Eat Me BY ROBERT R. McCAMMON A question gnawed day and night at Jim Crisp. He pondered it as he walked the streets while a darkrain fell and rats chattered at his feet he mulled over it as he sat in his apartment staring at the static onthe television screen hour after hour. The question haunted him as he sat in the cemetery on FourteenthStreet surrounded by empty graves. And this burning question was: when did love die Thinking took effort. It made his brain hurt but it seemed to Jim that thinking was his last link with life.He used to be an accountant a long time ago. He’d worked with a firm downtown for over twentyyears had never been married hadn’t dated much either. Numbers logic the rituals of mathematics hadbeen the center of his life now logic itself had gone insane and no one kept records anymore. He had aterrible sensation of not belonging in this world of being suspended in a nightmare that would stretch tothe boundaries of eternity. He had no need for sleep any longer something inside him had burst a whileback and he’d lost the ten or twelve pounds of fat that had gathered around his middle over the years.His body was lean now so light sometimes a strong wind knocked him off his feet. The smell came andwent but Jim had a caseload of English Leather in his apartment and he took baths in the stuff. The open maw of time frightened him. Days without number lay ahead. What was there to do whenthere was nothing to be done No one called the roll no one punched the time-clock no one set thedeadlines. This warped freedom gave a sense of power to others to Jim it was the most confining ofprisons because all the symbols of order