A Day in the Knife Of . . .

Autumn is settling into St. Louis quite comfortably.  The sky is clear and bright, the air crisp and tinged with the scent of burning wood. 

I haven’t showered since Thursday (it’s Saturday).  Got to my day job yesterday; my undershirt was on backwards and inside out.  I’d only gotten like two hours of sleep the night before, but it was totally worth it.  It was Halloween, after all, my favorite holiday. 

There’s a slight headache forming in the back of my brain while I examine the ever-present circles under my eyes . . . I slept eleven hours last night.  I almost feel hungover, but I didn’t have a drop of alcohol last night.  Drank enough Thursday to cover both days.  That ghost-pepper moonshine—

Ugh.  I’d forgotten about that shit.  And the four-five shots of saké we had at dinner.  No wonder I was putting my clothes on backwards yesterday!  But it was a birthday party for my beautiful, talented, sweet sexy red-headed friend (the girl dating a Schnucks butcher from this post).  I gave her beef jerky.  The next day she posted on my Facebook wall for all the world to see: 

So I promised that I would save some of the Most Incredible Jerky Ever for my boyfriend but I thought I would have myself a nibble or two.  I was kind of worried that I might not be able to stop at just a little but decided it was worth the risk.  Surprisingly enough I only had one piece!  And it was not because I exerted any kind of self-control, either, because honestly I’m not wired for that.  I think I . . . I think I Respect it.  Your jerky is so good I have developed emotion for it. 

            My response?

            “It’s always better when you can make it last longer . . . and longer . . . and longer . . .”

            “I’ve heard that!  Your meat makes me a believer.”

            Also, “Meat Emotions” would make a great band name. 

            Grab a pair of dirty jeans out of the laundry basket; pull them on over the five pounds I’ve recently gained.  Worse than the added weight is the muscle that I lost while injured.  It might sound vain or stupid, but as skinny as I was, it’s made a substantial difference in my composition. 

Throw on a long sleeved thermal, standard black t-shirt, plaid flannel on top.  Start rolling the sleeves up on the flannel, find something crusted inside the cuff.

Guess the last time I wore this was at the shop.  Washer must’ve missed that bit.

. . . I hope I’ve washed this since the last time I was at the shop. . . . 

Take my mouth guard to the bathroom—I call it a grinder since its purpose is protecting me from grinding my teeth down to the gums while I sleep.  Get a look at myself in the mirror; go back to the bedroom, grab a bandana, return to the bathroom and pull my hair back underneath said bandana, because ew.  Fill grinder container with warm water, drop a tab of denture cleaner in the water. 

Being 14 and learning that you’re gonna have to wear this thing to bed every night from now on . . . kind of a pain in the ass.  When your mom comes home one day and says, “I got you some denture cleaner at the store sweetie!” it’s strange and a little embarrassing.  When you’re 19 years old and your boyfriend comes to visit you at college for the first time, finds the box of Efferdent you keep hidden under the sink, and asks, “Why the hell do you have this?” it’s sort of mortifying. 

When you’re 29 and you go to the store for supplies, and you stand in the dental aisle comparing prices on denture cleaner while people twice your age file past, taking nothing more than mouthwash and moving on, you sigh and carry on.  And when the cashier ringing you out tries unsuccessfully to conceal either confusion or a mocking grin, you kind of want to hurdle the scanner, grab him/her by the collar of their stupid corporate red polo shirt and scream, “Judge me all you want bitch, but those khakis make your ass look fat!” but instead you stand there, hot-faced, hoping your cheeks aren’t as flushed as they feel, swipe your debit card as quickly as possible (no cash back damnit just get me out of here!), and hustle your ass back to the car like a bat out of hell.  It’s like buying condoms:  despite empirical evidence that you are getting laid, that twinge of embarrassment still surfaces—maybe not as prominently as the first time you did, but it’s still there. 

Eli texts me while I’m getting ready.

“Are you available this afternoon?”

The fuck?  “Available”?  I’m gonna see his ass tonight, what now?

“I’m working; why, what’s up?”
            He needed a ride to pick up his new truck.  “Who fucking uses semicolons in a text message?  You do.”

“Fuck yeah semi-colons, I have an English Degree.” 

“Good to see you figured out a way to use it.”  Smartass.  “You’re single handedly attempting to keep the English language alive:  one text message at a time.

