A Knife in the Hand & a House on the Rock

I miss having a knife in my hand. 

            Since I quit the shop, I haven’t been doing much with myself now that I’m a butcher-at-large.

            Nothing really productive, at least.

            Turns out, there aren’t many opportunities out there for meat cutters who can only work nights and weekends. 

            I got a promotion at my day job, which makes up for the lost income.

            And man, having weekends off is really nice. 

            I get to sleep in . . . went to Best of the Wurst . . .

saw the US Women’s National Team play against New Zealand (from the front row!) . . .

I’ve gone on motorcycle rides and hikes . . . and road tripped to unlikely places around the Midwest, taking pictures of weird stuff and drinking great beer (LOTS of beer).

 (Okay that one’s actually alcoholic root beer, but it’s 10% ABV.  Ten percent!)

*                     *                      *

After I leave on Valentine’s Day, Nicole walks into the back room to find Burt crumpled over in tears. 

            “What’s wrong?  What happened?”

            “She’s done.  She quit,” he sobs.

            “What?!”

            “She’s gone.”

            It takes Nicole a moment to gather herself, her thoughts and her words.  And then she explodes.  “YOU!  This is all! . . . You!  And Tommy’s fuckery! . . . And bullshit!  You drove her away . . . this is all your fault!”

            “She said she didn’t wanna trim tenderloin anymore,” Burt cries helplessly.

            “I don’t care what she told you, this is because of you two fuck ups!  You think she wants to clean up after you two every day?!  This is just great.  What’re we gonna do without her??”

           

*                      *                      *

Three weeks after V-Day Grace texts me, asking if I want to work on the first nice weekend of the year. 

First of all, WTF no.  I quit means I QUIT.  I don’t wanna spend my beautiful 60-degree weekend in that dank dungeon. 

Second, it’s my big brother’s birthday; I have family shit.

A few days after that, I get a text from a number I don’t recognize:

“Good Morning Sunshine – it’s Nicole , I just found the special place I put Ur card Hope Ur doing good – Keep in touch – miss u !”  Is it bad that I’m about 12 years younger than Nicole, and I have zero friends who text like this?

“Hi Nicole!  Life is good; hope everything’s good on your end.  Miss you too!”

“Good for me – the shop is struggling since Grace put her eggs in the Tommy basket and is forever hopeful that he will b normal ! Burt is doing better – and Miles got a job close to home so – hopeful we can get some good people in there ( it’s killing me) LU kiddo!” 

I use my extensive powers of deduction to conclude that “LU” is short for “Love You.”

“Hope they’re able to find some reliable help.  Remember, it’s not your shop, not your responsibility.  Don’t work too hard =)” I respond.

“I’m trying ( my life is just work rt now . . . God bless when I think about u I say a little pray of pro tection ! Ur awesome!!!  Don’t be a stranger – strange is OK!” 

The last time I saw Nicole, she told me that she had prayed for me to find a man. 

Look here, there are lots of really good reasons to pray:  forgiveness of heinous sins, world peace, starving children in . . . everywhere, cure for cancer, cure for AIDS, Jimi Hendrix to rise from the grave and lead an army of the undead to massacre every major pop star alive today (I’m looking at you, Bieber) . . . you get the picture.  My love life or lack thereof is not justifiable reason to disturb a deity.  I promise you, S/He has more pressing matters to worry about. 

“Thanks lady; don’t worry, you haven’t seen the last of me!”

“Thank God – maybe we can re-invent to something that really grabs U ! We adore u girl ! Take care”

Re-invent, huh?  ‘Cause Burt’s shop is on the cutting edge of what’s trending in the culinary world.  They are a bastion of forward-thinking and adaptation to changes in the marketplace.  Sure.  Let me know when that happens. 

*                      *                      *

Despite the fact that I no longer work there, I must still admit that Burt’s shop does a few things really well, and jerky is one of them.  I’m never without a bag—especially on road trips. 

When I drop in to replenish my supply, Tommy looks a wreck.  He hasn’t shaved in weeks, and has this haphazard goatee thing going on, with random patches of stubble scattered across his cheeks, all heavily interwoven with grey.  He looks like a chubby, tired, poor imitation of a comic book villain.  The case looks damn near empty; not a good sign.

