In reality, his shirt looks a little tight. His hands unbuckle his belt. They pop open the top button of his pants. Mr. Whittier cuts a fart.

Mrs. Clark holds out a glass of water, saying, “Here, Brandon. Drink something.”

And Saint Gut-Free says, “No water. He'll only bloat more.”

Mr. Whittier, his body twists until he's stretched out on his stomach against the red-and-blue carpet. Each breath comes fast and short as a dog panting.

“It's his diaphragm,” Saint Gut-Free says. The food expanding in his stomach, it's already absorbing moisture and blocking the duodenum at the bottom. The ten turkey Tetrazzini dinners are expanding upward, compressing his diaphragm, making it so his lungs can't inhale.

Saying this, Saint Gut-Free is still eating handfuls of dried something from his own silver bag. Chewing and talking at the same time.

Another happening inside could be the stomach splitting, fouling the abdominal cavity with blood and bile and growing bits of turkey meat. Bacteria spilling from the small intestine. Leading to peritonitis, Saint Gut-Free says, an infection of the cavity wall.

In our movie version, Saint Gut-Free is tall with a straight nose and thick-framed glasses. He has a shock of thick, wild hair. A stethoscope hangs on his chest as he says duodenum and peritoneum. Not with his mouth full. In the movie, he holds out one hand, palm-up, and demands: “Scalpel!”

In the version based-on-a-true-story, we boil water. We give Mr. Whittier shots of brandy and a bullet to bite. We mop Saint Gut-Free's forehead with a little sponge while a clock tick-tocks, tick-tocks, tick-tocks, loud.

The noble victims saving their villain. The way we helped comfort poor Lady Baglady.

In reality, we just stand here. Our hands, waving away his fart smell. We're maybe wondering how Whittier will play this scene, if he'll live or die. We really need a director. Someone to tell each one of us what our character would do.

Mr. Whittier just moans, stroking his sides with his hands.

Mrs. Clark just leans over him. Her breasts looming, she says, “Here, someone help me get him to his room . . .”

Still nobody moves to help. We need for him to die. We can still make Mrs. Clark the evil villain.

Then Miss America says it. She steps up beside his bloated stomach, face-down, his shirttails pulled out of his pants, the elastic of his underwear showing as his waistband rides down. Miss America steps up and—oomph!—her shoe kicks into the stretched-tight side of his belly. It's then she says, “Now, where's the goddamn key?”

And Mrs. Clark bends an arm and elbows her back, away from the body. Mrs. Clark says, “Yes, Brandon. We need to get you to a hospital.”

In his own way, Mr. Whittier did. He gave us the key. His stomach pulling apart on the inside, the cavities of him filling with blood, the dried chips of turkey still expanding, soaking up blood and water and bile, getting bigger until the skin of his belly looks pregnant. Until his bellybutton pops out, poked out stiff as a little finger.

All of this, it takes place in the spotlight of Agent Tattletale's camera, him taping over the death of Lady Baglady. Replacing yesterday's tragic scene with today's.

The Earl of Slander holds his tape recorder close, using the same cassette, betting this horror will be worse than the last.

This moment, it's a plot point we've never dared dream. The first-act climax that would make our lives worth cash money. Mr. Whittier's busting open, the event we could witness to become someone famous, a famous authority. Like Lady Baglady's ear, Mr. Whittier's belly splitting open was our ticket. A blank check. A free pass.

We were all soaking it up. Absorbing the event. Digesting the experience into a story. A screenplay. Something we could sell.

The way his pumpkin belly subsided a little, going a bit flat when the pressure collapsed his diaphragm. We studied how his face, his mouth stretched open, his teeth biting for more air. More air.

“An inguinal hernia,” Saint Gut-Free said. And we all said those words under our breath to better remember.

“To the stage . . . ,” Mr. Whittier says, his face buried in the dusty carpet. He says, “I'm ready to recite . . .”

An inguinal hernia . . . , we all echo in our heads. What's happened so far wouldn't make a good joke. All these idiots fooled into a building and trapped. The ringleader gets gas, and we escape. That's just NOT going to play.

Already, Mother Nature is planning to take off her choker of brass bells and sneak him some water.

Director Denial is planning to walk Cora Reynolds past his room and smuggle in a big pitcher of water.

The Missing Link sees himself tiptoeing to Mr. Whittier's dressing room all night long, ladling water down his throat until the man goes: ka-boom.

“Please, Tess?” Mr. Whittier says. He says, “Would you help me to bed?”

And we all jot a note in our heads: Tess and Brandon, our jailers.

“Hurry, to the stage . . . I'm cold,” Mr. Whittier says while Mother Nature helps him to his feet.

“Probably shock,” Saint Gut-Free says.

In the version we'll sell, he's already a goner. One villain will die, and his she-villain will torment the rest of us in her rage. Mistress Tess, holding us captive. Depriving us of food. Forcing us to wear dirty rags. We, being her innocent victims.

Saint Gut-Free stands to put an arm around Mr. Whittier. Mother Nature helps. Mrs. Clark follows with her glass of water. The Earl of Slander with his tape recorder. Agent Tattletale, his video camera.

“Trust me,” Saint Gut-Free says. “I happen to know a lot about human insides.”

As if we still needed her to die, Miss Sneezy sneezes into her fist. Miss Sneezy, the future ghost of here.

Wiping the spray from her arm, Comrade Snarky says, “Gross!” She says, “Were you raised in a plastic bubble or what?”

And Miss Sneezy says, “Yeah, pretty much.”

The Matchmaker excuses himself, saying he's tired and needs some sleep. And he sneaks down to the subbasement to sabotage the furnace.

He couldn't guess, but the Duke of Vandals has already beat him to that punch.

This leaves the rest of us sitting on the silk cushions and pillows spotted with mildew under the Arabian Nights dome. The silver bag of turkey Tetrazzini empty on the carpet. The carved elephant pillars.

In our heads, we're all jotting down the line: I happen to know a lot about human insides . . .

And nothing more happens. More nothing happens.

Until the rest of us unfold our legs and slap the dust from our clothes. We head for the auditorium, our fingers crossed we'll hear Mr. Whittier's last words.

Erosion

A Poem About Mr. Whittier

“The same mistakes we made as cavemen,” says Mr. Whittier, “we still make.”

So maybe we're supposed to fight and hate and torture each other . . .

Mr. Whittier rolls his wheelchair to the edge of the stage,

with his spotted hands, his bald head.

The folds of his slack face seem to hang

from his too-big eyes, his cloudy, watery-gray eyes.

The ring looped through one of his nostrils, the earphones of his CD player looped around the wrinkles and folds of his beef-jerky neck.

Onstage, instead of a spotlight, a black-and-white movie fragment:

Mr. Whittier's head is wallpapered with newsreel armies marching.

His mouth and eyes lost in the shadow boots and bayonets that worm across his cheeks.

He says, “Maybe suffering and misery is the point of life.”

Consider that the earth is a processing plant, a factory.

Picture a tumbler used to polish rocks: