Back Where I Belong

Breaking up is hard.

            You know what else is hard?

            Admitting that you were wrong.

            Confessing that you made a mistake.

            And getting back together.

            Time to get my hands bloody again.

            Don’t worry, my darling.  I’ll be gentle.

            I run an ungloved hand slowly along six pounds of uncut tenderloin, reacquainting myself with this old flame.  We’re gonna do this together. 

            Flip it over, flip it over.

            Press it all flat on the board with the palm of my hand.

This is not the frenzied fumbling of first-time lovers.  This is the authoritative touch of that one ex who knew all your buttons, and just the right way to push them.

I can’t promise that this won’t hurt . . . but I can promise . . . you won’t feel a thing.

            I go for the strap first.

            My knife enters the meat like a sigh, gliding through blood and fat. 

            Next I go after the silver skin. 

            It comes off easy, and smooth.  Seems I haven’t lost my touch after ten months away.  So cutting meat is kind of like riding a bike; or if you’re me, like riding a motorcycle:  you do it inconsistently enough that it still gives you a little anxiety every time you hop back on, so you take it slow. 

            But I don’t feel anxious right now.

            As I clean the gunk off the underside of the tender, I go into a sort of meditative state.  My hands flow like breath; my mind is clear. 

              And my finished product is beautiful, as always. 

            So maybe I work a little slower than the others.  I take my time because I care for the meat.  I care that something died so that we can eat.  Even if that entity wasn’t shown the respect it deserved in life, the least we can do is show it respect in its death, and in its postmortem purpose.

            Gus walks over and asks, “So . . . you like working here?”

            I stop what I’m doing, I look him in the eye, and sincerely I say, “I missed it.”

            He questions me no further.

            Gus is Nicole’s nephew.  He is tall and skinny and a little awkward, and he looks remarkably like David did when I first met him:  slicked back hair . . . long lean silhouette . . . appearing more confident than he actually was.

            When I put my tray of filets in the case, he comments, “Those are good-lookin’ filets.  Like, way better than The Big Man.”  The Big Man is a meat cutter they hired a few months back; I haven’t met him yet, but based on what everyone tells me, the moniker is more than accurate.

            All I can think to say is, “That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” even though they don’t.

            “Really,” is all he can add.

             

            While grabbing a few more tenderloins from the cooler, I feel a gust of cold air between my legs.  Then I remember that my thigh teeth ate holes through the inside of these jeans last winter.  I normally wear long johns underneath them, but it’s 70 degrees out today so I didn’t.  Oh well; that’s why they’re shop pants. 

            Tommy once again asks me if I’ve been working at that other new butcher shop.

            “No, they want daytime people.”

            Grace interjects, “Do they do smoked meats?”

            “They do a smoke-out every Thursday.”  I’m subscribed to their email list; they’re marketing campaign is genius.

            “How much do they charge for tenderloin?” she asks.

            “They don’t smoke tenderloin; they typically do lamb, rabbit, beef tongue—”

            She doesn’t care to let me finish.  “I just wanna know what he says to someone who comes in asking for tenderloin because they only get in two a week.”

            I imagine he sells them one of the myriad other cuts of beef that exist.  Or sends them here.  He is not your competition; he’s in a whole other league.

            “I send people to him all the time; they come in here asking for weird stuff, I send them down there.”

            Good.  He deserves the business.

            “Did you hear they got broken into?” Burt now joins us.

            “What?  No!”

            “Someone broke a window to get in, stole three dollars in quarters, and broke another window to get out.  They just wanted bus fare.  Probably did thousands of dollars worth of damage.” 

            I should go by there and spend some money.

            “Tommy, what happened to Miles?”

            “He’s black.”

            I know he’s black.  “Is he still working here?”

            “Not if I can help it.”

            . . .

            “We got his buddy Leroy helping us out now sometimes, you’ll meet him.  By the way, we’re paying you fifteen an hour now, but don’t tell the other guys otherwise we’ll have to pay them more.”

            Hey, I got a raise!

           

            The other young kid helping out is named Kyle.  He’s tall and skinny, with short curly hair and a quick tongue.  I’m still getting a feel for what kind of person he is. 

I’m not sure who was talking about scuba diving, but Tommy—the wealth of trivia that he is—puts in, “Did you guys know that Scuba means self-contained underwater breathing apparatus?”

            Kyle responds, “Geez Tommy you’re full of knowledge.  I learn something new here every day.  I don’t even know why I go to college to learn, I should just come here every day instead.”

            Later on when someone needs help, Tommy tells them to ask Gus, because he doesn’t “trust Kyle anymore.”

           

            Upon returning from a bathroom break, I find a photo shoot blocking my path back to the cutting board.  Grace is snapping a pic of Tommy with Gus on one side of him, and Kyle on the other.

            “There she is!  Come on, you have to get in the picture, we’ll have the whole crew!”

            Tommy positions me in front of Gus for the picture.

            He posts both photos on Facebook and tags me with the caption, “It’s so nice having her working with me this holiday season.  The girl has mad skillz & we need her talent.  Gus just makes me laugh all day.”  No mention of Kyle.  In fact, Kyle is nowhere to be found in either picture.  As per Tommy’s standard procedure, his eyes are digitally enlarged and cartoonish. 

            I comment on his post, “You left Kyle out!”

