Goodbye for Now

I am the new Cory.

            With everyone else gone, I got promoted pretty fast.  Max has lime disease so he’s not even helping out for the holidays, I haven’t seen Miles in several weeks, and I (thankfully) have no clue where Luke Johnson is. 

            I’ve been here every weekend since I got back from visiting my baby brother in Maryland mid-October.  I decided to view Burt’s shop as a stepping stone—I’m not sure where I’ll be stepping to—but it’s given me renewed motivation to hunker down and devote my weekends to meat cutting.  Tommy even mentioned talking to Grace about getting me some night hours once the Thanksgiving rush begins.  I will be The Night Butcher!  I love it.  And, it doesn’t hurt that they really and truly need my help right now. 

I stand across from Tommy at the large white cutting board in the front of the store, cleaning and sharpening the two knives that I will use all day:  one small boning knife with a slight curvature, and one large evil-looking scimitar with a twelve-inch blade and a wicked swerve to it. 

            Nicole rings customers out, and charms them with conversation and free samples. 

            “At least you’re quiet,” Tommy mutters under his breath.

            Nicole is going through a divorce right now.

            Tommy keeps calling Nicole a lesbian. 

            He also keeps taking my knives.  He has eight knives on his side of the board—eight.  Yet every time I turn around, one of mine is gone.  So I get a new one, clean and sharpen it, and then he takes that one.  So I take back the first one I had.  This continues ad infinitum.             

            “Here take the bone out of this have fun,” Tommy commands—all in one breath—heavily dropping a ribeye primal onto the board. 

            I pick up my big knife.

            Grace strolls past us.  “Oh, are you teaching her how to do rib roasts?”

            Tommy sighs in annoyance, “No, she knows how to do rib roasts; I’m getting her practicing for the holidays ‘cause if Cory won’t be here we’re gonna need all the help we can get.”

            Someone sounds a little bitter about Cory moving on to better things.

            “She might not be as fast as Cory, but she’s efficient.”
            I think the word he means to use is “precise,” but either way, I’ll take the compliment. 

            “Do you not like wearing gloves how come you don’t like gloves?”  Tommy speaks in run-on sentences.  I’ve never met anyone who didn’t use punctuation in speech. 

            I sigh.  “Tommy, you asked me this last week.”  And two months ago.  And six months ago.  “The gloves don’t fit me.  They just fall off.”  It’s not worth the struggle to keep them on; if I’m too focused on the gloves, I forget about my knife.  And bad things happen when you forget about your knife.

            “Yeah but we have larges; the larges don’t fit you?”

            “Look at my hands, Tommy.  They are smalls.  Small gloves fit me; that’s what I use at home.”

            “Well Grace wears the larges she’s got huge hands.  Why do you wear gloves at home?”

            Because I don’t want my hands smelling like onion and garlic all the time.  And they’re useful when skinning roasted beets, or cutting up raw chicken.  For whatever reason though, I avoid the topic of food in my response.  “I used to dye my hair; I needed them so my hands wouldn’t turn red.”

            “Oh yeah, I remember when I first met you, your hair was like purple or something.”

            Yeah.  Yeah Tommy, it was purple.    

Tommy is on Facebook now.  And he likes all my statuses.

Tommy wants to know why I never “like” any of his posts.  “I like your stuff why don’t you like any of my stuff?” 

I make a mental note to give the ol’ thumbs up to few things on his wall. 

“So you were out pretty late last night, huh?  Like after two-thirty.”

Last night was Halloween; I had dinner and drinks with a friend for her birthday.  Me, and about 50 other people.

“My clock said one forty-five when I climbed into bed. . . .”

“No, you were up posting after two-thirty, because I was watching my show and my show ended at two-thirty, and then I checked Facebook and it said you posted something six minutes ago.”

I don’t really know how to counter that.  He would never believe that Facebook or his precious iPhone could possibly be fallible, or simply updating slowly. 

“So what’s this Art Bar?  Where’s that at?”

I cringe as he ends his question with a preposition.  I recently read that’s no longer considered taboo, and was never really a rule to begin with.  I have no intentions to start speaking or writing like that any time soon. 

“Cherokee Street,” I reply.

“Oh.  And Cory was there?”

Someone’s a little jealous.  Jealous, and far too nosy for my comfort. 

“Cory was there,” I confirm.

I make a mental note to adjust my privacy settings when I get home.   

I perch up on a stool in the corner where customers can’t see me while I eat my breakfast (fat free Greek vanilla yogurt) and watch Nicole cut up samples of smoked chicken breast.

