Recap

Rick gets Jerry a job on an out-of-the-way asteroid after a desperate

Jerry begs Rick for help in his job search.

Summary

Jerry, predictably, regrets his decision to accept a job as Flim Flam delivery boy in the backwoods of the galaxy

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CHAPTER 3: JERRY UNSANITARY

3 weeks P.E. (post-earth)

translation for you dopes: 3 weeks after beginning his job

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Jerry had no trouble learning to drive the Flim Flam spaceship—as far as operating it went, it wasn't much different from his government-issued hovercar back on Earth. Jerry even recognized a faded Galactic Federation sticker on the windshield.

The vehicle was van-shaped, like the thing Rick had flown after the disastrous wedding incident. It had shelves upon which Flim Flam boxes could be stacked and crates full of the little dipping sauces served with the 'flams. Oftentimes, the store got orders from a galaxy or two over, which was about a six light-hour drive there and back depending on the planet or asteroid. Honestly, Jerry didn't see the big deal with these flim flams; they didn't seem worth the long wait. They were just deep-fried pancake bits, or at least that's what they looked like. Jerry had never really tried them, just 'cause he was always kind of terrified he'd develop some kind of alien infection right after (*cough* like with the Cherry Garcia incident *cough*) and, according to Renchin, the nearest hospital with any knowledge of human anatomy was an hour away.

Instead, Jerry had been living off the little bits of recognizable food that he had found on his travels—mostly nightcrawler paté (which was apparently the galaxy's equivalent to convenience store chicken salad sandwiches) and a half-empty jar of old Skippy peanut butter he was able to find behind a trash can a few galactic days after he started working ("Well, yeah, Skippy is a galactic enterprise," Renchin scoffed, "What, you think your run-down planet is the only place in the universe that has peanut butter?").

Jerry had lost a couple of pounds because of his new diet, so he figured that was sort of a plus, except that he kept losing weight in just his legs and upper chest so he looked sort of weird now. He maintained a pudgy belly, but now his ribs were visible and he walked on stick legs.

Jerry sighed at the wheel of the spacevan. It shuddered every once in awhile, but that had long since ceased to disturb Jerry.

He was bored.

Really bored.

That was the downside to this job. The deliveries themselves were not too hard, usually (excepting that one time, when his customer tried to absorb him… of course, Renchin later told him this was a way of greeting for that particular species, but it was terrifying nonetheless).

It was the traveling that really got to him. Jerry had never been great at keeping himself entertained; it's why he hated school and why he hated being unemployed. Without something to do, Jerry was just sort of… useless.

Empty.

His thoughts were sluggish and mundane, and he'd heave sighs so often that he'd get to checking the oxygen meter every 30 minutes to make sure he wouldn't suffocate (there was supposed to be an emergency escape pod, but it's housing cubicle was rusty and full of trash. It hadn't contained a pod in a long time).

He had to admit, without the distraction of seeking for employment, Jerry was missing home. He missed Summer's constant attitude, and Morty's increasingly flat expression (seriously, it was reminding him of Rick more and more every day). God, and he really missed Beth—her soft skin, the freckles on her nose, the glare in her eyes… Yeah, that last part wasn't so great. But it was still Beth and Jerry loved her.

Why were they apart again? Oh, yeah. Rick.

Jerry had made an ultimatum—Rick or himself. Beth chose her father, as she always did, and this knowledge had at first been enough to keep Jerry angry rather than sad—rather than lonely.

But with every day, his conviction was fading. Still, he didn't bother trying to get back home and he wasn't sure why. He supposed he was afraid Beth wouldn't take him back, even after everything he tried to do for her. Sometimes he wished she was less like her father…

Who was he kidding—he always wished that.

...

2 Days P.E.

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"Beth," Jerry panted into the space phone, leaning his head against the exterior side wall of the Flim Flam shop.

There was a crackling on the other end of the line. "Jerry?"

"Beth, oh thank god!" Jerry laughed hysterically. "I was beginning to think you'd changed the number or something. Oh god, I got absorbed by a customer today, it was a night–"

"Listen, Jerry," Beth interrupted, "I think it's great that you're enjoying your new job so much–"

"Wait, wha–"

"–but I'm sort of busy right now, and, well… I don't think I'm really ready to talk to you yet. Maybe try one of the kids–"

"Wait, Beth–"

"Bye, Jerry."

And with that, the line went dead.

Jerry slammed the metal hunk back into the receiver. "Well, that was a waste of a flurbo," he muttered. There was still goo on his clothes from where he was forced to dig himself out of his customer earlier that galactic day.

