Ted’s a good guy, but he’s got this rare condition called Blown-Out Heart Syndrome—or BOHS—where about once a day his heart gets blown out his back. It leaves an awful mess. It’s like his body sneezes out his heart and blood and such. I don’t know why. I’m not an expert. But his heart grows back, don’t worry.

Ted hired me in a CleanUp/Caretaker role a while ago. I used to do freelance crime scene cleaning, but now he’s got me on contract. I come in the morning and stay till the evening, waiting for Ted to have a BOHS episode and clean up afterwards. He tries to make it easy on me. For example, he’ll spend most of his day sitting in the living room with his back pointed to a blank wall. That way, if he has a BOHS episode, it’s expelled on a mostly flat surface. He also wears shirts with the backs cut out to help with the spray.

It happens in an instant, a BOHS episode. One second Ted is working on a Sudoku, next he’s getting his heart blown out his back. It’s awfully loud—like an exhaust pipe backfiring—and startles me half the time. I’ll be scrolling on my phone, then BOOM! There’s splatter on the wall, and Ted’s red in the face. He says it doesn’t hurt, but it is embarrassing. He’ll run off to shower while I come in with the hazmat and start wiping and hosing the wall.

Ted will make tea to ease his nerves and say, Sorry about the mess.

And I’ll say, Happens to the best of us, Ted.

*****

Ted’s my boss, but he’s also a pal. We’ll talk about our interests and hobbies—he likes architecture and building Lego whereas I prefer Political Thrillers and Pro-Wrestling—until he has a BOHS episode and it’s back to cleaning.

Ted says his condition started after a bad breakup. A week after she moved out, he’s eating Rocky Road and crying alone when all of a sudden—BOOM! His heart gets blown out his back. He went to the hospital and was diagnosed with Blown-Out Heart Syndrome. Doctor said it’s chronic. Anyway, Ted couldn’t handle the constant clean up and hired me. I don’t mind the sight or stink of blood. I had nosebleeds growing up. I’m numb to it.

*****

Ted’s nervous to leave his home on account of his condition. He gets groceries delivered to the front door, and that’s fine, but I don’t want my pal turning into a hermit. One day I’m cleaning up after an early morning BOHS episode when I say, Why don’t we skip the delivery and get the groceries ourselves?

Ted says, I don’t know. It’s too risky.

I say, You had your episode for the day! I’ll wrap up the cleaning, dispose of the arteries and bits and pieces of heart, and we’ll go. I’ll even drive. You’ll get some fresh air, and you’ll be out and about with people.

Ted’s hesitant, but he says, Oh, all right. We can go.

We’re at Costco, and Ted’s spirits are high. He’s greeting folks, picking out snacks, feeling good, and we get in line to try hunks of black bean burger at a Sample Station. Ted’s active on an online forum with other folks living with BOHS, and someone mentioned a Vegan diet can reduce the frequency of BOHS episodes. But as we’re chewing, Ted gets this look on his face.

Oh, no, Ted says. And then—BOOM! His heart gets blown out his back right there and then. Two episodes per day are uncommon, but not impossible. Plus, Ted was wearing a shirt with the back still attached (on account of us being in public), and that made the spread much worse. The crowd behind us was smothered—I mean drenched—in Ted’s heart and blood and such. They were hollering and shouting and retching. Ted got embarrassed and ran off while I tried explaining, but no one listened. Eventually, security found Ted hiding behind the coffin displays and kicked us out—revoked Ted’s membership, too.

Ted was distraught and took a vow to never again go out in public. Ted’s my pal, so that hurt to hear. He even refused to speak with me. He’d simply have a BOHS episode, smother the wall, and leave the room without saying a word. Sure I was under contract, but cleaning after Ted never felt like work to me. But now, it was like a regular 9-to-5. It didn’t sit well with me.

*****

I called a buddy of mine—Arnold Legume—a former cop who hired me out for crime scene cleanings. He runs a military surplus shop, and when I told him about Ted, he said to come back in three weeks. When I do, Arnold shows me this thing he built—The Unbreachable. It’s a thin Kevlar vest—the same kind war correspondents wear—shaped around an oversized colostomy bag. It’s lightweight, fits discreetly under a standard men’s shirt, and can withstand most handgun calibers. I tell him it’s perfect.

When I arrive at Ted’s, he puts on The Unbreachable, and we wait by the living room wall. One hour goes by, two, then three. Finally, while Ted’s solving his Sudoku, he gets that look, and we hear a muffled pop like an underwater fart. No splatter, no mess, nothing. The wall is spotless, and all the heart meat and blood and such is stored in the extra large colostomy bag. Ted’s shirt isn’t even ruined.

We hug like pals do, and he thanks me for putting up with all his trouble. He says I’ve made his day-to-day a bit easier now.

I say, I know you’d do the same for me.

Ted and I cut our contract short, and I went back to freelance crime scene cleaning. And since I got so good at cleaning Ted’s BOHS episodes, I can charge more and work less. Now, I’ve got time to hang with Ted, and we talk about our interests and hobbies without interruption.

– Michael Lenart