I Got Your Hollies and Your Jollies Right Here

Grace is really excited. 

            She has this great idea to have me come in weeknights to get started cutting filets for gift boxes.  I can just cut the beef—no bacon wrapping and skewering—and she will cryovac them and freeze them.  It’ll save so much time later on; she’ll just thaw them out, wrap them in bacon, and wrap them for gift boxes. 

            The delivery truck comes Tuesday, so she tells me to text her Wednesday about coming in Wednesday night. 

            Wednesday comes, and she tells me not to bother coming in. 

When I come in Saturday, there are two trays of filets in the cooler. 

“So after Grace asked me to come in and cut filets, you guys decided to have someone else do it?” I ask Tommy.

“I—I don’t . . . Leroy did those, so yeah I guess.” 

Leroy’s new nickname is Leroy the Tornado.  Because he whips through fast and leaves mass destruction in his wake.  He is fast and furiously trimming and tying tenderloin in the back room; standing in pools of blood of his own making.

As I start to get myself situated for the day—clearing off the work space, straightening everything, putting gloves, skewers, and a scale within reach—Grace comes by and whispers, “I love the guy, but I hate how all of Leroy’s filets are different sizes.”

I simply shrug.  I suppose that’s what happens when you call someone else in to do what I do best.

A few weeks ago, she was wrapping up a bunch of six ounce filets that I’d cut, and she kept asking, “Are these sixes or eights?” 

Those are sixes.  That’s what they look like when you weigh them. 

I’m cutting for orders and gift boxes, not the case.  They stock the case with the filets that Leroy made.  Once I start cutting, their shittiness becomes even more apparent.  Tommy starts throwing them away and taking my fresh ones for customers.  Not even tossing them in the grinder, just putting them in the garbage.  Meat that we could have sold for $19.99 a pound.  One . . . two . . . three . . . and it’s official:  if they’d had me come in for a few hours Wednesday night, they would’ve made money on this deal. 

Grace asks me to come in Sunday, strictly to cut filets for gift boxes. 

Her other great idea—spurred on by Kyle—is to limit the number of orders we take each day this holiday season.  We are accepting 175 orders to be picked up on Christmas Eve; 250 orders for pick-up on the 23rd and 22nd.  After that, customers have to pick up the 21st, and so on.  Orders for the 21st will have to be frozen if they’re expecting to be served on Christmas. 

This will work out great—if they’re actually able to stick to it.

*                      *                      *

            The second Saturday of December is a weird one; Nicole gets in just after 9am, and Tommy goes home before 10am, claiming to be sick as a dog.  Grace has lots of errands to run, so she’s out of the shop most of the day.  Burt hasn’t been in the shop much since his heart surgery.  No Leroy, and no John, so it’s just me, Nicole, Gus, and Kyle. 

            This means I get to do a lot more than just filets and tenderloin all day.  I help customers, answer phones . . . Gus even teaches me how to use the register and I might have finally retained it this time!  I’m in a really good mood today for some reason.  I actually get excited when Nicole asks for chicken breasts for the case.

            “You want to do it?” Kyle asks.

            “Hell yes!”  Finally, something different.  “They think all I can do is filets and they forget that I spent two years in the back room with Burt, not getting paid.”  When I first got here, Tommy wanted nothing to do with me.  He didn’t want me anywhere near his board, his knives, or him. 

            “Woah, how did you do it?” Gus asks.

            “So you’re saying you want to cook?” Kyle chimes in. 

            “I’m saying if you guys ever need help back there, don’t be afraid to ask me.” 

We work well together, the four of us; things go smoothly with very little drama most of the day.

Grace returns eventually, and Luke Johnson drops in with his fiancé and her kid to grab some steaks for tonight.  Big surprise, the fiancé wants filet mignon—no bacon. 

Gus and I are working across the board from one another and he asks, “I wonder what’ll happen to this place when Burt and Grace you know . . . retire.  Cuz their kids don’t want anything to do with this place.”