Too bad it hasn’t rubbed off on me.  Feel free to edit the above statement.”

“Here’s your edit:  ‘The Butcher’s Apprentice, ravishing beauty and expert chef, graces the world with her memoirs,’ LOL.”

“I like the edit.  You’re gonna have to prove it though.”

I’m fairly certain he’s well aware of my ravishing beauty, so I’m just going to assume he’s referring to my cheffing skills. 

I sit down on the edge of my bed to slip on socks.  Before putting shoes on, I try to force-bend the toes on my bad foot a little bit.  It feels torpid, too-tight—like a rubber band stretched to the brink—a little painful.  I can bend them backwards—standing on my tiptoes or doing Downward Dog in yoga—but going the other direction, curling them under . . . the right foot is far more flexible than my dominant foot.  I think it might be permanent, but still I try to stretch and flex them once in a while.   

There’s a love song on the radio, sung sweetly by a girl with a dulcet voice.  I can’t remember if I had a CD in; I hit the button and Devil Makes Three comes on. 

“Said it ain’t nobody’s . . .

dirty business how my . . .

baby treats me;

nobody’s business but my own.” 

Much better. 

Someone bought the building next door to us—where I normally park to give customers more spaces in our own lot—so I can’t park there anymore.  When I pull into our parking lot a little after 9 a.m., I find an unfamiliar man tossing empty boxes in the dumpster.  I introduce myself as I enter through the back door.

            He smiles, “Well, Burt said you was pretty.” 

            I’m caught off my guard; it’s too early for this shit, I haven’t even finished my coffee yet.  I simply laugh and say “Bullshit.”

            Once inside, the new guy—whose name is Miles—sidles up behind Burt, who is bent over, meticulously trimming tenderloin.

            “I told her you said she was pretty.”

            As I slip an apron on, I remark, “Yeah and I said ‘that Burt is a liar.’”

            Burt doesn’t look up from what he’s doing.  “You’re not supposed to tell her that. . . .”

            I think, but don’t say, Especially in the workplace.  That’s kind of illegal.  “I might have to leave early today, boss.”

            “That’s fine.  How come?”

            “I’m supposed to help out with this show . . . but they won’t get back to me about what time they need volunteers.”

            “What show?”

            “The Zombie Squad burlesque show.  They asked me to help three months ago, then never said another word about it, and now I can’t get anyone to respond to my messages.  If they expect me there in costume before doors . . . well, they better get back to me soon.”

            “Costume?  What are you going as?”

            “Dead Frida Kahlo.  We’re supposed to pick our favorite dead celebrity, and . . . it’s a long story, but I picked her.”  I’d hoped we would have another Dia de Los Muertos show this year, but unfortunately they decided to change the theme this time.  Naturally, out of spite, I picked a Mexican celebrity, because I’m tan and I can pull it off.  I thought, Well if I can’t be a Day of the Dead Mexican . . . I’m still going to be a dead Mexican. 

I remembered studying Frida in high school Spanish class; she fascinates me because she is both bizarre and beautiful.  Reacquainting myself with her biography, I found more similarities between us than I imagined.  She is actually half-Jewish on her father’s side, and part Native American on her mother’s.  (I’m part Jewish on my mother’s side.)  She suffered many physical injuries in her lifetime, like me; several to her right leg (my injuries occur more predominantly on the left).  Her paintings reflect her pain.  One of her most famous quotes is, “I paint self-portraits because I am so often alone, because I am the person I know best.”  I live alone; I go everywhere alone; I do everything alone.  Even at events packed with people, I sometimes feel lonely; I show up alone and I leave alone.  I never thought I’d be a blogger, but they say write what you know. . . .

Everything Frida did was a rebellion against something.  She broke all the rules; she was no ordinary woman, painter, or Mexican.  She gave herself a second birthday, because she wanted people to associate her with the Mexican Revolution.  She contracted polio at six years old, but when she was younger—before her trolley accident—she boxed.  She could have painted herself any way she wanted to, but she painted herself as she was:  brutal, stark, natural.  Frida had affairs with both women and men—including one with Leon Trotsky while he and his wife were living with her!  Even though she’s considered a Mexican painter, she used Native-American imagery in her paintings, and she used Mexican imagery in non-traditional ways. 

Needless to say, I find I’ve fallen quite in love with Miss Kahlo.

