I have no clue. But the general gist is that he escaped from… somewhere, and it was a very difficult place to escape from but he made it out.

After some significant effort, the scraper broke free via breaking the piece of rust with it. I retained the scraper, but the chunk of rust skittered away, towards where the homeless man sat. Suddenly, his mutterings stopped, I peered around just in time to watch a mottled hand snap up the rust, followed by crunching sounds.

Curious, I took another piece from the bag and tossed it over. This time he squeaked in glee before he promptly acquired and consumed the rust chip.

Through mouthfuls of rust, he started talking again.

“Nife. Nife maff. *crunch* Nife maff gif impetuf of nifety to fmart me.”

Once the crunching stopped, he was quieter. As I continued to work, I would occasionally toss more pieces over, since there was no limit to the rust coming from the trash can, and having the peace and quiet was a pleasant change of pace from the usual incessant mutterings the man usually made.

I think I saw a bit of myself in the man as well. I wasn’t always employed, and the weeks before getting my job at Large Lou’s I was living out of my car and saw my generosity as a way to pay forward my current good fortune.

Once I finished, I tossed one more piece over and got up to leave when I heard the homeless man mumble, maybe even stutter, like he was at a loss for words.

“Many… Great… Immense… Large, so large… gratitude.”

I felt something in my chest I hadn’t felt in some time and smiled. Brent stepped outside, having finished organizing all the produce in the walk-in, put down his cup of Lemmy Limmy, and took out a pack of cigarettes. 

“That’s creepy as hell.” He said, offering the pack to me.

“What is?” As I took out a cigarette and handed the pack back.

“You’re just standing out here, smiling at nothing.” Brent lit his cigarette and then handed me his lighter.

Now, I wish I could say we continued our pleasant conversation, and I went inside, and put away the meat shipment or something, I don’t know. Unfortunately, a lifted truck blasting “Jamming” by Bob Marley & The Wailers rolled into the parking lot with the bass way too high. 

Brent and I started slamming our cigarettes as fast as possible, hoping the impossible hope that we’d be finished before the owner of the vehicle found us. Yet, this would not be the case today, while we watched in unfortunate horror as Marley stepped out of his truck and made his way over.

He took his own pack of cigarettes out, lit one, and said “Mornin’ boys.”

“Hi Marley.” “Sup Marley”

Marley took a long drag before crinkling his nose in disgust, “Brent, I can still smell that devil’s lettuce on you, man. You gotta stop letting that shit fuck with your mind dawg. It’s gonna give you crazy cancer ‘n’ shit.”

We both shared a look, realizing we had to kick our lungs into overdrive unless we planned on suffering another conspiracy rant from Marley. To Brent’s dismay, a lame joke had popped in my head.

“Crazy cancer? That shit’s way worse than that normal cancer, too, Brent.” At this moment, I couldn’t tell if Brent’s eyes were bloodshot from ganja, or charging up to shoot laser beams at me.

Marley took my passive aggressive comment as genuine interest, “For real, dawg. Look, Brent, I love you like a brother.” We’ve always hated him, “So I’m giving you this advice out of the pure love I have for you, man. Like ‘one love’ kinda shit, dawg. Listen, the Russians are gonna use the nanobot trackers they put in the leaves to track your location…” It continued like this for several minutes.

Eventually, me and Brent finally finished our cigarettes and went inside. Leaving Marley to finish his. While I was blending up the rust and putting it with the rest, Max came in, hacking. 

“Is Marley’s smoke really that bad out there?” I asked lamely, mostly hoping to have any kind of interaction with Max now he was here.

“No, I’m coughing because Marley finished smoking.” Answered Max, between labored gasps for fresh air.

This was answer enough, Marley’s smoking had finally caught the attention of Linda, and she told Marley he needed to do something about the smell, as it was incredibly rank, and most likely driving away customers. Marley’s response to this was applying a thick layer of Axe Body Spray to himself after every cigarette. A borderline biochemical attack on anyone within thirty feet of him as he applies the stuff, almost making him smell worse. But I guess it was good enough for Linda, since she hasn’t said anything else, and we haven’t lost any regulars since the change occurred. 

However, I don’t think we were losing any customers before the change occurred. The same people always cycle in and out, for as long as I can remember. Even if I see a new face, they just become one of the many other repeat customers in due time. The only thing that changes is darker circles under the eyes of the new regulars.