            He responds, “The light was too strong over Kyle’s head.  He would bring the photo down and I cannot let that happen.  I sacrificed Kyle to make us look better.  And believe me, it worked.  He’ll understand I did it for the team.”

            Around 1pm the muscles in my right forearm are calling out to me.  That’s to be expected; I haven’t used them in a while.  Most vocal is the tendon that connects to my thumb that I sprained a few weeks ago.  Now that I’m thinking about it, my thumb is pretty sore, too.  I hold it up and compare it to my left thumb.

            Shit.

            Shit.

            It is very swollen.  And hurts.

            Shit.

            When I went in for my four-week checkup, my very handsome, noticeably unmarried doctor asked how “the soccer star” was doing.

            I said, “Great!  I think I’m better now.  I’m uh . . . I’m all healed now.”

            He stops in his tracks, “Are you trying to sway my diagnosis?”
            “No, I’m just . . . letting you know . . . that I am done being injured.”  So done.

            “Let’s take a look at it.”  He bends my thumb at all angles, and I manage to suppress my reactions to the pain.

            “Looks good; do your thing,” he says, releasing my hand.

            “Am I okay to lift weights and do yoga?”  I’m starting a new regimen:  I’m dropping three days of cardio and replacing them with strength training circuits.  A guy at the gym (formerly known as "Hot Gym Guy," now known as "Coach") who I went on a few dates with last year is gonna train me. 

            “Definitely wear your brace, at least for the next four weeks.”

            Sheepishly I ask, “Um, I didn’t tell you this last time, but . . . I work at a meat shop seasonally . . . am I cleared to hold a knife?”

            “You work at a meat shop?  That’s so interesting!  So you play soccer, lift weights, do yoga, you cut meat . . .  what else do you do?”

            Travel the country wearing a fake beard seeking out tacky roadside attractions.  “I hike . . . ride a motorcycle . . . I shoot a longbow . . . and I’m learning how to dance.”  And I make my own shaving soap.

            “Wow.  A true renaissance woman.”

            Funny; people say that about Manfriend a lot, too.

*                      *                      *

My phone dings, letting me know that I have a text from Manfriend.

“I am proud of who you are, not what you do.  You should be too.”

            And for about the millionth time since I met him, I am wondering how in the hell I got so damn lucky.

            The front door to the shop dings, and in walks a familiar face.

            Manfriend’s mom is here to grab a key to his house.  We are engaged in a treacherous scheme to sneak an early Christmas present in there. 

            So I don’t actually have a key to Frank’s house; I had to get this one from his best friend in Afton Wednesday night after a work dinner. 

I show up at her house around 8, like we discussed; her car is in the driveway, all the lights are on, and the dogs are barking.  I ring the doorbell.  Nothing.  I knock.  Still nothing. 

Maybe she’s walking one of the dogs? 

Just then I see a silhouette coming up the street walking a dog.  She keeps walking.

Maybe she’s out back with the chickens?

Now I just look like I’m trying to break in.

I ring the doorbell a few more times before she finally answers. 

She decided to take a nap.  At 8 o’clock at night.  With her ear plugs in.  When she knew someone was coming by her house.

            I give Frank’s mom a smoked chicken wing, since she’s new to the shop.  My hope is that it will make Frank’s dad and both brothers-in-law (who are all waiting out in the car) want some when they return to drop off the key.

             Mom and Pop are the only ones to return, and they order a pound and a half of the wings, and three pork steaks. 

            “Tommy, how much are pork steaks?”  It’s the only tray in the case without a price sign.

            “Three ninety-nine a pound, but they’re your friends so two ninety-nine.”  He stabs the price into the keypad of the scale and prints the ticket for me.

            The present—a television stand with a built-in fake fireplace/space heater—has been successfully smuggled into Frank’s living room, and I am commanded to take pictures of his reaction when he gets home from work tonight.

            After Frank’s folks leave, Tommy asks, “You know those people?”

            “Yeah those are my boyfriend’s parents.”

            “What?  Boyfriend?  What boyfriend?  Boyfriend?  What?”

            “Tommy, you met him!”

            “When did I meet him?”

            “Two months ago we came in the back door after hours for some jerky.  You shook his hand!”

            Tommy ignores me and turns to Gus.  “Gus, did you hear that?”

            “Hear what?”

            “She’s got a boyfriend now, so you can stop trying so hard.”

            Tommy pays me until 3:30, but tells me to leave at 3.  I put my knives up and make my rounds, saying goodbye to everyone. 

            I find Burt alone in the back of the shop, and let him know that I’m done for the day.  Then I add, “Back in February . . . I shouldn’t have quit the way I did.  I should’ve told you I was getting burnt out and needed a break.”

            “Well I shouldn’t have cried,” he says.

            “You had a rough year.”

            “Well we’re glad to have you back.”

            “I’m glad to be back . . . glad you don’t hate me.”

            I’m reminded of something the charcuterie man told me, back when I was applying at other shops.  I handed in a resume at the German sausage place on Kingshighway that Corey and I went to that one day.  The charcuterie man said, “Oh, that’s a really tight-knit place; they won’t hire outside the family.”

            And I realize that this is my family.

            The family that I chose, that chose me. 

            Like all families, we have our differences; but at the end of the day, we’re still this group of weird mismatched misfits connected by this one little meat shop.  

(Happiness is. . . .)