            “They won’t sell it,” I tell him.  “This place is a cash cow for their family.  They’ll manage it from afar, but they won’t be here to get their hands dirty.”  All three boys went to school for business, after all. 
            “I don’t get it; if my family owned a place like this. . . .”

            “Gus they come from money.  This work is beneath them.”  I’m about to ask, “You do know who Grace is, don’t you?” but Grace and Luke have now moved close enough to overhear us.  Let’s just say, her family holds quite the dome-ain round these parts. 

            I try to talk the boys into ordering lunch from somewhere, and offer to go pick it up in the hopes that I can get an errand run while I’m out.  It’s no good; they can’t decide on what they want to eat, so we eat nothing.  It’s fine, though; tonight is my department’s holiday dinner at some fancy place out in Chesterfield, so I’ll get plenty to eat there.  This also means that for the second week in a row, I have to change clothes in the dank bathroom here and head straight out.

            The boys get cut early, so no one is around to see my day-to-night transition this time. Just Nicole up front, and Grace entering orders and answering the phone back in her office. 

I wish every Saturday could be like that one, but alas.

*                      *                      *

The Saturday before Christmas I’m once again in the back room cutting chicken and Leroy is singing along to the Christmas carols on the radio.  “Feliz Navidad” comes on, and Burt immediately starts complaining. 

            “It only took one hour to hear ‘Feliz Navidad.’  Where’s Perry Como?  Where’s Bing Crosby?” 

            I know where he’s going with this, but I’m not going to rise to it.  The one and only Spanish Christmas song ever played on the radio is pissing him off.  He can’t stand two and a half minutes of Spanish breaking up his Caucasian Christian Christmas fantasy.  One song in fifty, is one song too many for him.  Poor baby; his demographic is so underrepresented. 

            Suddenly Leroy turns to me and asks, “I bet you don’t even know who Perry Como is, do you?”

            “Yeah, I do.  My parents listen to him all the time.  Why do people think that just because someone is young, they must automatically be unaware of anything that happened before they were born?  Isn’t that what books are for?  Isn’t that what the internet is for?  Isn’t that what encyclopedias are for?”  Yes, my family had an entire set of encyclopedias when I was growing up.  And yes, we read them.  (Sometimes it was our punishment, but we read them nonetheless!)

            “Oh I see; you was a history major!” Leroy concludes.

            “No, literature;” I correct him, “which is basically the same thing.”

            “Literature?” Kyle inquires.

            “English; Creative Writing; Small Press Publishing,” I clarify.

            “How did you wind up doing that?” Kyle asks incredulously. 

            Kid . . . my life has taken some fucked up weird-ass twists and turns.  I don’t get a chance to answer, because Burt interjects, “Music now is crap.  My generation had the best music.  Ever.  Sixties, seventies, eighties . . . best time for music.”

            It certainly was the best time for classic rock.  “And I’ll bet your parents hated it.”

            “No way, no one could hate The Beatles!” he protests. 

            People who grew up listening to Louis Armstrong, Etta James, and Billie Holiday can—and do.  “Every generation thinks that their music is the best; and every generation that came before thinks it’s crap.  Personally I think there’s a lot of great modern music being made today in the roots and bluegrass genre.”  There’s great music to be found, just not on popular radio.

            I am completely flabbergasted when Leroy agrees with me. 

            “Did you know, my daughters didn’t know who Ike Turner was?” he continues.

            “What?  Sounds like they need more KDHX in their lives!” I reply.

            “They listen to it, but they just never put Ike Turner and Tina Turner together.”

            That’s weird, because KDHX plays a lot of their early stuff, back from when they still worked together. 

Then suddenly Leroy suggests, “Why don’t you dance for us?”

            I raise my eyebrows and slowly turn to face him.  “. . . . Really.” 

            “Yeah, I’ll sing, and you dance; it’ll be great!” 

