Flayed

“Looks like you’re getting a bath tonight, baby,” I say aloud, my voice oddly muffled inside my helmet.

            The sky to the right of me—south—is a pale blue smattered with white clouds.

            The sky at my left is ominous with black storm clouds. 

            At a stop light, I glance down at the middle finger of my right hand.  It is smeared with blood, but the blood is dry.  Oh good, at least it stopped bleeding.  A flap of skin is clearly separated from the fingertip where it should be attached, and the exposed inside of the digit stings with pain each time I grip the throttle. 

            This has not been a good week for my skin staying affixed to my body. 

            Tuesday night my soccer team had our playoff game for first place.  (This is not a big deal; it happens every six weeks.  It’s indoor soccer:  we don’t have seasons; we have sessions.) 

            I played like shit, and one of my knees took a beating. 

            We still won though—benefits of having a great team in front of me. 

*                      *                      *

            I remembered my knives but forgot my breakfast.

            I rode the Rebel today, (because it’s International Female Riders Day!) and I only have so much room between my backpack and saddlebags. 

            Priorities.

            But I’m starving, and Nicole is sampling smoked beef tenderloin and andouille today, so I help myself.  (Protein!)

            A day when you’re hungry and the only things available to eat are beef tenderloin and house-made andouille . . . is a good day indeed. 

            I’m not the only one in shoddy shape today.

            JohnJack is missing a tooth.  An important one. 

            “Johnny what the hell’d you do to yourself?”

            “Uh . . . I was drinking . . . on a boat last weekend . . . and fell. . . .”

            Well . . . at least he was doing something fun at the time.

            Kyle brings about ten eye of round out of the cooler and sets them on the cutting board. 

            “We’re out of jerky.”

            Yay, fresh jerky today!

            I grab an eye of round and start trimming it.

            “Oh, you got this?” John asks me.

            “I don’t have to do all of it; it’ll go quicker if you help,” I reply.  “Plus, it beats cutting fucking filets for a few minutes.”  I grate the words out through my teeth. 

            He settles up next to me and grabs a slab of meat and a knife for himself.  “So how long have you had a motorcycle?” he asks.  He was sitting out back having a cup of coffee this morning when I stomped past in my boots and leathers, helmet in hand. 

            I answer, “This’ll be my fifth season riding.”

            “Man I’ve wanted one for so long, it’s just a matter of trying to pay my bills and save at the same time, ya know?”  Yes, I know what that’s like.  “But I figure, if I can get like, twenty-five hundred bucks—”  (Holy shit, kid.)  “—I could maybe get an older one off Craigslist.  Is Craigslist a good place to buy bikes?”

            “Yeah, everyone puts their bikes on Craigslist.  It’s where I got mine.”  For a lot less than twenty-five hundred.  “You can get a really good starter bike for twenty-five hundred.  Just buy between November and February—they’re cheaper then.” 

            “Really?  That’s good to know.”

            In November all the wives say, “You didn’t ride all summer, it’s time to get rid of that thing.”  And in February everyone realizes that riding season’s about to start and they either want a bigger bike or they don’t want to fix all the crap that’s wrong with their current bike. 

            “What’s a good starter bike?” he queries. 

            “Intruders are really good underrated bikes.  And some Honda Shadows.” 

            “Is an Intruder a . . . Kawasaki?”

            “It’s a Suzuki,” I correct him. 

            Frank’s actually learning to ride on one of those right now, on loan from my friend Dick.  Frank was shopping bikes before we met, but convinced himself that a two-seater convertible would be a more accommodating vehicle if he were to meet someone.  Then he met me, and I ruined everything for him. 

            John continues, “Man I’ve wanted a bike since I was like, two years old.”

            “I was that way; I kept telling myself, ‘This is the year, this is the year I get a bike,’ but I never did.  Then I started dating a biker, so I finally bought one, and he dumped me, and I was like, ‘What the hell am I supposed to do with this bike now?’”  I think it worked out pretty well in the end, though. 

            Tommy approaches the board and says, “We need more filets.”

            And just like that, it’s back to the old grind.

*                      *                      *

            A customer calls asking about bone-in filets, which we don’t carry.  Although I suppose we do, technically.  All you’d have to do is cut the strip steak out of a porterhouse, saw off the leftover bone, and what you’re left with is a filet with the rib bone still wrapped around it.  Obviously Kyle didn’t know this, and he didn’t bother asking Tommy about it. 

