Blood is in the Air

“You’re a butcher?  That’s so hot.”

Butchering has come back into fashion.  It’s now “trendy.”  Butchers are “in vogue” and “sexy.”

            Oh yeah.  Let me tell you.  The meat market is a very titillating place to be.  I mean, there’s really nothing about raw meat that isn’t sexual.  And it’s time to make it known to the whole wide world.  Time to air out the truth of what it’s really like being a meat cutter, like airing out the dirty laundry—and I don’t mean the lacy Victoria’s Secret kind of laundry; I’m talking about the oversized white cotton granny panties with the busted elastic band kind of laundry.  So here’s a brief rundown of a few “hot” meat-girl facts that have surfaced over the last few years since I started this gig: 

The Reason for the Season(ing)

“Thanksgiving’s on a Thursday this year, that’s like the sixth year in a row.”

            Tommy says this every day leading up to Thanksgiving.  Said it last year, too.  And the year before that.  Tommy never tires of his jokes.

            Tommy and I have gotten very comfortable working adjacent one another.  If he doesn’t see me as his equal just yet, at least he doesn’t consider me a subordinate.  More like a slightly demoted peer. 

            “Why don’t you stand on that mat, save your ankles, that’s why it’s there.”

            I always forget about the rubber-coated memory-foam mat on my side of the board; probably because there’s no hope left for my feet or ankles—they hurt constantly, even in orthopedic shoes with custom-fit supports.  I wonder if, on top of the bursitis, I also have plantar fasciitis in my heel. 

Miles hears Tommy’s concern about my extremities and asks, “Why you bein’ so nice to her?”

            Tommy balks, “What’re you talking about?  I’m always nice.”

            “No you not,” Miles responds.  “Normally you a asshole.”  

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.             

Into the Mountains, Part III

This place smells of pot and incense.

There are no doors on the bedrooms, only curtains. 

There are footlockers underneath the beds . . . with no locks on them. 

This is one of the handful of hostels that exist in America.  They are advertised to possess a microbrewery and rooftop garden.  When we arrive we find a large banner stating, “Microbrewery Coming Soon!”  The sign is from 2012. 

 

 

We are the only guests tonight, so we have the run of the . . . house?  Naturally, the first thing we do . . . is jump in the shower.  Because even though we stayed in that fancy resort last night, we were both too tired to bother with hygiene.  Scrubbing down in that narrow wooden stall is the greatest feeling in the world right now.

Before heading out, we wander around the rest of the house.  There’s a great back deck with a hammock, but I want to check out this garden on the roof. 

Well, there’s nothing growing up here, but the view is spectacular.

Into the Mountains, Part II

Welcome back once again to our leading lady’s latest calamity.  Read on to find out if she makes it out of this blunder! 

The GPS returns us to the road in a rather roundabout way. 

“Now where are we going?” I ask.

“I guess to Marlinton; there’s got to be someplace we can pitch a tent there.”

It’s about 9:30pm.  This is when things start to go . . . wonky . . . for me.  You remember how we only got a few hours of sleep last night?  Yeah; now is when that starts affecting us.

The road twists and turns and the turns only get tighter and twistier the farther we go.  At some point my conscious mind takes a backseat and my lizard brain takes over, reacting only to the commands of the GPS and responding to the road before me, but nothing else.  As soon as a turn is completed, it image of it is wiped from my mind and no memory of it remains.  All that registers is the new turn rushing towards me in my little halo of visibility.  Nothing is taken in, nothing is processed, nothing returned. 

We go into Marlinton, and right through it.  The address Ally put into the GPS is for the Motor Inn—the cheapest motel in the area.  Her knee is pretty stiff from being cramped in the Jeep since ten o’clock this morning, so she’d prefer not to have to attempt popping a squat in the woods whilst wearing a full knee brace again tonight. 

All booked up.

We head back to Marlinton, toward an electric red sign advertising food and lodging.  Ally waits in the car.

All booked up.

Into the Mountains, Part I

Once again, ladies and gentlemen, we find our hapless heroine in an improbable and unintentional scenario resembling the start of a horror movie.  Read on to learn more of her foibles, mishaps, and misadventures. 

            I have no clue where I am.

            I can barely see, even though I’m wearing my glasses.

            My heart is hammering in my chest from that last turn I took way too fast.

            The pavement rises up before me, cuts sharply left, then seemingly before I’ve even completed that turn, it cuts right.  The night is black—trees looming overhead blot out any star- or moonlight that might otherwise reveal our path.  No street lights illumine this two-lane road, so I can only make out what the headlights show me, which means my range of sight is about 20 yards.  That seems on par with how often the road curves, though, so any attempts of further discerning would likely prove futile. 

My navigator is currently handicapped, so if anything were to happen, well . . . I’d rather not dwell on it.  The crippled leading the (semi-) blind down a dark, windy backwoods road—somewhat poetic, if you think about it.  (Just don’t think about it too hard.) 

Curving, unlit, two-lane backcountry roads are not uncommon in Missouri.

            That’s just the problem, though.

            I’m not in Missouri.

            I’m in fucking West Virginia.

"Peaceful Assembly"

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out—
Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

—Martin Niemöller 

There is a buzzing in my mind.  Unpleasant, erratic, insistent, distracting me from my work.  I am more afraid right now than I have ever been in my life. 

            This isn’t like the times when I was nervous about jumping off a rickety rope swing in backwoods Missouri, when my heart would race, thumping out of my chest, and my hands would shake.  This is painful.  I’m not shaking, my heart isn’t racing.  I would be sick to my stomach, if my stomach weren’t empty.  This is absolute terror, down to my very core. 

            I could die tonight.

            This might be my last meal, but I don’t have time to make anything fancy.  I just reheat a buffalo blue cheese sausage link in the microwave and wolf it down as fast as I can. 

            I look in the mirror.  Ugh.  My eyebrows are a mess.  I don’t want to die with bad eyebrows.

            This is silly.  Every day could be my last day.  Accidents happen all the time.

            My phone dings.

            Mom:  “I cannot stress enough what a bad idea it would be to go tonite. Please don’t go.”

            As much as I hate disappointing my mother, and my soccer team, and the social committee at work, some things are just more important.