            He’s so obliviously sweet, he has no clue how incredibly belittling he’s being. 

            I sigh, “I know how to partner dance . . . but I don’t think I have any partners here.”

            And Nicole has another online dating story for us today. 

            It starts out the same as her last one:  met a guy online . . . started talking . . . seemed really nice/normal. . . . They set up a day and time to meet, but due to complications, had to cancel.  He asked to reschedule for tonight.  She was honest and told him that she already has a date with someone else tonight—her first date in two years—her first date since her divorce. 

            And this dude ripped into her and started calling her all kinds of names and accusing her of all sorts of sins.  A guy she’d never even met before. 

            “Well that dude can get fucked,” I comment.  “Isn’t it funny how they get all upset when we treat them the way they treat us?”

            “Hey!” Kyle shouts defensively.  “Not all guys treat women like that!”

            “I know.”  I would still be single if all guys were like that.  “But look, when you meet a guy, you have to go in assuming that he’s already got at least three women in his life.”  Count ‘em off:  “He’s already got a steady hookup; and he’s got a fallback on that one in his back pocket if he gets desperate; then there’s the girl that he actually likes that he’s been pursuing for a long time that he will never actually get.”

            “Oh wow I never thought of that!”

            Of course not, she’s far too sweet for that.  She was married throughout the whole part of her existence when she could’ve been getting jaded and cynical, had she remained single like me. 

            “No one is exclusive until you’ve had the exclusivity talk,” I conclude.

Nicole turns to me and says, “I’m just so glad that you met your Frank.  You know, I prayed and I prayed for you. . . .”

I nod, “I really lucked out with him.”

“He’s the lucky one.”

“Trust me, he puts up with his fair share of shit from me,” I smile.

            But this online guy really got under Nicole’s skin.  She can’t stop talking about it, all day long.  “He said I’m not the beautiful person he thought I was . . . that I’m just a player. . . .”

            “Listen to me, Nicole,” I tell her.  “This guy doesn’t know you from Adam.  He has no right to call you beautiful or otherwise.  He has no rights; he hasn’t earned to right to make you feel like crap.  You cannot give him that power; not to someone who doesn’t even know you.  And you have to lower your expectations; that way you only get surprised when they do something good.” 

            I take no joy in saying these things; but in the world of dating, a woman has to protect herself if she doesn’t want to get hurt.

*                      *                      *

Tommy’s only joy in life seems to be frustrating other people.  He runs off and hides where no one can find him until Kyle is helping a customer; and then suddenly there is Tommy, cutting Kyle off and talking over him.

“Thanks, Tommy,” Kyle says sarcastically.

“What?” Tommy asks, all innocence.

“I got it,” Kyle says with finality. 

Now I remember why I don’t usually help customers.

Tommy cuts some chuck roasts for the case, and a five-pounder for a customer, then just leaves the rest of the chuck roast sitting on his board and disappears.  I let it sit out for about 45 minutes, then decide I can use up the rest of it by cutting a few more roasts for the case.  I make my first cut about an inch deep, and Tommy is instantly behind me saying, “Someone might want another five-pounder, so leave that intact.” 

I drop the knife with a clatter, pick up the chuck and carry it to the cooler, drop it heavily on the beef rack, and slam the cooler door behind me.  If you don’t want other people to play with your toys, then put them away when you’re done with them.  

            Someone calls in an order for twelve six-ounce filets.  I’ve been cutting eights all morning, and making sixes out of the leftovers, so there’s more than enough in the case to fill the order.  Tommy takes a dozen out of the case and sets them on the same workstation where Grace has been wrapping eights all morning, then just walks away.

            He comes back to find that Grace has wrapped some of his sixes up with her eights, and he yells at her. 

            They wind up having to weigh everything in order to figure out what goes where.  They come up short on sixes, and Tommy has to grab more from the case.

            When a customer walks in and asks for three eight-ounce filets, instead of using Leroy’s filets from the case, Tommy grabs them from my board and says, “Thanks.”