            This got us talking about other rare cuts of meat (imagine that). 

            Every year, Foster puts on an event called Feast of Kings at his house that coincides with the season premiere of Game of Thrones.  This year was the first year that I was invited!

            . . . . But I was in Columbia visiting my brother that day.

            . . . . And tickets were sixty bucks.  I wasn’t given enough notice to have time to save up for it.

            So I wasn’t able to make it, but I showed everyone pics of the ridiculous creations that Foster and his chef friends (Adam included) made this year:

Triple.  Crown.  Roast. 

Beef.  Pork.  Lamb.

            And how they cooked it:

            “I wanna go to somma these places!” Nicole exclaims.

            “What places?” Gus asks.

            Under my breath I utter, “Places that do meat better than we do.”

            “Like where?  Where’s the best butcher shop?” Gus wants to know.

            Meat Envy, duh. 

            “Why is it the best?” he demands.

            “Because they do whole-animal butchering.”        

            “You mean they actually like . . . butcher animals there?”

            I feel like he’s thinking of slaughtering.  “They get in sides of beef and pork, and break them down, yes.” 

            “Then why don’t you work there?”

            “Trust me dude, I’ve been on them since before day one.  They need full-time people.  Plus, the owner’s a chef, and he wants to get his chef friends in on it.” 

            “Huh.  I’ll have to check it out.”

            I think it’s pretty cool that this kid from deep south county is taking a real interest in meat.  If he wasn’t related to Nicole, he never would’ve started working here, and probably never would’ve given it a second thought. 

           

            My phone rings. 

            I look down.  It’s Corey.

            I answer.  “Hello?”

            “Hey!”

            “Hey, how’s it going?”

            “It’s good, it’s good.  Say, are you at home?”

            “No I’m at the shop.  What’s up?”

            “Well I’m on my way to Microfest from Olivette and I need a sharp knife and a cutting board, and I was trying to think of who I know that lives close to Forest Park and would have something like that. . . .”

            I definitely have those things, here and at home.  But I don’t invite him to drop into the shop.  I know he’s aware that we have those things here, and there’s probably a reason why he drove right past this area and didn’t stop.  I actually have tickets for the 6:30 session of Microfest tonight.  I ask him if he wants me to bring the supplies then.

            “No, it’s cool, I’ll think of something.” 

            So the big bad barbecue pit master of international television fame doesn’t have a single knife on him.  I am gonna give him so much shit when I see him tonight!  I’ll be pulling knives out of every pocket just to see the look on his face.

            He wound up going to a pub in Dogtown and borrowing from them, so it all worked out. 

*                      *                      *

            Tommy finds me peeking around in the cooler, looking for something to do.  Steady Leroy worked this morning, so we have three cases of tenderloin already trimmed up.  I filled all of today’s orders and tomorrow’s, and the Blues game just started so we’re at a lull in customers.  I need something to keep my mind off of how hungry I am, because apparently they are just not feeding us today.  Never fails:  if I bring food, they’ll have donuts and pizza; when I don’t bring food, they got nothing. 

            Tommy grabs a bone-in rib loin primal that looks like it’s been sitting uncovered for at least a week; meaning the outside has darkened and formed a sort of skin, but the inside’s probably still usable. 

            “Here why don’t you bone this out and see if we can use it for steaks.  Have fun.”

            I take the bone off (it feels just like Christmas all over again except I’m not tying the bone back on), but the rest of the loin still has that funky skin on it.

            “Tommy, you think this is usable?”  I’d have to skin the entire thing, and then it would look more like a strip loin than a rib loin. 

            “Yeah the inside looks good; that’s the part I wanna use.  Just take this scoobidy-doo off over here and make some steaks.” 

            “Scoobidy-doo?”  He’s pointing at the strip of fat that runs along one side of the loin that always gets trimmed off.  He does not acknowledge the gunky skin. 

            “Yeah take the scoobidy-doo off and it’s fine,” he says without batting an eye.

            This takes a few quick and heavy strokes with a large knife to complete. 

            “Okay Tommy I took your scoobidy-doo off; what do you think of it now?”  One last chance. . . .

            “It’s fine, cut it into steaks.” 

            I hope whoever buys these marinates the hell out of them.

            Next he throws a strip loin primal on the board with a loud thud. 

            “Here you wanna cut some strip steaks?”

            “Sure!” I say, reaching out to grab the huge slab of meat and move it over to my side of the table.  As my hands close around it, pain lances sharply up two of my fingers and I instinctively jerk them away. 

