It’s already September 20th.
Things
are starting to die here.
Leaves
tumble from the green trees with little ceremony; the fallen scrape along the
sidewalks and roads, yellow and crunchy.
There
hasn’t been much work for me this year, which is my own fault. I was out of town for . . . St. Patrick’s Day:
(went to The Farm
where Hunter’s parents live and did a 1-mile beer run)
Father’s Day:
(I was all over Europe
for two weeks, but I was in Paris on Father’s Day.
We rode a
bicycle-powered carousel.)
Fourth of July:
(Florida with
Frank’s family for his parents’ 50th anniversary.
I got to watch
these dudes expertly filet a ton of fish—and shark!)
and Labor Day:
(Austin for the
World Beard & Mustache Championships.
We got to see the
bats!).
I
haven’t even had time to cook anything fun lately. Breakfast is protein cereal and cashew
milk. My other meals consist of thawing
out either chicken thighs (lunch) or fish filets (dinner) and baking them in
the oven (or browning some sausage or a pound of ground turkey in a skillet),
then tossing seasoning or sauce on it; boiling a bag of frozen veggies, and/or
throwing some quinoa or couscous in a pot on the stove. I haven’t cooked off a recipe in a long
time.
I found this
amazing seasoning/sauce combo at the Kimmswick Strawberry festival;
it’s all I use
now.
I was going to make a post
about Valentine’s Day but just never got around to it. I worked Easter and Memorial Day, but there
just wasn’t much to say about it. Or
there was, but it was all the usual bullshit that you’re familiar with by
now.
* * *
Tommy
turned 50 in May of this year. I kept
meaning to ask Grace if she had anything planned for him. I finally talked to her the weekend before he
turned.
“I
was just gonna get him a cake and a balloon, ya know? I don’t really know what else to do.”
Well,
I knew. Tommy had been admiring the
apron that Frank got me from butcherandbaker.com for our anniversary this
year. Technically he got it for
Christmas, but they handmake every order, so it didn’t arrive in time.
Obviously, it was already too
late for me to try and custom order him one, but a new knife shop opened up in
Frank’s neighborhood that I knew had aprons for sale. The only other place I could think that might
have butcher aprons was the knife shop on The Hill where we get our knives
sharpened. (Fun fact: the shop doesn’t actually own any of the
knives that they make, but I do.)
Both shops are only open during
bank hours, (i.e.: the hours that I’m
working my desk job) and I only had one day when I could get there before they
closed, so I could only make it to one shop.
I went with the one in Frank’s neighborhood, since I had visual
confirmation of their aprons.
They were $90, and not of as
good of quality as mine.
I didn’t know what else to get
him, so I went with a green one and had them gift wrap it.
I drove directly to the shop so
I could leave it there overnight and he would find it waiting for him the next
morning. Lately every time I’d stopped
by, Tommy was gone by 2pm, so I was surprised to find him standing in the back
door when I opened it. I tried
unsuccessfully to hide the bag from him, and he tried unsuccessfully to hide
his smile from me.
He wasn’t expecting it.
He wasn’t expecting much of
anything I think, with all of his family living out of state, and very few
friends and not much of a life to speak of outside of work.
And that’s why I did it.
I’m a softie when it comes to
birthdays, and all I could think was, when I turn 50 . . . I hope someone
remembers me.
The next time we worked
together, he made sure to let me know that he was going to be wearing his new
apron and I should wear mine, too. He
couldn’t help complaining that mine has more pockets than his.
* * *
No one’s seen Nicole in over
six months. I always ask if anyone’s
talked to her; no one really has. Gus
doesn’t work at the shop anymore, since he makes more money building houses
with his dad. And Kyle is actually not
her nephew, like I previously thought; he’s just Gus’ friend, and therefore
doesn’t have regular contact with her. Nicole
used to call Grace every day just to talk.
Now she might call once a week.
She met a guy on some online
dating site. For their first date, he
took her to Grafton on the back of his motorcycle. For those not familiar with the St. Louis
Metropolitan and Surrounding Areas, Grafton is a town in Illinois known for its
steep hills and sweeping views of the Mississippi River.
This guy tried to take his big
ass Harley Fat Boy or Road King or whatever the hell it was, up one of these hills . . . rode over
some gravel . . . dropped the bike .
. . and Nicole with it.
Mr. Fat Boy was fine. Nicole shattered her wrist and had to have
pins and plates and screws put in. She was
not expected to be able to work either of her jobs for six months.
A few weeks later, Tommy hadn’t
seen or heard from her, so he sent her a text to check up on her and ask how
the recovery was going.
The response that came was,
“Nicole lost her phone this is Craig.”
Tommy already knew Craig as the
guy from the Fat Boy incident, so he knew that Nicole hadn’t actually lost her phone. Tommy simply replied, “Hi Craig this is
Tommy.”
When someone finally was able to talk to Nicole, she
explained that Craig only takes her phone “sometimes.” “Because he just gets so jealous.” Particularly of Tommy.
. . .
Jealous.
. . .
Of Tommy.
. . .
O-kaaay. . . .
Her daughter Jill doesn’t like
the guy, either—says he’s really possessive and insecure. Grace started theorizing that maybe the
“motorcycle accident” . . . wasn’t
really an accident. Stockholm Syndrome,
anyone?
“We gotta get her away from
this guy,” Grace concludes.
How? If you text her, you don’t know if she’ll read
it, or if Craig will see it, delete it, and block your number for good measure. Nicole is my friend on Facebook, and <3’s
everything that I post, so maybe try a Facebook message?
Tommy cuts in, “You think it’s Nicole hearting all your
posts, but it could be Craig. . . .”
Right.
I’m
stuck. I don’t know how you make a human
do something they don’t want to do. In
my experience, any attempt at dissuading a person from doing anything only
makes them want to do that thing more.
So
for now . . . we don’t really know what to do.
Blink
twice if you need help?
* * *
Burt passed away.
I don’t know much about the
circumstances, but his health hadn’t been good in a long while. I know that he was on life support, and they
decided to take him off of it. I missed
the service because I was still in Austin.
When I got back, the whole family had left town for a wedding.
Tommy disappeared for a few
days, leaving Kyle and John to run the shop on their own. They said it wasn’t a problem because business
has been super slow lately. I gave Kyle
my number anyways, and told him to text me if they needed anything.
A few days later, Tommy’s
neighbor—the one who always gives him rides to and from work—passed away due to
heart surgery complications. He was 50
years old.
* * *
Work at the meat shop won’t
start up again for me until November, but I still drop by every other week or
so. Hold your loved ones tight, and make
sure they know how much they mean to you.
Cheers, Burt. Thanks for initiating me into the world of
meat. I won’t forget it, or you.