She whispers to me conspiratorially, “I’m sorry, I like Cory, but ya know, he is just a complete pig.” 

            Really?  I spend half my day cleaning up after Tommy, who leaves hunks of meat sitting out on the cutting board, the bone saw, and any other flat surface he can find.  But Cory is a pig?  I blink, and try to keep a poker face.  “Think so?”

            “Oh yeah.  And you know what else?  He’s just so . . . arrogant.”

            “Is he now.”  Is he? 

            Tommy must’ve overheard some of that, because he chimes in, “If I wasn’t me in life, I would be Cory.  He gets to be on the news all the time.  And did you see the picture of him serving the whole smoked hog, and he was wearing a pig mask?”

            I saw it.

            Tommy whips his iPhone out.  “Here, let me show it to you.”

            Tommy loves showing his new iPhone to anyone who asks, and especially anyone who doesn’t ask.  He’s up front—he came out from behind the register onto the sales floor, which he never does—getting chummy with a customer.  This customer is telling Tommy all about Tinder.

            “No man, it’s great, it cuts out all the bullshit for you!”  He nudges Tommy with an elbow, “Weeds out all the dogs if you know what I mean.” 

            Oh god.  Tommy on Facebook is bad enough, but Tommy on a dating site. . . ?     

            Later on I take my lunch out and heat it up in the microwave back in Tommy’s “office.”  He asks me what I’m making.

            “Beef short ribs braised in coffee and white wine.”

            “You made that?”

            I made that. 

            I don’t really understand the people who come into the shop, purchase a ridiculous amount of meat, and then ask Tommy how to cook it.  First of all, Tommy doesn’t cook.  Sometimes he comes in early and starts some wings on the smoker, and even though Burt has the directions printed and laminated in a binder, they almost always turn out weird or off or just . . . wrong. 

            Second, this is 2014, people.  If you don’t know something, the answer is most assuredly resting in your pocket or purse, in that miniature computer that everyone (now that even Tommy has one) can’t bear to be separated from for even the briefest of moments. 

            So when a customer comes in and starts asking questions about short ribs, I am quick to answer, since I just made some bomb-ass short ribs. 

            “I was eating three at a time, but I wasn’t eating anything with them, so you could probably get away with two per person—”

            “It’s two per person,” Tommy cuts in from over at the cutting board.

            When the customer asks how you cook them, I reply, “Low and slow for a long time; I did mine—”

            “You wanna cook those low and slow for a long while; you can probably find lots of recipes on the internet.”  Tommy is now at the meat case standing right behind me and I cease to exist anymore.  I roll my eyes and walk away.  Why do I even bother?           

            “Hey, Grace is goin’ to the store do you want anything, like a soda or anything?”

            “I uh. . . .” don’t drink soda.

            “Grace how ‘bout a Cherry Coke for her—Cherry Coke!” 

            “I—okay. . . .”

            When Grace returns, Tommy puts on gloves and goes to the freezer and fills a cup with ice.  He then pours Cherry Coke in the cup and gives it to me.

            “Did you see how I used gloves so I didn’t touch your ice?”

            “Uh—yes.  Yes thank you, Tommy.”

            He keeps my cup full for the next several hours, until Grace lets him go home early.  Apparently, me being here makes him think it’s his break time.  But he doesn’t get a day off during the week, so yeah, send him home on our busiest day and leave me as the only meat cutter here. 

            And . . . now I’m the new Tommy, too.

            Not gonna lie; I kind of like it.

            Except they still won’t let me use the bone saw, so Burt has to cut bone-in pork chops when a customers requests extra-thin chops.  I’ve seen plenty of people ask for extra-thick, but this is a first for me.   

            The case is out of ribeyes, so I slice some off the end of the rib loin I boned out earlier.  I use a ruler to ensure they are all one inch exactly. 

Grace wanders by (again) and takes note.  “Man, I think I might have to tell Tommy to go back to meat-cutting school ‘cause your ribeyes look so much better than his!”

If only such a thing existed. . . .

Tommy doesn’t even bother cutting filets on Saturday anymore if he knows I’m coming in.  He knows that they’ll just wind up looking like shit next to the ones I cut. 

“Where’s my filet-maker?” he’ll ask when we run low.  He keeps a special pile of tenderloins in the cooler just for me to make into filets.  Tenderloins have to be fresh and firm for good filets.  The older ones get floppy and don’t hold up very well (and can sometimes start to smell)—those we season and smoke and sell for about three times the raw price.   

We are out of beef jerky.

How the hell are we out of beef jerky?

“Somebody came in and bought two and a half pounds yesterday,” Burt answers.