Renchin had been waiting at the door when Jerry returned. He handed him a couple of semi-soiled rags and nodded his head towards the basement door. Apparently the customer had left a bad Yelp review, as this kind of punishment was standard procedure for what Renchin called, failing to serve.

So Jerry had spent much of his night wiping up multicolored liquids of an unknown origin. The smells were interesting—a mix of metals, sometimes salts, sometimes something that even held a vaguely sweet scent. Other liquids were, of course, worse. They reeked of a mixture of rotted flesh and sewage and BO and, well, a thousand other things Jerry hadn't even experienced anywhere else. But even the mystery smells were better than the chunks… god, Jerry hated cleaning up the chunks. He usually had to grab them in order to stuff them into a trash bag and, despite his hands being gloved, he could still feel waaaaay too much.

Jerry was still wondering what exactly they were doing down there that led to such nastiness. He knew from his days off that the reptilian dude, Scallion, and one of the Kermits spent most of the day down there. Sometimes they left for awhile and came back with big boxes, but there was nothing of the sort left when Jerry cleaned the area. He figured their stuff was stored within whatever room the solid metal door under the stairwell led to. He just didn't get it, though. What could produce this much filth in so little time?

But Jerry didn't question it out loud. He just wiped up the fluids and was done with it. Afterwards, he went outside to call Beth, hoping her voice would give him some sort of strength.

Instead, Beth did what she was best at. She reminded him that despite everything he'd done for her, he was nothing in her eyes.

...

3 Weeks P.E.

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If there was one thing going for the job of Flim Flam delivery boy, it was the hours. Jerry didn't get paid a lot, but he had a lot of freetime, which was both a good and a bad thing. On one hand, he could do whatever he wanted—so far, he'd learned how to play Klammy Tams with a deck of old, A-Beta-3Z cards. That in itself took awhile, 'cause the game was so damn complicated. Even now, Jerry was kind of awful at it.

And see, there was the downside to the whole thing. Jerry quickly ran out of things to do. Renchin suggested he visit the stripper bar across the lot, but the idea terrified Jerry. He'd only ventured as far as the neighboring pawn shop (that's where he'd bought the deck of cards), and even then he couldn't stand the place for very long.

He just hated going outside period, unless he spent that time in the van. Nothing felt safe… And it didn't help that the parking lot was infested with a parasitic glow-worm that'd liquefy your guts in about a half-hour flat if you weren't careful.

Still, Jerry was kind of disliking the monotony of daily life on Asteroid Beta in belt 3Z. Or, as it was known in the native language: Oaowortpyooooap. That was pronounced "Springfield."

He found himself wishing he still had his iPad several times a day, especially on deliveries.

Jerry had flown back to Earth once for Summer's graduation but the trip took him almost an entire day (having underestimated the time it would take to reach Earth, he missed Summer's graduation so she didn't speak to him once while he was visiting). He supposed his ship wasn't as state-of-the-art as Rick's stupid space trash can.

And there it was, a pro among cons. If there was one thing Jerry could truly appreciate, it was the lack of Rick in his life.

Jerry must've jinxed himself, 'cause the moment he started to appreciate the upsides to his otherwise terrible job was also the moment Rick showed up again.

Jerry had just returned from a day of especially exhausting Flim Flam deliveries only to find Rick sitting in the shop with his head stuffed inside the abdomen of the blue, translucent alien. The blue alien seemed to be nodding with every twitch of Rick's head.

Jerry just stood at the door watching this scene unfold. Renchin, the other Kermit, and Scallion were all sitting nearby, chatting as if this were the most normal thing in the world.

Rick put his hands on the table and used them to pull his head back out of the blue guy. He popped free with a wet squelch and wiped his face on the sleeve of his lab coat. "C'mon, Morty, it's your turn. Don't be rude."

It was then that Jerry noticed his son off to the side, rubbing his elbow. Morty blinked as if he didn't quite remember where he was and then he said, "Oh, yeah," before proceeding to stuff his head into the blue dude.

"Morty, what the hell?" Jerry didn't realize that he had even spoken until all eyes in the room locked on his—this was including Morty's, which didn't seem in the least concerned despite being suspended in alien goo.

Jerry couldn't help noticing that pretty much every single one of his coworkers tensed up at his presence. He tried not to be offended. Maybe they were just xenophobic. Maybe this is how black people feel all the time, Jerry pondered.

"Jerry," Rick rolled his eyes and adjusted his positioning so that his long legs were splayed out under the table. He had about ten Klammy Tam cards in his hands, fanned out like the group was just starting a game. "Stay out of it. Obviously, Morty is politely greeting one of our hosts. Not that you'd know anything about being polite…"

"That was unnecessarily rude," murmured Jerry, shrugging off his Flim Flam delivery boy jacket.