I was Living Frida for Halloween; she was very well-received.  When I was shopping for the costume, I got a lot of blank stares and “Who?”s.  (Look people, I went to public school, okay?  I thought this was common knowledge!  Plus, they made a movie about her, with Selma Hayek, not some unknown D-lister!)  Lucky for me, many of my friends are quasi-intellectuals, so the worst I got was, “Oh you’re the unibrow chick!  Damnit, what’s her name again?”

            Interrupting my reverie, Burt asks, “So what are you doing in this show?”

            “Oh, probably just working the merch booth or cleaning the stage.”

            It’s hot in here.  Why is it so hot in here?  I take off the apron I just put on and strip down to my t-shirt, and get to work.   

            A week ago Tommy walked out on the job.  Hasn’t worked since.  He came by yesterday twice, to try and work, but Burt sent him away.  Burt and Grace are still trying to decide whether or not to allow him back. 

            Burt rattles off four or five things that need to get done today.  Still too early for me to process all of this. 

            I stop him.  “What do you want me to do now?”

            “Oh.  Cut up pork tenderloin for orders.”  He hands me three order slips:  two pounds, three pounds, nine pounds.  Two of them also call for beef tenderloin.  “It’s cooling in the walk-in right now.”

            So I slice up fourteen pounds of pork tenderloin; my out-of-practice hand cramps up quickly and frequently.  I go in the back to wash off the cutting board, where Miles is working.

            “You don’t got to do that; I’ll do that.  You’re too pretty to be washin’ dishes.”

            Dude.  You gotta knock that shit off. 

            “It’s my job,” is all I say.

            I’m not so salty these days.  I’m playing soccer again, running—slower, but running nonetheless.  And I am happy.  Such a simple creature, am I.

            Burt comes back and asks if I have the order for Mrs. Whatever.  I say check the case where we keep the orders, I did all the ones he gave me.  Mrs. Whatever’s order is still stuck on the bulletin board—stating a pickup time of noon.  It is 10 a.m.  Why didn’t I do that one?  Why didn’t he hand me that one like he did all the other orders?  Now I get to slice up five pounds of pork while the customer waits impatiently, tapping her foot and glaring at me, boring holes into the back of my neck with her eyes. 

            Go back to rinse off the cutting board yet again so I can start slicing the beef next.  Miles comes back and says Burt needs me out front. 

            “Yes Burt what do you need.”

            “We’re pretty slammed, can you help some customers?”

            Sure thing boss.

            Guess what?  One of those customers is here to pick up his order, early.  What was on his order?  Beef tenderloin.  Slice, slice, slice. . . . Glare, glare, glare. . . .

            After that rush dies down, I slice the rest of the beef tenderloin for orders.  While in the middle of that, Burt drops a small white paper bag next to me. 

            “Fritter.  Breakfast.”

            I don’t even allow myself a peek inside the bag.  “Uhh . . . no thanks, I’m good.”  You don’t need that, fatty. Yes I actually think like that sometimes.  I have what I refer to as “Fat-Kid Syndrome”:  a condition where a person used to weigh a lot more than they currently do (about 35 pounds more in my case), they worked really hard to drop all the weight, and now whenever they gain half an ounce they experience severe paranoia that they’re losing control and the weight is coming back.   

Burt continues, “We need to grind fifteen pounds of beef and ten pounds of pork so I can make andouille.” 

My eyes widen.  Twenty-five pounds of meat?  That kind of production work should not be done on our busiest day; that’s the kind of thing that needs to happen during the week. 

“Are you saying you want me to drop what I’m doing and go grind that up now?”

“Oh; no; just, whenever we get the chance, someone needs to do it.”

I repeat:  “What do you want me to do, right now?”
            “Finish up orders.”

Okay.   

While cleaning the cutting board in back (again), the timer goes off for wings in the smoker.  Everyone else is busy, so I take them out, pile them in a tray, and set them on top of the case to tempt customers with their luscious scent.  I return to the back room to scrub the racks that the wings were cooked on, so that we can smoke ribs next.  The racks seem crustier than usual; with a sinking feeling I wonder when the last time was that they were proper washed.  I check the box where they’re normally stacked once they’re cleaned; two more racks lean within, begrimed as the ones I just pulled from the smoker.  I bring them over to the sink for a good cleansing as well.  Burt treads past, spies me at work, says, “Don’t worry about those.”