            I don’t bother trying to keep my voice down.  “They’re not for you, but you’re welcome.” 

Tommy asks me what I need today, and I ask if I can have a three pound pork loin roast.  He says not right now—we’re out—but a truck’s coming later today with a case. 

            When the truck comes, the “case” they bring is about eight inches wide by four inches tall by three feet long.  And has two pork loins in it. 

            And suddenly we’re out of tasso and it’s now the number one thing we need most.  Because . . . everyone wants Cajun ham for Christmas? 

            We have a tray full of bone-in and boneless pork chops in the case that will help get us the 20 pounds of pork needed to make a full batch of tasso.  However, we’ll then need to backfill the case with the new pork.  And at this moment, a customer decides to walk in and ask for thirty-four bone-in pork chops.  Tommy cuts the chops fresh, leaving the odds and ends lying on the board and the bone saw.  I, of course, put them in the pork trimmings box that we have in the cooler for andouille. 

After giving Kyle the 20 pounds of pork he needs and cutting fresh chops for the case, Tommy holds out a piece of pork loin that is one, one-and-a-half pounds tops.  “Here, can you use this?”

            “No, Tommy, I’m feeding four people.”  I’m hosting Bunco Monday night, and I wanted to do something a little special since it’s the holidays.  I’ll just walk over to Schnucks and buy one tonight I guess.

            “Well why don’t you just get tenderloin, it’s better anyways.”

            Because I specifically chose a recipe for pork roast; because that’s what I want to make.  But why bother trying to explain recipes to a guy who eats pizza and hot dogs for every meal? 

            And where did my knife go?

            I go into the cooler, and it’s sitting on a box of pork. 

I yell, “God damnit!” emerge from the cooler and growl through gritted teeth because there are customers present, “Tommy!  Quit taking my fucking knife!” 

*                      *                      *

            I overhear Grace take an order for 180 six-ounce filets, 20 boxes of strip steaks, and 20 boxes of ribeyes.  It’s from a trucking company planning to give them out for employee Christmas gifts. 

            So I switch to cutting sixes now.  I’ve got three trimmed tenderloins on the board in front of me that I’m working on, when Tommy comes by and says, “Here you’re tired of doing that; bone out this rib roast for an order.”  The rib roast has been sitting on his board for the last half hour untouched.

            “Also I need two ribeyes cut one and three-quarter inch each.”  The ticket for that order has been sitting on his board since I got here at 8:30am.  “Where’s your ruler?”

            I use my knife to point at the shelf on my right.  “Where it always is.”  Tommy starts to reach for it, but thinks better of it since my blade is hovering right there, like a dare. 

           

*                      *                      *

           

            Around the time that John leaves to get Lion’s Choice for everyone, Tommy grabs some cash out of the register and announces that he’ll be back in twenty minutes.  So now we’re down two people for the time being.

            After about half an hour, Kyle comes by and asks, “So . . . ya think Tommy’s coming back?”

            “Hard to say with him.  But he can’t go far; he doesn’t have a car or a license.  And it’s too cold outside for him to just wander off.”

            No sooner spoken than the prodigal son returns, complaining about a drop in the temperature and icy conditions outside. 

            John also returns with lunch, so now we’re down six people until we’re all fed. 

            I just finish eating and am returning to the board when I hear a customer ask for a ten-ounce filet.  Kyle responds to him impatiently, “We’ve got eight ounce and we’ve got six ounce.”  The customer settles for an eight ouncer. 

            “I could’ve cut him a ten ounce,” I say under my breath to Kyle.

            As he’s wrapping up the guy’s eight ounce filet, he simply shakes his head and says emphatically, “No.” 