“So?”

“That’s like eighty dollars worth of beef jerky.”

“Look boss, you need to up your production, because I’m out on the streets—for you—every day.  I’m like a drug dealer; I’m givin’ ‘em the first taste for free, but then they gotta come to you directly for the good stuff.”  I think I may have had too much caffeine.

“You know, I have noticed an uptick of people coming in looking for jerky saying that you sent them.”

“See?  Step it up then.” 

*                      *                      *

 Two weeks before Thanksgiving we have both Miles and Luke Johnson in the shop.  Miles limps around like he’s in pain, and growls, “Fuck” every ten to fifteen seconds when he’s within earshot of customers. 

Luke Johnson looks like a guy who used to be in really good shape, but had way too much fun in college.  He wears sweatpants and sweatshirts everywhere, and a hat usually because his thick curly black hair is perpetually in need of a trim and some vigorous grooming.  The ever-present day-old stubble on his chubby cheeks completes the John Belushi-esque image. 

“So are you still going on random dates with dudes?” he asks me.

“I’m kinda burnt out on all that right now.  Sort of, taking a break.”  Got tired of trying to force things.  I’m taking a more organic approach now. 

“You should get on Tinder, that’s where it’s at.”

“I was on there for a little while.”  Before it was really considered the “hook-up app.”

            “Did you meet anyone?”

            “I met one guy. . . .”

            “How’d that go?”

            None of your fucking business.  Suddenly I don’t want to talk about this anymore.  “. . . He . . . decided he didn’t want a relationship.”  I can feel tears wanting to well up in my eyes but I blink them away and they are gone before they even exist.

            “I got my Tinder game on point.  I always start with ‘Two-Truths-One-Lie.’  My truths are that I played hockey in Slovenia—but I make it sound like I played professional—and that I’m getting my masters, which technically I’m taking a break right now but—”

            “What’re you getting your masters in?” I ask.

            “Marketing.”

            I nod.

            “My lie is that I’m a virgin.”

            How original. 

            “It’s weird though, isn’t it weird, when you meet them for the first time?”

            “I only met the one—”

            “Yeah I went on a date with this one chick; it was the most boring date ever, we played putt putt.  But I still took her home and—”

            Now it’s my turn to cut him off.  “Don’t you live with your parents?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Do they know that you hook up with girls in their house?”

            He pauses.  “Well, they will if you talk any louder.”

            Tommy joins us. 

            “What’re you guys talking about are you talking about Tinder?”

            “Yeah,” Luke Johnson confirms.  “You should check it out.”

            “I’m on it, it’s great look.”  Tommy takes out his iPhone and Luke Johnson does the same.  “See you just keep hitting this red X and you get to look at pictures of ugly people.”  He demonstrates.  Watch out ladies.  Watch out. 

            “What?  No, you gotta hit the green button for the hot ones so you can see if they like you.” 

            “They all like me Luke, that’s the problem.”

            Luke looks at Tommy’s phone and I look at Luke’s phone and Luke says, “Dude she’s hot you should hit Yes for her.”

            Tommy verifies this statement.  “Huh; yeah she’s actually pretty okay.”

            I am still looking at Luke’s phone.  “Luke, this says that girl is eighteen, what the hell?”

            “Oh yeah my age range is eighteen to fifty.”

            “How old are you?” I ask.

            “Twenty-five.”  He must be aiming for a mental-age match.  “How old are you?” 

            “Thirty.”

            That’s right.  Run along, young one.

            “Are you gonna be here through the holidays?” he persists.

            I affirm.

            “Lucky you; more time with me,” he says before walking off.           

            Not only does Luke Johnson have great dating advice, he also has some stellar insight into the whole Ferguson/Michael Brown issue.

            “I was hanging out with my black friend the other night and I said . . .” oh boy with an opening line like that what could possibly go wrong?  “. . . I said the solution is so easy:  just kill all the black people, then there’d be peace.  They’re the ones causing all the problems!”

            I am stunned.  Stunned beyond words and literally backed into a corner—he is blocking my way out from behind the cutting board so I can’t even walk away from this. 

            “See, you can’t even argue with me because you know I’m right.”

            No one can argue with you because you don’t operate within the rational world of logic or intelligence!

            “My black friend didn’t argue either—probably because I said I wouldn’t kill him.”