            He threw the loin on top of a knife.

            And I grabbed the knife instead of the meat. 

            I pull a few paper towels and press my fingertips into them.  It got the very tips of my middle and ring fingers on my right hand.  Fuck me.  I walk away in embarrassment, then realize that Tommy will wonder why I suddenly disappeared. 

            He’s standing at the wrapping station, and after I tell him what I did, he holds his gloved right hand out, palm up in a sort of half-shrug, as if to ask, “Why weren’t you wearing gloves?” but that wouldn’t make any sense; a knife would’ve cut through a glove just the same.  Maybe he was going to ask me to show him the cuts, but instead he balls his hand up in a fist and says, “Go in the back and put pressure on it.”

            Yeah.  I can’t stand up here bleeding where customers can see me in close proximity to their food.

            Burt and John are in the back room watching the Blues game and not paying attention to what’s in the smokers.  I’m too rattled to talk to them right now, so I go and sit by Grace’s office and text Frank about what an idiot I am. 

            “Super glue.  Do I need to come by?”

            No . . . that’s even more embarrassing. 

            The cuts don’t look deep, they just won’t stop bleeding.  And they hurt like hell.

            After several minutes the bleeding slows enough that I can put Band-Aids on.  All we have in the first aid kit are the cheap plastic kind. 

            Gus catches me bandaging myself and says, “Hey, if you don’t cut yourself, you’re not working!”

I put a glove on over the Band-Aids to help keep them in place, and so customers can’t see them.  The only gloves we have are extra larges. 

            I bleed through the first pair of Band-Aids pretty quickly, and have to change them out for fresh ones, but I’m soon back to work.  The only trouble I’m having is keeping this enormous glove on my hand. 

            Burt opens the freezer to get some ice for a soda and tells me that there’s five minutes left in the game.  I check the case to be sure we’re ready for a rush.  Maybe I’ll cut a few more six-ounce filets.

            John is helping a customer at the register and even though I’m not really listening, my ears catch the words, “I came to check on that one; I heard she cut herself.”

            My neck snaps towards the voice, and there’s Frank in a three-piece suit. 

            Frank teaches at the local technical college, and graduation was this morning, which is why he’s dressed up.

            I take the oversized glove off my hand and hold it up for him to see that I’m fine.

            “Did you glue them?” he asks.

            “No . . . the thought of super glue in an open wound just doesn’t sound right to me.”

            “You know that’s the reason super glue was invented—to close wounds.” 

            I did know that; he’s told me this before.  Instead I say, “You’re supposed to be out drinking with your teacher friends.”

            “I was; I asked for my check as soon as you texted me.  Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

            “Thank you for coming by.  Don’t forget, be at my place by six tonight.”

            “I’ll be there.”  He kisses me goodbye, then makes a point to say bye to Tommy before he leaves.           

            I return to my spot behind the cutting board.

Tommy comments, “Frank Roberts sure does come visit you a lot, you guys must really like each other.”

            “What’s a lot, Tommy?  I work here once a month.”  I’d work here a lot more if Nicole would stop texting me 12 hours before she wants me to be here.  Seriously, nine o’clock on a Friday night. 

            The sky darkens and everyone starts talking about rain. 

            What?  I didn’t know it was supposed to rain!

            Gus takes out his phone and shows me the radar.  A massive storm is hovering minutes away from us.

            “Uh . . . Grace?  Can I leave early?  Like, right now?”

            “Sure, just make sure to settle up with Nicole before you go!  Be careful!” 

            In a flurry, I tear off my bloody apron, change out of my meat shoes and into my riding boots, wrap up a flank steak and few pieces of sirloin and shove them into my backpack, pull on my hoodie and leather vest, and fingerless leather gloves.  In my rush, I knock one of my Band-Aids off and the finger starts bleeding again, but I don’t have time to deal with it right now so I just push the finger into my black hoodie where the blood won’t be visible. 

            Nicole hands me my pay and pulls me into a hug.

            Gus, who has followed her, asks, “Whose motorcycle helmet is that?”

            “It’s mine.”

            “Wha—why does she—what—” he stutters.

            “Gus she’s the baddest chick ever, don’t you know that by now?” Nicole scolds him. 

            And on that note, I gotta get the fuck out of here.

            I make it home by the skin of my teeth.  The skin on my hand and knee, however . . . that’s another story.