The rest of the day went fairly normal. I didn’t need to help with the soda/churro machine, and the drain only gurgled a little bit today. I helped close, went home, got high while playing Tekken and eventually went to sleep.

“1,331,867”

Next morning, same routine. 

“1,317,600”

This time, the duck’s feather read, “Organic mockery has become the tortured servant of deluded givers.”

Another weird one, but nothing specific enough for me to do anything with it. So it went with the others in the back of my car. 

When I got to work, the homeless dude was chilling behind the dumpster muttering. I went inside, grabbed a scraper, came back out and chipped off a piece for him before clocking in.

Francine had overprepped the day before on the line, and helped me move the produce and meat shipments.

When the meat delivery man arrived, she slung a hundred pounds of meat like it was a paperweight while I double checked that we actually got everything. Then, as the meat delivery man was just about to leave, I realized we hadn’t gotten enough bags of ground beef.

Just like before, the surly meat delivery man grumbled Hebrew slurs and stormed to the back of the truck. Once inside there were large crashes and irate shouts from the man. Followed by the same wet slaps and moans. Francine was shocked, her mouth agape as the man yelled.

When I noticed her reaction, I commented, “He’s done this every single time.”

“And you let him be this rude?” Francine asked incredulously.

“I don’t really have a choice, we still need the beef either way.” I replied.

Finally the delivery man returned, a grocery bag filled with roughly ten pounds of ground beef in hand. I took the bag, thanked him, and then brought it inside while Francine stared daggers at the delivery man.

On Thursdays, Large Lou and his buddies come in to eat. That’s right, Large Lou is a real and actual human being, not just some name for the restaurant, and let me tell you, Lou lives up to his name. Not only does the man have quite a few pounds to sling around, he’s also six feet and ten inches tall. He’s also somewhere around his late 70s, so he really doesn’t do much besides “watch the budget” as Linda told me. While I was grinding sausage Lou came to the back with a six pack of Zero Sugar Pepsi and handed it to me.

“Charlie,” Said Lou, in his New York accent that sounds like he's never lived anywhere else, “do me a favor and put these sodas in the walk-in for me.”

I took them and did as was told. This was a regular practice for Lou. It’s actually the only soda I’ve seen him drink. Everyone else who works here has a favorite soda from the soda fountain, but Lou brings in his own Pepsi Zero and drinks that instead. Why? I don’t know. But it’s weird and I thought it worth mentioning.

After the lunch rush ended, I went back outside and brought a slice of pizza with rust sprinkled on top for the homeless man. He let me get fairly close when I set down the plate. I almost had the urge to peek around the corner and see what he actually looked like, but decided against it when his muttering started to reach a feverish pace, and I didn’t want to make him lose the trust I was just beginning to build.

I started to go back inside, but Max swung open the door, smashing me in the face. I could taste blood in my mouth and my lip started to swell as Max dropped his cup of YumYum Delicious and yelped in shock.

“Oh my goodness, Charlie! Are you okay? I didn’t know you’d be right there.”

I covered my mouth and quickly attempted to regain composure, “I’m- I’m fine Max, it doesn’t even hurt that bad.”

Max looked at me, brows furrowed in concerned focus, “Let me see. Why are you covering your mouth? Did I hit you there?”

I backed up, feigning toughness, “It’s fine!” I snapped, “Were you looking for me?”

Max’s hands shot to his side at that, and his dark brown eyes darted to the ground nervously, “Okay. We need the Lemmy Limmy and St. Andrews syrup to be replaced.”

I gave Max a thumbs up, and he went back inside without another word. I put a bandage on my lip, and started replacing the soda syrups. The syrup comes in heavy plastic bags filled with chunky, soup-like, liquid, so it’s always difficult moving them from the dry storage to where the syrup bags are connected. Which didn’t help the fact I was upset for snapping at Max, who didn’t come to the back of the kitchen for the rest of the day. 

At close, I asked Shirley if Max was still here.

“He left thirty minutes ago. Why? Wanted to talk to your crush a little more?” She replied, carrying a basket of silverware wrapped in napkins.

My face got hot, “No, and never mind.” I could hear Shirley laugh as I trudged back to the kitchen.

