by Stan Rogal
The professor offered his condolences and said that he too was dealing with family issues — his wife had fractured her ankle while walking the dog and he had to be around to take care of her for several weeks. She was also much improved.
I wondered what was more improbable, the stories these two just told of their whereabouts or the one Naomi had presented earlier? At any rate, as per her prior behaviour in class, and as if this sharing of family hardship provided a further bond between them, the blonde woman concentrated her attentions wholly on the professor and he responded in kind, the two of them remaining lost in their own little world, more or less oblivious to the other members of the class. So, as they billed and cooed, the rest of us engaged in small talk, sipped our drinks and eventually parted company. By the time I slipped away, the blonde woman and the professor sat so close together, you couldn’t fit a cigarette paper between their thighs.
Like they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, I reminded myself. A shame, really, everyone seemed so eager. Ah, well, that’s the way it goes, I guess. It was obviously a done deal, everyone separated to parts unknown, and, if the stories were ever to be actually written, it appeared they’d have to write themselves. Unless …? I was suddenly struck by a rather strange notion, as: What if? I fished the deck of cards out of my shoulder bag and tapped the package edge against my palm.
What if and why not? I asked myself.
Why not, indeed.
THE BUTCHER WIFE’S TALE
In which — upon her husband arriving early into the shop — Rosa conceals her lover in the meat locker then proceeds to devise a story in which she is able to continue her tryst while getting her husband to grant her every request.
Rosa arched her broad back against the cushioned arm of the couch. She stretched her plump left leg across the worn leather and ground her French heeled shoe into the pine floorboards. Her equally plump right leg hung quivering in the air, a slight pair of damp pink lace panties dangling from a surprisingly delicate ankle. Her dress was unbuttoned at the neck and a pair of exquisitely large breasts danced half-in, half-out of an industrial wired bra. Two clumsy hands — not her own — grappled with the breasts, rolled the flesh and pinched the nipples. The hands were attached to two thin arms that threaded down Rosa’s round belly and disappeared beneath her skirts. Her own hands were kneading what could only be a head hard at work between her thighs. Rosa jutted her chin and bit her lower lip. Scattered among jagged breaths and sobs, small joyous squeals emanated from her flushed throat.
“Yes, yes,” she softly moaned. “Yes.”
Sounds of creaking stairs snapped the pair’s dalliance still as a polaroid.
“My husband,” she hissed, and with a quick shove of foot to shoulder ungently separated a mouth from her more private parts. The young man attached to that same mouth performed an awkward back somersault. There was a combination abject fear and outright panic written on his face. Rosa slipped her panties into place, tucked the girls into their Lycra harness and hastily buttoned up. She grabbed the youth by an elbow, dragged him toward the meat locker, yanked open the door and flung him roughly inside. She placed an index finger to her lips: Ssh! She eased the door shut, tip-toed across the floor, positioned herself on a corner of an oak desk and proceeded to flip though a tattered issue of Canadian Living Magazine. The young man, meanwhile, scraped a spot through the ice on the small window and eyeballed the scene. Rosa motioned with a hand: Down!
“Carlito, my sweet? You’re up early.” She gave her raven hair a flip.
“Mm,” he said grunting. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Oh? Anything wrong, love?”
“Nothing new. Work to do. Bills to pay.”
“Ah, my poor little man. Always worried. Come to Rosa.” She extended her neck and twisted her cheek. Carlito leaned in for a peck.
“You’re hot,” Carlito said, stroking her cheek with his own. “Cold as hell down here and you’re hot.” He clapped his hands together and smiled. “My little furnace.” He surveyed the room and spotted a denim jacket crumpled on the couch. Rosa followed his eyes. “What were you up to all by yourself?”
“Did I say I was all by myself?” Rosa saw Carlito flex his ham hock hands into fists. He was a large man and still muscular, despite the extra pounds age had added to his waist. Rosa was several years younger and no lightweight herself, though she resembled a mere slip-of-athing in comparison. She took a deep breath, puffed out her ample chest and cocked her head coquettishly. “In fact, I’m not all by myself, I’m entertaining a customer.”
“Uh-huh? Where?”
“There.” Rosa indicated the freezer. “He’s checking out the meat.”
“Before business hours?”
“He heard you offered the best meat in Bloorcourt Village. In his excitement, he got the hours wrong. I caught him peering through the shop window. What could I do? I invited him in. Couldn’t let him catch his death. Middle of winter and all. I don’t think he’s any too bright. That thin jacket of his wouldn’t keep a cat warm. Anyway, he said he wanted a side of our finest pork. A side! He said money was no object.”
“What did you tell him?”
“What do you think? I bumped it a dollar a pound and he didn’t even blink. Anything, he said. For a taste. A sniff.”
“Good girl.”
“I told him to choose whatever slab appealed most to him. He’s been in there some time now. He’s young and I don’t think he knows much about meat, really, except for eating. The various cuts and so on. The tender parts. The juicy bits. Like I said, a tad dim. Enthusiastic, though, and a healthy appetite, I imagine.” Rosa swung her legs off the desk, dashed to the freezer, ripped open the door. “How’s it going in there? Find something you like? Daniel, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” he said, shivering from the locker and rubbing his shoulders. “It’s difficult to choose. It all looks so good.” A faint white rime coated his cheeks and chin.