“I don’t have any jerky, I’m sorry.  You’re here for jerky, right?”

I confirm.

“Grace’s been in Italy for two weeks, it’s just been me and Burt here I can’t keep up with everything.”

“It’s okay, I can just get some from the store.”  Who am I kidding?  I’m not gonna go buy store jerky.  I did (however) buy dates, pistachios, and limes from the store in order to make these super delicious energy balls:

Positive:  very few ingredients.

Negative:  putting dates in the food processor makes a sound like Sasquatch flatulence. 

Positive:  they are super tasty, and 100 calories each.

Tommy offers, “I’ll start some jerky first thing in the morning, it’ll be ready by this time tomorrow.”  Great, now I have to come back a second time, I’ve given him something to do.  He waves me around the counter, “Come on back and say hi to Burt—he cut himself.”

I find Burt sitting alone in back, staring glassy-eyed at the floor while pressing a paper towel to his wrist.  The radio is blaring right behind him.  He looks up, it takes him a moment to focus on me, then he smiles in a dazed sort of way. 

He says something, I say something; we can’t hear each other.  He points to the radio; I turn it off.  We say our hellos and he lifts the paper towel away from his wrist; the cut’s not deep, but it’s bleeding pretty fast.  There is a jumble of bloody paper towels in the trash can . . . and on the table next to him . . . and on the floor around his feet.

“It won’t stop bleeding,” he says.

I pull gauze, antiseptic ointment, and tape out of the first aid kit hanging from the wall and bandage him up. 

And he immediately . . . starts crying.

Again.

Why do I make boys cry, why?

I catch bits and pieces of words and syllables in between his blubbering:  “. . . Grace . . . Italy . . . two weeks. . . . Florida before. . . . sister-in-law’s in . . . hospital . . . pancreatic cancer. . . . turned sixty. . . .”

“When was your birthday?” I ask.

“Couple weeks ago.  And look at me . . . bleeding. . . .”

I persist, “When does Grace get back?”

“Tomorrow,” he whimpers.

“When she gets back, it’s your turn for a vacation.”  It’s not a question.

He straightens up.  “I told her that.  Told her I’m sixty, I need help; I can’t do this alone anymore.  Nicole’s got her nephew and nephew’s friend working here; they’re like . . . 20.  You’d like ‘em.  Good lookin’ guys.”

Are you kidding me with this right now?  You’re bleeding out from a wrist wound and not even that can deter you from meddling in my personal affairs? 

By now Burt has bled through the gauze I just put on him, so I grab some more and re-wrap the cut.  Why isn’t he clotting?

That’s when I notice another bandage on his opposite elbow. 

“What is that?  What’d you do there?  Did you cut yourself again?”

“Oh uh . . .” he glances around sheepishly, “I crashed my scooter.  Twice.  In twenty-nine hours.  It totally wasn’t my fault either time.  Completely sober, too. ” 

I bombard him with questions. 

Did he go to the hospital?

Yes.  The cops made him.

Did he have a concussion?

“Well yeah, I was completely knocked out!”

Was he wearing a helmet? 

He points to a shelf on the wall, where a battered full-face motorcycle helmet sits, the visor popping off at an odd angle.  I pop it back in for him—happens to mine all the time.

“Doesn’t matter; cop said I can’t use that one anymore.  I have another on order,” he explains.

“You might want to look into getting a Snell helmet rather than just a DOT one.  The only test they do on DOT helmets is they have to withstand getting hit by a hammer twice in the same place.”  If you’re going to keep doing this. . . .

He changes the topic, “There is some good news in all this.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  You wanna hear it?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you really wanna hear it?”

Do I seem like I don’t want to hear good news?  ‘Cause I’m just reveling in all this tragedy surrounding us right now. . . .

“We made a million dollars last year.”

“What.”

“I did the taxes, and we made nine-hundred seventy-thousand dollars last year.  I have no idea how.”