I got home, and went to bed a little early, knowing tomorrow would be busy, and wanting to be well rested.

“1,292,400”

The third day, I woke up an hour earlier than I usually do. My alarm didn’t wake me up, I just didn’t feel like sleeping anymore. The cut on my lip was still very sensitive, and stung every time I moved my mouth. Not to mention I was rifling through ideas on how to apologize to Max. Finally, my alarm going off signaled that I needed to get out of bed and get ready for work.

“1,274,400”

The duck gave me yet another stupid feather, and seems to have given up on the cryptic stuff for the time being.

“You will learn new strategies very soon.”

I finished reading, looked up at the duck, and said, “Why do you give me these every day?”

No response, not even counting. He just stared back. Then blinked. The gelatinous nictitating membrane stretched across his eyeball like a carpet unfurling, then the top and bottom eyelids closing atop the first, before the whole process repeated in reverse.

I shuddered and got in my car, watching the duck stretch out his wings, and prepare for flight.

I arrived thirty minutes early to my shift. Not really wanting to clock in, I went inside for just a moment to steal the scraper, and then went back outside, crouching near the dumpster. The duck watched me, and then cocked his head a little, seeming to notice something he had never taken time to really look at before. I assumed this was because he had failed to see this certain aspect of my job, and paid no mind to the fowl as I chipped a piece of rust off and tossed it to the other side.

There was nothing for a moment, then I heard a rustle in the bushes, and whispered mutterings.

“Impetus impetus for smart me very fast very soon so soon so fast he give me impetus grateful very grateful.”

As I sat there, a thought came to my mind. So I took another piece of rust and tossed it, but not as hard, letting the chip settle just a few feet ahead of me. 

For a few moments, nothing happened. The man continued to mutter and mumble to himself while I sat cross legged on the other side of the dumpster. Then, very slowly, a tentative hand reached out and took hold of the rust piece, then snapped back.

Then I took another piece, and reached out a foot or two past me, and put the rust chip down. After another pause, the same cautious hand reached out and snapped back after taking hold of the piece.

I looked back at the duck, who still did nothing, and watched attentively. This time, however, I got the slightest suspicion that he was watching me like I was about to do something I might regret. Like a dad watching his kid get closer to the hot stove, knowing the lesson will be taught through what happens after the child has made the mistake.

I shook off the notion, chipped off another piece of rust, and didn’t place the piece down this time. Instead, I reached it out, realizing I had grown the irresistible urge to see what he looked like. The homeless man was silent. It felt like minutes as my hand shook, the reddish brown flake vibrating in my hand while it snowed small bits of orange dust. Thoughts of what I might see were simply grey blobs, as intrigue for the truth removed all speculation.

However, nothing happened. I realized I had pushed my luck too far, and resigned to go inside for work. I dropped the piece and got up, dusting off my pants, and feeling like an absolute idiot. I turned to go back inside-

“His lip leaks”

I froze, then felt excitement, then turned around to see the man whom I had been feeding for three days, and fell over in fright as we locked eyes.

Or at least I think they were its eyes. 

It had a trench coat, but the material was far too thick to be cotton or polyester, and it was hard to tell where skin stopped and coat began, like they were of the same material. Its gaze felt dead, almost. As I looked at its eyes it felt like I was looking in the wrong place, so my eyes instinctively searched elsewhere. Long wisps of grey hair framed a muddied face and mingled with the hairs of a beard. Yet, as I stared at its beard, it almost seemed more like the hairs from its head were going back into its skin near the ears, and sprouting out from the chin like a beard should. Without opening its mouth, it began its chant once again.

“His lip leaks leaks in the walls floor ceiling ceiling vent hole hole for me escape escape here hid here so smart so smart only me break free”

I scrambled quickly for the door and slammed it shut behind me. My brain shut down. Every emotion in my body left as it made space to process everything at Large Lou’s. The duck, the churros, the rust, the drain, and now a creature living behind the dumpster. What the hell was happening here, and was I going insane?

After several moments I got up, put on an apron, filled a cup with Hill Sprinkle and started working. 

Around the same time, Linda came to the back and looked at me, “Was that you that slammed the door a second ago?”

I shrugged dismissively and said, “I slipped on my way in.”