“This is my husband, Carlito.”
The men nodded each to each.
“Yes, it’s a challenge, isn’t it? Hanging there, they all look the same, yet each one is different. Carlito’s the expert, aren’t you sweet? Why don’t you go in and give us a demonstration?”
“What? Oh, sure, I’ll just grab my coat.”
“Oh, don’t be such a baby. Get in there. How long can it take?” She wrapped an arm around his waist, popped him into the fog and shut the door except for a crack big enough to stick her nose. “We’ll watch from this side. Make sure to speak up so we can hear.” Rosa bent at the waist and Daniel perched over top of her. “Go on!”
Carlito shrugged and shuffled into the freezer. He grabbed a black handle and pressed a button. A motor hummed and sides of pork appeared in a row attached by hooks to a chain link assembly line. He released the button and presented the first carcass. He pointed out the different cuts. His lips moved but he was too far away to be heard.
“What? Louder!” Rosa yelled. “We can’t hear you. Louder!” She raised her skirts, used her thumbs to wriggle her panties down her legs onto the floor and stepped a foot free. She reached up to Daniel’s waist, freed his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans. He was still wearing his condom. Ah, youth, she thought. She gripped his erection and directed the tip into the correct hole, all the while keeping close watch on her husband through the gap. Her actions were aided considerably by the fact that Daniel wore no underwear, though she proved otherwise dexterous for a woman equipped with hands that looked like they could crack walnuts.
“Oh, oh, ah,” she squealed, as Daniel drove in deeper.
“What?” Carlito shouted. “This one?” He cradled the second side of pork in his arms and offered a view of the empty cavity framed in spareribs. Rosa opened the door wide enough to get a meaty arm through and waved at him.
“No, no, not that one. A different one.” Rosa felt another thrust. “Oh! Try a different one.”
Carlito twisted his face and shook his he
ad. “For chrissakes, Rosa — they’re all the same,” he whispered. “There is no different one.”
“No, I told the boy, something special. He’s paying for it after all. Top dollar.”
Daniel straightened and stuck his face in the window. He squinted and could barely make out Carlito due to the dim light and accumulation of ice and haze. He flashed a wide smile in the man’s general direction and rode Rosa harder, even as the sides of pork made their appointed rounds. Rosa’s breathing sped up, her voice got jerkier, she reached behind with both hands, grabbed Daniel’s ass and returned his fervour, thrust for urgent thrust.
“Yes!” she cried. “Yes! Yes! Oh, yes!”
“Yes?” Carlito replied. “Yes? You’re sure? ‘Cause once I bring this bastard out, I’m not coming back in, clear?”
“Yes. Clear. That’s it. That’s it. That’s the one. That’s it. Ah! Yes!”
“Finally,” Carlito said, unhooking the chosen side and slinging it over a shoulder.
Daniel withdrew from Rosa, peeled off the condom, knotted it, scrambled into his pants and collapsed on the couch. He held the condom up between two fingers, unsure as where to deposit it. Rosa snatched the thing, rolled it inside a Kleenex, tucked the wad down her bra and once again shimmied into her panties and smoothed her skirts.
Carlito stomped from the freezer, breezed past the makeshift office area to the other side of the room and tossed the carcass onto the butcher block.
“OK, there it is. How’s our boy want to pay for it?”
“We already discussed that. Layaway plan.”
“That’s become real popular lately. You sure he’ll come through?”
“He better, otherwise I’ll take it out of his hide.” Rosa shook a fist at the boy and growled.
Carlito laughed and wagged a finger. “And she ain’t foolin’, so watch yourself. She’s got a whole list just like you. You don’t wanna be on the wrong side of this one, no way.” He and Rosa winked and nodded like they shared a joke.
“I understand, sir, and I swear I won’t flinch in my obligations.”
“Uh-huh. Good to hear. How’s he getting it home?”
“I said you’d deliver it personal.”
“Oh yeah? My brother borrowed the van for the day, remember?”
“He’s right around the corner on Salem. Easy-peasy.”
“There’s a snow storm raging out there.”
“Oh, for crying out loud, what a big baby you are. Afraid of a little snow.”
“C’mon Rosa.” Carlito saw Rosa was determined. “I guess … if he gives me a hand, should be OK.”
“Are you crazy? Look at him — he weighs maybe one hundred forty pounds soaking wet. Besides, he’s got a bad back, don’t you, honey? Hurt it pumping.”
“Pumping?”
“He works at his dad’s gas station. Pumps gas. Isn’t that right?”
The boy shook his head in agreement.
“The low foreign jobs, especially. All that bending.” Rosa bent and wiggled her ass. “It’s killer.”
“You seem to know a lot about this boy. Are you sure you just met?”
“I said his mind was a bit slow. There’s nothing wrong with his tongue. Started flapping as soon as he walked in.” She formed her fingers into a pair of moving lips. “Goes a mile a minute. Talk, talk, talk.”