You have no idea?  You have no idea.  Maybe because you refuse to hire proper full-time employees?  Or because you have your friends’ children come in and work for minimum wage, or less?  Because when you under-order you send Luke Johnson to buy cheap Restaurant Depot meat to restock?  Because you make Tommy work overnight and sleep on the floor in the back?  Because you take orders for sold-out product?  Or how bout this one:  I gave up my weekends to come in and work my ass off for you, did better work than the guy whose name is on the building, and you had the nerve to pay me barely half of what I make at my office job?

I want a god damn raise. 

Instead of that, I only say, “So clearly . . . you can afford to hire the help that you need.  No more overnight shifts.  Delegate.”

“Can you tell Grace that?  Because she thinks that Tommy and I can handle everything.”

Clearly.  As evidenced by the current state of things. 

I have to get going.  I have a game tonight, and too many other errands to run before I leave town—especially now that I have to make a second trip back here tomorrow night.

*                      *                      *

            “What’re we goin’ to Iowa for?”

            Ally sighs, “Wisconsin.  We have to stop planning things while you’re drinking.”

            “And yet here we are, and I owe Sophie twenty-five bucks for an AirBNB I had no idea we were booking.  So again I ask:  what’re we goin’ to Wisconsin for?”

            Much like myself, you’re probably sitting there wondering what kind of “weird” and “interesting” shit there is to see driving around the boring ol’ Midwest.  I mean, isn’t everything out here flat farmland till you hit Chicago?  Well my friends, you’re in luck; you can experience the thrills of the open road without ever leaving your comfy desk chair.  Just sit back, relax, and behold . . . !

Henry’s Route 66 Rabbit Ranch:

            

            Deer made out of car bumpers:

            The Bicentennial Bison:

            House on the Rock was truly something at which to marvel:

           

House on the Rock is a complete misnomer.

It’s not a house.

It’s a sprawling above- and underground complex.

Weaving in and out and over and around the rock.

At times disorienting; at others disturbing.

There is no denying its beauty.

Or its brilliance.

(Self-playing instruments)

            

(If you stare at the carousel long enough, your head spins and the carousel seems to stand still.)

            Butcher Troll in Troll Town, USA:

            Found where the circus sleeps in the middle of Wisconsin farmland:

            New Glarus:

            (Of course we stopped in the slaughterhouse):

            Circus town, USA:

            Cheese Castle:

            Giant Robot made of junk:

            And . . . Chicago:

            Chicago . . .

            Chicago . . . is a pretty neat place.  We ate at a little restaurant that only had five tables, and one 70-year-old Korean lady doing everything—seating, bussing, cooking, cleaning.  Naturally, the Bulgogi Bi Bin Bop was out of this world.  But Chicago . . . is just not my town.  I’m way too country for that place.  St. Louis is my city; I suppose I’m a Missouri girl after all. 

*                      *                      *

When I make my return trip for the jerky, only Tommy and Nicole are working; Burt and Grace are nowhere to be found.  Tommy bags me up almost a pound of jerky, even though I only wanted half.  He doesn’t charge me, then goes and hides back in his office, leaving Nicole and I to chat.

“We miss you so bad.  You know what they’ve been doing, since you left?  They buy pre-cut filets.”

My eyes bulge.  “How are those working out?”

“They’re awful, but at least we have something to give to customers when Tommy’s up to his eyeballs in meat.  I brought my nephew in, and one of his friends—they’re cuties,” she adds, winking at me. 

Enough.  I shake my head.

“You were in here yesterday, right?  You saw Burt?”

I nod.

“Guess what he did last night?”

I can’t even begin to.

“Fell down the stairs, broke his nose, and gave himself two black eyes.  Went to the emergency room.”

That poor guy’s a mess.

“He always does this.”

“Does what?” I ask.

“Whenever Grace leaves town, right before she gets back he finds some way to hurt himself so that she feels bad for leaving.”

I may miss having a knife in my hand, but this?

This . . . I don’t miss.

While I’m reassured that I made the right decision in leaving, I’m still wondering what the hell to do with myself.  In the meantime, though, I’m keeping plenty busy.  Just . . . nothing involving knifeplay. 

So even though I may have quit . . . I haven’t given up.  Not yet.