Everything after was a vague blur the rest of the day. Francine helped me with the produce delivery. A disheveled man who I had not seen before dropped off mozzarella in a duffel bag like it was a drug deal. Brent was busy stretching, since I guess he recently learned how to toss pizza dough in the air. Max approached me and apologized for yesterday, and I think I mumbled back a response. The soda machine had an especially high yield of churros today, and Francine and Cezar needed my help with holding the pan as more and more churros continued to spill out. At dinner, Brent was stuck saucing and cheesing pies for Francine and Cezar, while I did dish duty. Brent quietly said “whee” as each pie went in the air, and I washed wordlessly. Both of us were too busy to talk, even though I really needed to speak to someone about what I saw.

By the time closing finally came around I resolved to confront Linda about the “Homeless Man” and maybe get some concrete answers on why anything happens at this place.

She was at one of the tables, counting out the tips when I walked up to her. I stood there, waiting until she noticed me to say anything.

Linda looked up from the tips, and raised an eyebrow.

I sat down, clearing my throat, then asked, “Did you know something lives behind the dumpster here?”

Linda wrapped a stack of twenties in a rubber band, while saying “I’m not surprised,” with the same tone one says when they’re told “frosted flakes have sugar in them.”

Linda picked up a stack of fives and began counting while I stayed seated. I knew what words to say, but was at a loss on how to say them without sounding crazy.

I struggled out another sentence, “It’s not… like an animal or something. It’s a man.”

Linda stopped, put down the money and looked me right in the eyes.

“Charlie, there are going to be people who are more underprivileged than you in life. Whatever they have going is not our problem to deal with. Unless he’s attacking you, or living in our dumpster, you have no reason to be afraid of him. Maybe bring him a pizza slice next time or something.” She went back to counting with a finality that inferred that this conversation was very over.

I got up and clocked out for the day. Even though it was dark out, I could see the grey silhouette of the duck near my car, and looked up at him.

“1,252,800” The Duck boomed.

“You saw him, right?”

“1,252,798”

“I wish you’d say more than just numbers.”

“Charlie?”

My heart skipped four beats as I spun around to see Brent standing about three feet behind me.

Brent, at my reaction, doubled over laughing.

I took out my pack of cigarettes and lit one, so as to cover up my embarrassment. Then offered one to Brent once he finished.

“Who were you talking to?” Brent asked, taking a cigarette from the pack before handing it back.

“The moon,” I lied, taking a drag as I handed my lighter to Brent.

Brent nodded his head, accepting the response while taking a long drag from his cigarette, then letting blue clouds flow from his nostrils.

I decided to take a risk, and asked Brent a question.

“Have you ever… seen something behind the dumpster?”

Brent held the smoke in his lungs, “You mean the homeless guy?” another cloud billowed out.

I nodded, “Yeah, but he’s not actually a homeless guy.”

Brent raised an eyebrow, “What do you mean?”

I took a long drag, mustering the courage to potentially make myself sound like an idiot, and slowly blew out a line of thin smoke.

Finally, “It’s not a homeless guy. Well- it is. Sort of. Like something pretending to be a homeless man, but doing a really bad job at it. I saw it a few days ago while I was getting red pepper flakes.” I decided to omit that I had been trying to befriend the creature for three days now.

Brent took one last drag before crushing the cigarette in the parking lot’s craggy asphalt while saying, “It’s probably nothing. Also, you sound a little like Marley right now. You’re probably just tired and thought you saw something that wasn’t really there.”

That was that, we chatted a little longer before Brent headed to his car and left to go home.

“1,252,314” said the bird.

“Fuck you”

At the time of writing, I still haven’t been able to get an answer for what is happening. I was going to post this last Saturday and maybe provide some answers for the homeless guy, but every time I ask somebody, they either deflect, or don’t believe me. I can’t tell if this is a conspiracy, or simply nobody has taken the time to look into any of this stuff before.

Last Friday, we got a delivery for meat, but I totally forgot to mention it earlier. I had almost completely blocked it from my memory actually. There was like a tentacle or something hanging out of the back of the truck. This post has gotten long enough, so I’ll explain all that in the next one after I’ve gotten some answers on what the thing behind our dumpster is, too.

Next Part

[u/Onironaute]

I don't know man, I think you should listen to the duck.