Have Knives, Will Travel - Part II

DAY 2

 

There is nothing to kill the second day. 

The whole day is spent in the packing room, breaking down and packaging beef—no orders for pork to fill today—and of course, harassing and haranguing each other every chance we get.  I settle right in to wrapping; it’s hard for me not to gravitate to the grunt work, it’s what I’m used to.

Travis is older, wears cammo overalls (which I love), and works quietly.  He’s the kind of person I’d hang out with at one of my biker bars back home.  He is using their Dick Machine to stuff one-pound packages of hamburger.  (It’s not really a Dick Machine, but it has the same kind of nozzle, and in my mind I can’t help but identify it with our sausage stuffer.) 
He hasn’t taught me anything yet, so I ask him to walk me through what he’s doing.  This Dick Machine doesn’t have the manual arm crank like ours; it is electric, and has a pedal at about knee height that you lean against to make meat shoot out the nozzle at the top—not the bottom, like ours—into the plastic packaging that you are holding over it. 

He makes it look easy; he is smooth, quick, and efficient.  When I try it, I can’t quite get the knack for how fast the grind comes out. I am left with various sizes of “one-pounders,” and a pile of extra meat I had to scoop out of the ones I filled too full.

We chat a little bit about how long he’s worked here, the other meat packing plants he’s worked at, how young he was when he started. 

“And now I’m the oldest guy here,” he concludes.

“Bullshit!  You don’t look a day over thirty-five.”

Just then Eli turns away from the piece of meat he is boning out.  “Dude, are you hitting on Travis???”

I shrug, “Maybe.”  I’m not; I only say that because there’s a minor possibility that it’ll get under the other guys’ skin (because there is no mistaking my distinct lack of flirting with them). 

 

They are still harping on me to hit on Evan, in hushed tones in the break room.

            “Come on, just, you know . . . do that thing where you stand real close right up next to him and rub your boobs on him.”  Eli—and Rob—demonstrate . . . simultaneously . . . on me. 

            I just wanted to get some coffee to warm up my hands, damnit.  “You guys are giving me pointers on how to flirt??  I think you just want an excuse to rub up against me.  And where are you getting your source documentation on this alleged ‘boob rub’ technique?”  Especially since I don’t have any.

            Incidences of this sort—where assumptions are made about me because of my gender—occur frequently throughout my visit.  After Day 1 of work Sawyer texted Eli half the night asking if we were “sucking face.”  I suggested Eli respond that no, I was saving myself for Evan.  When the final verdict came in after Day 3 that I had in fact not come all the way down here just to hook up with Eli, it was concluded that clearly I must be a “dyke.” 

            When Eli and I go get coffee the morning of Day 2, we encounter a few of his local admirers.  At a pause in their fawning, he introduces me as his friend, in town helping at the butcher shop.

            “Oh nice to meet you!  Good luck with him, honey.”

            “I’m not—” here for him.  I don’t bother saying the last part because they’re not bothering to listen.

 

            For lunch, Sawyer brought ham and bean soup in a crock pot and Rob smoked a chicken.  The skin was hard—needed butter underneath.  I am prompted to brag about our pork/poultry rub and Rob asks me to send some back with Eli next time he’s in St. Louis.  He also assigns us the task of using the leftover chicken to make Eli’s chicken salad for tomorrow’s lunch. 

            While we’re sitting around eating, we cuss and burp freely.  Rob walks by right as I expel a particularly raunchy burp and comments, “And ya wonder why you’re single?”

            Nope, I know exactly why I’m single.  “It is a mystery, Boss.” 

            I’ve been calling everyone “Boss” since I’ve been here.  Hey, they got an apprentice for a few days, so they all just received temporary promotions; might as well let them enjoy it, right?

 

            I’m burnt out on wrapping, so I switch to boning.  (Cutting good meat off of hard fat and bone to use for stew meat or the grind; get your minds out of the gutter!)  Eli thinks it’s funny to give me a cow neck, because it’s difficult to get all the meat out from between the oddly shaped vertebrae.  But I need to work on my knife skills, so I slowly, slowly whittle this hunk of meat down, at times only pulling off tiny red shreds of meat.  In the amount of time it takes the others to get through half a cow worth of scraps, I finish this one piece, and even when I’m “done,” it still looks like a big hunk of meat, barely any bones visible.

As we’re working, Evan asks me how long I’m staying.

            “I’m leaving tomorrow night.”

            Eli shouts from across the room, “Yeah, so I only got one more night to get in them panties!”

            I don’t have to say anything; I just shake my head and flip him the bird.

Sometimes the shop will get in quarters or sides of beef that were slaughtered at USDA-regulated slaughterhouses.  We are working on putting together an order on one of these when Sawyer stops what he’s doing and holds up a palm-sized piece of fat with purple ink on it.

            He points to it, “You see that?”

            I nod.

            “That right there . . . is Government.  Inspected.  Shit.” 

Literally.  There is a slight smear of fecal matter right over the stamp.