           

            To my surprise, Grace is sticking to her order limits.  Naturally, the 24th and 23rd are already sold out (unless you’re a friend or are spending a hundred dollars or more).  By Sunday, the 22nd is sold out, and we’re taking no more smoked orders period (unless you’re a friend or a celebrity).  Tommy keeps mentioning a “Petra-Angelo,” and the name sounds kind of familiar to me.  Maybe they’ve ordered here before. . . .

            Then I check my Facebook to see that Tommy has posted a picture of Jayne and Alex Pietrangelo’s ticket with the caption, “Looks like the captain of the Blues is having a party today hmmm. . . .”

            That seems like a highly invasive attempt at marketing.  When I check back a few hours later, the post has been taken down.

*                      *                      *

Since Friday night’s ice storm has kept Gus homebound for the weekend, John calls a friend to come in and help.  He arrives in the afternoon and we are introduced.

“This is Collin.”

“Nice to meet you Collin,” I say.  “Stay away from my knives.” 

He laughs, “I promise I will.” 

He thinks I’m joking. 

How cute.

Nicole asks Grace about calling in Darren for more holiday help.  Darren has helped out every Christmas that I’ve been here.  He’s very talkative and upbeat; doesn’t really fit with the theme of the place. 

Tommy cuts Grace off before she can form an answer, “I don’t want to deal with that guy.”

Nicole persists, “But he’s great!  He just cuts and cuts those tenderloins—”

“Cuz we have no one else here who can do that. . . .” I roll my eyes.  Like the guy in the back room right now, who has done literally nothing else every single day he’s ever worked here? 

Don’t misunderstand me:  I like Darren.  But don’t make that your basis for calling the guy in. 

“Well we can’t call Miles; we had to fire him for stealing a case of ribeyes.”  You may recall Miles as the guy who called me Natalie and said that only ugly chicks play goalie.  I can’t say I miss him. 

Tommy is having none of it.  He wants no Darren and he wants to hear no more about it. 

About an hour later, Grace comes by and tells Nicole and me that she has called Darren and he has agreed to come in for some hours.  Someone who will come in and frustrate Tommy . . . well, this should be interesting.

Tommy decides to wash the boards about 45 minutes before we close, and tells me not to start anything else.  I’m not done working; I can still get a lot more filets cut today.  But he’ll hear none of my protests. 

Well, there’s other stuff I can do, like wrap all the trays in the case, and wash all the knives. . . .  

Tommy takes a dirty towel out of the closest bucket of bleach water, and half-heartedly wipes all the knives off with it.  None are cleaner for it. 

So as not to belittle his gesture—because I know that’s a huge gesture coming from Tommy—I take only my knife over to the sink and scrub it clean. 

(My side versus Tommy’s side.  Note that my side has seen more use today.) 

When it’s almost closing time, Nicole announces that she’s gotten another message from that jackass who called her a player.

I am incredulous.  “Why are you still talking to him?  Why haven’t you blocked him?”

“I don’t know how to do that; I’ll just stop responding to him.”  She sets her phone down.

Through gritted teeth, I snarl, “Give me.  Your fucking phone.  And I will show you how to block him.”

Kyle is standing closer to Nicole and offers, “Give me your phone so I can tell this guy to go fuck himself.”

“GiveKyleTheFuckingPhone!” I agree, almost before he’s done speaking.

The fact that this guy is still bothering her, means that this has ceased to be just “simple” harassment.  This is borderline abuse.  I want her to enjoy her date, but first I tell her that she needs to report this guy to whatever website she found him on, then block him. 

I tell her to enjoy that first-date high while she can; you only go on so many first dates in a lifetime.  Online dating is great for meeting and interacting with new people.  She may not find Mr. Right, but it will help her to be prepared when she does meet him.  And maybe she should consider ChristianMingle.com or FarmersOnly.com; she’s just too sweet and innocent and naïve to be dealing with the general public. 

Then I remind her that no man has the right to make you feel bad for doing you. 

Say it with me, kids:  

NO MAN HAS THE RIGHT TO MAKE YOU FEEL BAD FOR DOING YOU.