KETCHUP

Twice now in the span of two weeks I’ve followed a trail of blood to my jobsite, and like my peers who do their eight and hit the gate I step aside and keep my stride.

Don’t think I didn’t notice the details though. I saw the blood spatter but it didn’t interest me like it would that Showtime fellow named Dexter. Still, if you were to ask me about each trail of blood I’d be able to describe it to you. I’d say that the first trail was darker and dried and looked like the result of crimson-colored raindrops evenly spaced on the tiled floor with focal points blooming outward in a symmetrical pattern; whereas, that second trail appears fresher, brighter, irregular in shape, and unevenly spaced. I’m thinking: nosebleed, cut—respectively, chronologically.

I never did find out what happened to cause that first trail of blood or the source of it. I imagine someone got sucker punched. And this second trail of blood looks more like—how should I say it?—looks more unpredictable. In fact, the gate officer shrugs her shoulders and says, “No sense calling hazmat until everyone’s stepped in it and tracked it all over the place.”  

This second trail of blood is not located in an area heavily populated by prisoners; it does not lie in the normal traffic area consistent with convicted felons; it appears by the staff mailboxes, the staff time-clock, and the elevator leading to the lunchroom. But believe you me – it is blood, it has to be blood. 

The gate officer tells us she was only joking about her comment regarding hazmat that it isn’t blood at all. She shrugs her shoulders again and says, “It’s beet juice.”

Yeah, right. Beet juice.

At lunch time I scan the breakroom. I do not see anyone eating beets.