“That’s what the government says is okay to put in your body!”

Eli chimes in sarcastically, “But, the government would never do anything to hurt us!”

I add, “If the government says it’s okay, it must be, because the government knows what’s best for us!” 

Obviously this shop is not USDA regulated.  Funny, though, they don’t seem to have any trouble getting all the shit off of their meat. . . .

 

Evan has an aversion for physical contact (which is why they think it’d be so funny for me to hit on him), so the guys at the shop try to touch him every opportunity they get.  Rob will walk by him and smack his ass; Sawyer will try to get a hug out of him; Evan fends them all off with rigid determination.  I am leaning over Eli’s shoulder watching him wrap something, and he sees this as an opportunity to demonstrate to Evan (on me) how physical contact with a member of the opposite sex is okay.

            “See look, I can put my arm around her—”

            I jab him in the upper ribs with my elbow till he lets go (twice).  I think I might’ve hurt him.  I feel kind of bad.  Also, now Evan will probably think twice before putting his hands on a girl.

 

A local woman who raises goats has decided to start using her goats for meat, but she wants to try out a few recipes first.  Not wanting to waste a “good” goat on her experimentations, she sent in a pygmy goat to be slaughtered and butchered.  The slaughtering took place before I came down; today we need to fill the order.  Eli says he doesn’t like doing goats, because to kill them you just clamp their mouths shut with your hand while you slit their throats.

Evan and I stand over the tiny carcass, which looks almost like a toy; hide-less, headless, foot-less, the meat is rubbery and dark red—almost purplish.  Evan is looking up instructions on the internet. 

“It can’t be that much different from lamb, can it?” I ask.  “And lamb is just like pig. . . .”

“I’ve never done lamb before.”

I gasp in false shock, “You mean I’ve butchered something that you haven’t???”

Eli overhears and remarks, “I’m sure you’ve done lots of things he hasn’t.” 

It’s true.  For starters, Evan’s never kissed a girl. 

While Evan saws the goat apart, I bone out the pieces he tosses to me.  It almost doesn’t seem worth it, there is so little meat—barely a pound of stew meat or grind.  I’m still packaging the order after everyone else has finished up what they were doing, and Evan has already gone home (since he arrives early to do the slaughtering, he doesn’t stay for cleanup). 

I overhear Rob mutter in the break room, “The only person not getting paid is the only one still working. . . .” 

            I look up; Eli and Sawyer and having coffee while they wait for me to finish, so we can all start cleaning.

            Rob continues, “You know, when Eli told me he had a female friend interested in coming in and learning, first thing I asked was, ‘Is she hot?’”

            We all laugh, but I don’t find it as funny as the rest of them.  I know that’s just “a guy thing” to say, but I begin to wonder, is this really the only reason I’ll be afforded any opportunities in this field?  (Or in life for that matter?)  I don’t think I’ve given this as much consideration as I probably should have, and now it’s pecking at my brain.  When people mention my looks, I shrug it off; I’m just a tomboy, not a “hot chick.” 

A few years ago, this would never have even been a factor.  Maybe it’s because I didn’t take very good care of myself back then, maybe it’s because I’ve never paid it much attention, maybe I’m straight up in denial, but it seems like lately this is a factor of my being that is continually pointed out to me—almost painfully.  Physical beauty is subjective and fleeting; I don’t measure my value (or anyone else’s) by it, but clearly some people do, and maybe I need to open my eyes.

Eli would say, hey, I’ve been dealt a good card in this hand; I should play it—use it to my advantage.  In this industry, though—and most other aspects of my life—I see it as a distinct disadvantage.  People take one look at me and make a snap judgment.  They expect me to be one thing; I am something else entirely.  So what do they see?  “Oh, the cute little girl wants to get bloody with the big boys?  Sure, give her a knife and let her run along, but keep an eye on her.”  They expect me to fail.  That just means I have to work twice as hard to prove myself. 

So what should I do then?  Give up on trying to achieve this insane dream of mine, which means being a woman in an industry of men?  Or should I give in to peoples’ expectations of me?  Be the “girlie” girl they presume me to be upon first glance?  Or how about the opposite—stop taking care of myself so they don’t see me that way?  I wonder how differently I’d be treated then. 

I really don’t think any of that bullshit’s good enough reason to change anything about myself, internal or external.  I’m not special:  there are tons of women who work in the culinary world, and they are some truly tough broads.  Time to suck it up and quit being a whiney little bitch.  There is no reason why I shouldn’t be able to wear eyeliner while I skin a hog.  ‘Cause goddamnit, I make this shit look good. 

Well that was a long introspective tangent.  Lately this blog has gotten a lot more personal than I initially intended it to be.  I didn’t see it getting very personal at all, until I realized that I am a character in this story, too.  Point of fact, I am the main character (and how weird is it that I’m just now realizing this?).  But this is my journey after all.  It is personal.  So I guess somewhere along the line this blog became about more than just meat.

 

 

A peek inside the beef cooler!