"Hey, Jerry," Renchin called without turning around. His eyes were glued to his Klammy Tam hand. "Why don't you, uh, go get us some beers or somethin' from the club across the street?"

Jerry grimaced. He'd never actually ventured that far from the shop before… well, y'know, aside from all his deliveries, but that was different. And besides, Jerry knew they just wanted to get rid of him, so he decided to offer an alternative. "Uh, if it's okay, I'm just gonna go lie down…"

"No, c'mon, Jerry," Rick's bony hand buried itself into the neck of Morty's t-shirt and tugged hard until Morty came bursting out of the blue alien with a wet pop. Morty blinked away the slime on his face. "Take Morty, it'll be fun."

"Take me whuh?" But even as he asked the question, Morty was wandering over to Jerry. Morty was subservient in a way Jerry could only dream of being.

...

Jerry would never admit it if asked, but it was Morty who took the lead—Morty who walked across the parking lot to the liquor store, Morty who asked for the cashier's opinion on a few brands of beer, and Morty who finally coaxed a few flurbos from Jerry's pocket so he could pay for the final choice.

"You get used to it, dad." Morty said this as he scooped up the bag of beers.

Jerry ran a hand through his hair. He smelled like Flim Flam grease. "Morty, I appreciate you trying to make this all a bit less weird, but it's different for you. You get to go home to Earth." He sighed and looked out the window at the perpetual night sky that shone through the asteroid's thin, almost nonexistent, atmosphere. There was no sun, unless you counted a burning mass suspended amid the rest of the stars, easily outshining them. Still, it failed to light up A-Beta-3Z.

Morty seemed irritated when Jerry looked back at him. "C-c'mon, dad, it's not that bad. You're not stuck here, you've got the van."

Jerry opened the glass door of the liquor store for his son, frowning. "I don't expect you to understand, son."

"Well, jeez, dad, if you wanna be like that, be like that! But you're just making it worse for yourself." Morty walked quickly past Jerry.

"Okay, Mr. Space Expert, how do you suggest I approach this situation then?"

Morty didn't answer for a moment and Jerry took the opportunity to grab the beer bag from his hands. It made him feel a bit more… normal, to be carrying groceries across a parking lot. Like in just a few minutes, he'd be driving their old sedan back home. Like Beth would be waiting with dinner and a frown, Summer with her constant apathy… Jerry tried to blink away the memories.

"Well," began Morty, oblivious to the hand-off of the beer bag, "First off… I mean, dad, besides Rick, you have the coolest job of-of anyone on earth. So there's something, right? You get to, to go all over space, delivering those flams or whatevers, and it's like a normal thing for you. How cool is that?"

Jerry frowned and looked away. Morty just didn't get it. Yeah, space was objectively impressive, but it wasn't like Jerry ever wanted to be an astronaut. Not since before he found out he was bad at school, at least. Morty was different in that way. Morty never really understood his inadequacy. He loved space the way he loved Rick—without ever realizing either thing was far beyond his comprehension.

But Jerry knew better.

Christ, he needed a drink. Jerry looked wistfully down at the grocery bag swinging by his side. "Do you think Rick would mind if I took one of these beers?"

"Oh, I-I dunno about that, dad," Morty peeked into the bag. "Beers out here aren't like the ones back home."

Jerry sighed. "They're probably not lite either."

"Yeah, prolly not."

Jerry and Morty continued their walk across the pothole-ridden lot, deftly dodging the glow-worm parasites that regularly reach through cracks in the asphalt. Morty's eyes were on the black horizon and Jerry's traveled across the neon street signs. From a distance, Jerry was sure, they looked like father and son. But sometimes Jerry was afraid he is becoming less and less of a father to Morty.

The insecurity was chased away by the light of Morty's smile when he caught sight of a strange plant sprouting in a crater.

"H-hey, dad, look at that! Look at that wacky plant. What do you think–how do you think that plant—do you think it needs water?" Morty beamed up at Jerry.

Jerry smiled back. Now, this was more like it—this is how he was used to talking to his son. Back when they used to garden together, Jerry was always the expert, the one Morty looked up to. Jerry had quite loved that, especially since while Jerry knew quite a lot about plants, he was very poor at caring for them. Morty, on the other hand, was always a natural.