            I’m not very confrontational; I never took debate, or public speaking.  I can’t even begin to wrap my mind around the verbal feces spewing forth from his over-privileged, private-school mouth that’s never missed a meal right now, let alone formulate a retort.  Twenty-four hours later, though, it comes to me:  “Yeah, because white people have never committed any acts of violence, right?  They never moved into a country and decimated the race already living on this very soil.  They never dropped the atom bomb, or started one single war.  White people certainly weren’t the ones roasting human beings alive over in Europe way back in the twentieth century.  But go ahead and murder a group of people because they’re standing up and protesting in the name of basic human rights.”  Gah why can’t I ever think of this stuff when I need to?! 

            Thing is, it wouldn’t have mattered.  Because he would’ve countered with something else that didn’t make sense.  It’s like trying to have a conversation with someone speaking an entirely different language; not just another earth language, not a human language . . . a language not of this planet—possessing no precedence, no frame of reference, and no means of translation.  To be quite honest, I’m glad I didn’t bother.  Probably saved myself a lot of grey hairs and stress knots in my shoulders.  Mark Twain said it right when he said, “Never argue with idiots; they will drag you down to their level and beat you with experience.” 

*                      *                      *

            Ally throws a party twice a year—a craft beer potluck.  Everyone brings microbrew beers to share, and some food.  Usually there’s a costume theme—last time it was pirates; this time it’s fairy tale characters. 

            I am Rabid Riding Hood.

            And last night was a full moon.

            I tumble into her apartment like a gust of wind:  bloody, fanged and clawed, weighted down with beer and assorted tasty meat treats. 

            In the kitchen I find Sophie, dressed as regular Red Riding Hood, and Ally kitted out as the Sexy Tin Woman.  And two guys I’ve never seen before.  One is tall and thin, with a head of dark hair pulled back in a poofy pony tail; the other is short with shoulder-length dirty-blonde hair and large bright blue eyes.  The short one shakes my hand, “Ally told me you were a butcher; I just got a job at a place in Ladue called The Butchery.”

            I’ve heard of this place—from Cory actually.  They have an aging room with walls made entirely of pink Himalayan sea salt.  I am so totally jealous right now, and I’m not afraid to admit it.  “That’s really cool; what’re you going to be doing?”

            “Um . . . butchering, duh.”

            I’m sorry, at what point did he mention he had meat cutting experience?  “Don’t be a smartass; we have people who work the register at our shop and never even touch the meat.”  Luke Johnson comes to mind.

            He stutters, “Oh, well the ad just said, ‘Help.’  It didn’t say what kind.”

            And you really thought they were just gonna hand you a knife on your first day?  “Uh-huh.  You’re gonna be mopping floors and cleaning out grease traps, kiddo.”             

            The night wears on, and I don’t let up drinking—I’ve brought an overnight bag with me. 

Turns out this party is doubling as a going-away party for Eli.  He is moving to Las Vegas.  In five days.  To do the rock star thing. 

Eli’s pretty talented with a guitar, though I feel like he often over-thinks his music to its own detriment.  You don’t need to do all that to it; you just need to feel that it’s good.  Eli doesn’t look much like a rock star; I’ve never mentioned it before, but he is ridiculously attractive.  Very conventionally handsome; with dirty blonde curls and a rugged amount of beard stubble, he could be an Eddie Bauer model if he were about a foot taller.  But Vegas?  This small-town country boy doesn’t strike me as the Vegas “type,” even though he’s lived all over the place; but maybe Vegas is for him.  Who am I to say?  An opportunity presented itself to him, and he’s taking it.  I hope everything works out the way he wants it to. 

            There is an odd lull where I am momentarily alone on Ally’s porch—the only place where the stereo can be heard.  Whoever I’d been chatting with had just gone inside when Eli’s head pops up from downstairs.  I give him a hug, and keep hugging him, and soon we are dancing to the slow song floating all around us. 

            “So I hear you’re leavin’ me,” I say into his ear as we remain embraced. 

            “Yeah. . . .” he says, a bit guiltily. 

            “So no deer season this year.”

            “No . . . you know the shop’s for sale.  You could buy it.”

            I pull back, seriously consider it.  “I could . . . if I had money. . . .”—and if I wanted to be tied down to Sainte Genevieve, a place people visit when they want to drink wine, not buy half a cow. 

That kind of commitment terrifies me.  I can’t even think about buying a house because I don’t know that I want to stay here that long.  But I don’t know where I’d go, or what I’d do.  And I don’t know what I’m waiting for.  Someone, or something, to come along and take me away?  I’m not sure, but I do know that I don’t want to live in this apartment, in this town, working this job, forever. 

The music speeds up, and we stop dancing.

“Take care of yourself out there.  You’ll be missed.  Stay in touch.”

“I will.”  He kisses my cheek and says goodbye. 

For now.