“They’re disgusting.  I’m very worried about them.”

“Fine.  You worry about them then.”

It takes me probably 45 minutes to finish scouring all of them.  At one point Miles leans over my shoulder and whispers, “I tried to clean them, but he told me not to!”

Well they don’t pay me, so I clean what I please.

Burt came across Miles working the meat counter at Restaurant Depot; he’s not a meat cutter, but he’s a hard worker, good listener, and takes direction well.  The extra help is essential right now, with Tommy being (possibly) gone for good.  Plus, Max is visiting family in San Antonio, Cory is working his other job, and Grace is out today as well. 

Nicole arrives with a smile on her face, ready to help as usual.  “There’s donuts back there if you want some!  A customer dropped them off.”

Fuuuck.  No.  No. 

She quarters them and puts them on sample platters for the customers.  Every time I walk by them I think, It wouldn’t be too bad if I just take one . . . it’s only a quarter of a donut, it’s not even a whole donut; that one right there looks good.  Oh my god does that one have chocolate icing and chocolate filling?!?  Who the hell makes these, Satan himself??

I manage to resist for now.   

Around lunchtime I check my messages; the Zombie Squad president has finally responded to my inquiries:  “I will totally get back with you, lady.”

Yeah.  Right.

Nicole pokes her head in the back room, “You want me to run and get you something for lunch, hun?  Want a burger or something?”

“Oh no thanks, I brought lunch today.”

 

Pasta with pancetta and leeks in a white wine cream sauce.  It might not be the healthiest choice, but it’s what I had at home, it was super easy to make, and it’s something portioned out in a container for me.  Better than snagging a few wings here and there, then a piece of jerky, half a donut, then maybe another wing or two.  Though I may have nabbed a couple tiny pieces that fell off the beef tenderloin earlier.  It’s the leanest cut on a cow!

“Did you try the donuts that Will dropped off?”

“No.”  And I’m not going to.

“You should!  He brings them by every weekend now.  Have you met Will?”

“Can’t say I have.”

“Oh, you’d love him!  He’s a fitness guy.”

Are you shitting me?  A “fitness guy” is trying to force feed us the most unhealthy food known to man?  I don’t think I like this Will.   

We’re slammed again, so I take the next customer in line.

“I just need to place an order for a Thanksgiving turkey.  It’s not too early for that, is it?”

Grab a pen and the order pad.  “Of course not; I just need your name, phone number, what size turkey you want, and what day you’ll be picking it up.”

He gives me the info, then adds, “I need a good turkey—no additives or anything.”

“Uh-huh,” I grunt.  Picky bastard.

“I also need two smaller turkeys, for school.”

I ready a new order sheet.  “Okay, how big we talkin’?” 

“I’m not sure.  How much are they?”

“Two seventy-nine a pound.  How many people are you trying to feed?” 

“Could you tell much they are, at like, the store?”

Are you fucking kidding me?  Bitch do I look like I work at “the store”?  You want me to do your shopping for you now, too?  The fuck do I look like?  You want a “store” turkey, go to the goddamn “store”; you want a good turkey—

“I don’t know sir.”

“I’ll hold off on that order for now then,” he says.

“Here, take one of our cards, and if you decide you want to order one, just give us a call.” 

I take nothing home that day, though they ask me to.  Nicole tries to give me cash from the register, then Burt tries to give me cash from his own wallet.

I smile, “I’m all stocked up on food right now, but as soon as I need something, you’ll be the first to know.”

ZS never got back to me, so I guess I can take my time getting ready tonight; maybe have a pre-drink with my date Ally, who is going as Dead Marilyn Monroe.

Nicole walks me out to my car.  “I told Burt that if they don’t bring Tommy back, they need to hire you on and start paying you for your time.”

“Yeah but I can only work weekends.”

“That’s when we need help the most!”

She makes a fair point.

“Is your number on the board in there?” she asks.

“I think it is; but take one of my cards, just in case.”  I hand over a black business card with white skulls and lettering.  One side has my name and phone number; the other reads “Apprentice Butcher.” 

 

 

Dinner is sweet potato bisque; this recipe includes ginger and chipotle peppers in adobo sauce.  Gives it a nice kick—especially when you add a big scoop of the sauce!