Hearing people talk about the Hungry Man in these recent posts gave me some major flashbacks, so I figured I’d share my own experience.

This was back in the mid 90s in Tempe, Arizona. After I pulled straight C’s my freshman year of college, my dad told me to try working for a living, so the next year I ended up in the kitchen at a burger place, this local chain called Burger Ranch.

One of my least favorite parts of the job was tossing expired food, especially in the 110 degree heat. To be blunt, we wasted a lot of stuff. A couple of times a day, I’d find myself lugging bags full of cold fries or expired tomatoes out to the dumpster.

Now, what made this a hundred times worse, is that I was told not to use the dumpster in the alley behind the restaurant. This wasn’t a rule from management, but more like a tip from the old hands. When I asked them why, they really didn’t want to talk about it.

I’d end up hauling these heavy buckets of sour milkshake mix or whatever else had gone bad like two blocks away to a shared dumpster of a KFC that belonged to the same franchise owner.

One super hot night the power went out. No one noticed until the next morning. By then everything was bad. We had maybe a hundred pounds of pink burger sludge wrapped in plastic that stunk like cat food.

Well, guess whose job it was to toss everything?

At first, I used the far away dumpster like usual, but even by 9:00 it was already well over 100 out, and my uniform was fully soaked in sweat. So at some point, I basically said screw it.

For the next load, I hauled out about 50 pounds of raw meat in a trash bag and approached the closer dumpster. Even as I did, I could imagine my dad watching me and muttering something about how I was always cutting corners. Like when I used to wash his car, and he’d always find a spot I missed.

As I hauled the meat, I noticed a couple of stray dogs watching me. A mutt and a pit bull. I thought about just tossing them the food and letting them go nuts, but I didn’t want them to get sick or something.

As I entered the alley, I saw him for the first time: the Hungry Man was sitting in the shadow of a fence, staring up at me with hollow eyes.

At first, I thought he was a corpse. I’d never seen anyone even close to that skinny before. His bones looked ready to pop right through his skin at the lightest touch.

“So hungry,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to me or to himself.

“Sorry, bud,” I told him.

I think I’m probably one of the only ones to see him shirtless. He was covered in stretch marks from his neck all the way down to his belt. But the thing that really threw me off was his belly button. It was just this big, dark hole. Like it went all the way through his spine to the inner skin of his back.

I tried to avoid eye contact as I walked past him and approached the dumpster. I’d never seen anything like it. This thing was pristine, like it had just been dropped off from the dumpster factory. Well, I was about to mess that up. I tossed the bags in, and they exploded when they hit the bottom, sending a spray of beef sludge over the entire interior.

When I came back with the next load, the Hungry Man was gone, which I figured was a good thing. I had two massive bags, but they were full of lettuce, so not quite as heavy. I walked over to the dumpster and opened the lid.

Inside was totally clean. There wasn’t a speck of the beef sludge I’d splattered there two minutes earlier. I looked around. Was I still in the same place? Yes. This was definitely the same dumpster. Looking closer, I noticed a kind of wet sheen covering the dumpster’s inside, like it had been licked clean.

“So hungry,” I heard behind me. “All alone.”

I looked back and fucking panicked. There was the Hungry Man, except he wasn’t skinny now. He was fat as hell, like an inflated balloon. How the hell had he gotten so close to me?

I looked up and down that alley. He was right. There wasn’t anyone in sight. Noon in Arizona is like midnight anywhere else: you’re only outside if you have to be or you’re looking for trouble.

He opened his mouth to lick his lips, and I swear to god, he had a second row of teeth behind the first one. They kind of looked like a line of molars, running across the roof of his mouth.

He took a step toward me. It was faster than I’ve ever seen a guy that size move, and when his foot landed it made a thud that rattled the dumpster.

“So hungry,” he said again, his eyes never leaving my neck.

I looked behind me. The alley stretched maybe 200 feet before it connected with the main street, but I was definitely no athlete.

He took a step closer, and I could smell the beef sludge on his breath. I figured it was now or never.

So I tossed both bags of lettuce up in the air. One flew open, sending down a snowstorm of wilted lettuce everywhere. Then I turned and ran. As I did, I listened for the sound of thumps behind me, but they never came. Instead, there was a weird squelching.

I’d almost reached the street when I looked back to see the Hungry Man on the ground, munching up the last of the lettuce that had fallen. Then he picked up the other bag and started to eat it, plastic and all. This was a full garbage bag. And it was gone in maybe twenty seconds. As he ate, I swore his body seemed to expand, like a water balloon attached to a tap.

That’s when he started coming at me. He didn’t bother standing up. He galloped on all fours like a fucking horse toward me. He must have covered the length of the alley in two seconds. And I guarantee I would have been the next thing down his throat if not for the dog.

This pit bull I’d spotted earlier approached from behind me, growling nervously at the Hungry Man, summing him up. And then it went for his throat.

The Hungry Man moved faster. He grabbed the pit bull out of midair and held it up by its hind legs like a dead rabbit. Then he bit off its head in two bites, his teeth chewing right through the bones like they were a croissant or something. That dog was gone in five seconds, like it had never even been there.

I sprinted for the street, even as I heard the thunder of his steps behind me. I crossed four lanes of busy fucking traffic. Almost got hit twice. But I made it. And when I looked back across the street behind me, he was gone.

I guess we all have our close calls, and overall, I got off light. The only lasting damage is that I hate taking out the trash. I won’t even do it alone. I’ve told my wife what happened, but she doesn’t believe me.

“Admit it,” she says, holding my free hand as we walk out to the side of the house. “You just like my company.”

As I throw the trash into the can, she turns away.

“That’s pretty foul,” she says. “You might want to hose out the inside.”

But I shake my head. Because there’s a reassurance to stink. The grime means he hasn’t been there. But it’s hard to explain that to people sometimes, so I just mumble, “Sometimes dirty is best. Clean is overrated.”

And then we close the lid and head back inside.