Jerry remembered that, while earth was under Federation control, he and Morty had easily drifted back into the habit of gardening every evening. Jerry had been worried Morty would feel to worldly (or universely?) for mere gardening, but Morty didn't seem very bothered by Rick's absence at all, and this gave Jerry hope for their father-son relationship—that is, until Jerry saw the look of unrestrained joy on Morty's face when he emerged from the portal with Rick on the day the Federation collapsed.

Even though Rick likely had no idea that Morty was a special kid, Morty went crawling back to the guy. Just like Summer, and just like Beth…

"Dad?" Morty peered up at Jerry.

Jerry's shook himself again, straightening. He peered down his nose at the spiraling plant in the crater at their feet—it looked almost like a cluster of Morning Glories, only the flower petals appeared to be leathery in texture and the greenery itself was black with glowing green veins.

"Hmm. I'm not sure, son. I suppose it must be like one of those cave plants, though. It's always dark here."

He looked at Morty, who had by now kneeled to examine the plant. Jerry noticed, however, that Morty did not dare reach out to touch it, and this was something he could understand. They weren't in Kansas anymore—nothing was safe, no matter how innocuous it appeared.

"So, Morty." Morty hummed in response, having gathered a stick with which to play with the leaves of the plant. "You're still into plants, huh?"

Morty nodded, looking sort of dazed in a way Jerry chose not to question. "Yeah, they're pretty cool, I guess."

"Does…. Rick know?"

At this, Morty looked up, his expression twisted. The whites of his eyes looked greenish in the dim light of the parking lot. "I don't know, does it matter?"

Jerry shrugged. "I'm just saying, I think a real grandfather would know this stuff about his grand–"

"Aw, jeez, Dad." Morty sighed and stood up, brushing pebbles from his jeans. Jerry noticed that he was swaying. He still held the twig in one hand. "Stop worrying about Rick so much. Y'know, he's not such a—he's an okay guy."

Jerry huffed and put down the bag of beers, shaking out his arm afterwards. Damn, those things were heavy. "You guys are—he's insane!" He pointed accusingly at the Flim Flam restaurant. Meanwhile, Morty blinked… really slowly. His eyes were closed for a good minute and he swayed on his feet some more. But Jerry was too caught up in his own frustration to think much of it. "You guys are always defending him, but he's crazy! He's crazy! A-a-and toxic, and when are you gonna realize it? Morty!" Jerry softened, bending to meet Morty's unfocused gaze. "Morty, I don't want you to end up like your mom. You know I love her, but she's got, like… stockholm syndrome! I just don't want you to have to grow up like that, always feeling…" Jerry trailed off. He wasn't sure how to complete his thought. Always feeling like what?

Morty rubbed at his temples. He opened his mouth, "Ughr, my head hurts. And… and y'know, dad, maybe–" He stopped, his hands flying up to grip at his t-shirt, his entire body going rigid. "Uhrhrhghhhg…"

"Whoa, Morty," Jerry placed his hands on Morty's shoulders. His skin was hot, through the yellow fabric of his t-shirt. "Jesus, are you okay?"

Morty gurgled out a few more sounds, expression caught in a moment of despair. Then he let out a gasp, all the air spilling from his lungs. "Aw, jeez, I don't feel so good."

"Yeah, you don't look so great either," murmured Jerry, feeling a twang of sympathy for his son despite his earlier frustration. His eyes wandered down to Morty's clenched fist. Sticking out of his left hand was the twig he had picked up earlier.

Morty started gurgling again, tensing as his abdomen rippled ominously. The whites of his eyes were tinted green, Jerry observed, but that was the last thing he could see before Morty bent to puke all over the lovely flowers. The vomit was all green and glowy; the plant crumbled into dust under its obvious toxicity.

"Get–" Morty gasped, "Get Rick."

Jerry felt something like a stab to his gut. Right. Because Jerry wasn't man enough to deal with this kind of thing. He mentally slapped himself—really, that was his thought right now?! Jerry released Morty and Morty fell to his hands and knees.

Jerry rushed back to the Flim Flam restaurant to interrupt what looked like a booming game of Klammy Tams. Rick took one look at the image of Morty collapsed on the parking lot before throwing down his hand.

"For fuck's sake, Jerry, you-you, I leave you for one minute and you kill my grandson!" He bolted to the doors, leaving Jerry with one more comment: "And you forgot the beers!"

.

A/N:

Up next—Rick and Jerry's first adventure, precipitated by Morty's accidental poisoning, yooo.

OTHER NOTES:

This chapter gave me a lot of problems so please let me know what you think, what I could improve on, etc. Also, if you wanna be my beta buddy, please let me know because I'd like my posts to be more developed than they are at the moment.