“You mean he managed to get a word in edgewise?”
“Shut up. Anyway, he’s the customer and there’s no need for him to be delivering his own meat when there’s a big strong man like you around.”
“Uh-huh. How old are you, boy?”
“Nineteen.”
“Nineteen, eh? Some advice — never marry for love the way I did, it’ll kill ya. Look at me, fifty going on eighty ‘cause I can’t say no. Meanwhile she’s thirty-eight going on eighteen.”
“Don’t fill his head with nonsense.”
“OK, OK. You win. Again. I’m going.” Carlito tossed on a coat, hat, gloves and boots. He wrapped the carcass in butcher paper, secured it with heavy string and draped the package around his neck.
“Here.” Rosa stuffed a slip of paper into his pocket. “I’ve written the address so you don’t get lost. Speak directly to Daniel’s mother. She’ll make you a nice hot um garoto. Right?”
“Right,” Daniel said. “I’ll text her you’re coming.” He punched the phone pad.
“And take your time. I need to go over the finer details of the layaway plan so there are no misunderstandings.”
“That’s good. Don’t want you to take on more than you can handle.”
“Don’t worry about me. You know when I have a job to do I put my back into it.”
“Fine. I go, I go.” Carlito turned the door handle and ducked into the storm. A few snowflakes whistled in, spun madly, finally settled and melted on the floor.
Rosa pursed her lips, rolled her eyes and sat next to Daniel. She squeezed his knee and slowly crawled her fingers up his leg to his crotch.
“And how’s my little man doing, hmm? Still hungry?”
Daniel smiled goofily. The two began to laugh. They laughed and laughed.
THE DETECTIVE’S TALE
In which a detective’s search for truth leads him to peek behind the veil of apparent religious beliefs and supernatural occurrences.
“In the Greater Toronto area, provincial police say there have been nearly forty wheel-offs in the past twelve and a half months. In that period, there were forty-three incidents of flying wheels, twenty-seven of them hitting vehicles and injuring nineteen people.”
— The Toronto Star
The trucker relates his story to a young police officer who listens politely, nods and jots down whatever shorthand version he’s gathered into an official looking notepad. The trucker is quite animated and gesticulates wildly with his hands and head. He tugs at the brim of his baseball cap, drags his fingers through the stubble of one cheek and pulls at his chin. He throws his arms in the air and points in this and that direction. Meanwhile, the normal flow of traffic zips up and down Black Creek Road, slowed only by the odd rubbernecker trying to catch a glimpse of what the hell’s up? Otherwise, folks with things to do, places to go, people to meet. Also, nowhere convenient to pull over, park, take a short stroll and investigate the action.
Palm heels press into horns: C’mon, move it buddy!
“It never should’ve happened. I don’t believe it. I been drivin’ rigs over twenty years and nothin’ like this has ever happened to me before. I mean, never.”
“Uh-huh.” The young officer answers nonplussed, as if he’s heard it all a thousand times before. And perhaps he has, especially recently.
“It’s God’s truth, I swear. The truck was inspected top to bottom just three days ago. I check it again myself every time before I set out. I don’t take it on the road unless I’ve tightened every wheel nut by hand. There’s no way. No way in the world.” The trucker paces a small section of grassy shoulder. He continues to emphasize his words by stabbing the air with his hands and head. He whips off his cap and slaps it against a corner of the front fender. “God damn,” he says. The truck itself remains resolute, tipped slightly to one side on the sloped embankment.
The officer taps his notepad with the tip of a mechanical pencil. “Maybe not,” he says. “But there it is.” He flips the notepad shut and wraps his eyes behind a pair of Foster Grants. The trucker wipes his brow with a blue and white checked handkerchief and replaces the cap on his head. The two men squint across the four lanes of heated asphalt to where a crowd of pedestrians, leashed dogs and cyclists has formed a tight circle around a clutch of other police officers. The officers attempt to control the situation as best they can, calling out orders and waving nightsticks in the air. They are firm in their words and behaviours, without being overtly threatening.
All in a day’s work.
“Move on now. Nothing to see here. Move on,” the officers repeat as they attempt to cordon the area off with yellow tape. Onlookers try to
see beyond the barrier of uniformed bodies; some raise digital cameras or cell phones above their heads hoping to get a shot of what lies at the centre. Dogs tug at collars and crawl between and around legs. A flock of starlings pulses the clear blue sky.
“No pictures. Move on please. Let the police do their job. Move along now. Go on about your business. Nothing to see here.”
The crowd doesn’t move along so much as adjust its position around the periphery. They talk amongst themselves, exchanging shared stories gleaned from the various media and postulating their own ideas and theories around what may or may not be occurring, both here and now specifically, as well as in general.
“It’s not natural,” one bystander says. “It’s gone way beyond that. It’s something else entirely.”
“Sure it’s something else, but what?” another says. “I mean, it’s not like a plague of locusts or black flies or a mess of goddamn frogs falling from the skies now, is it?”
“Not yet it ain’t,” a third says. “Just wait. There’s more to this, you’ll see.”
“Yeah, nothin’ good’ll come of this, fer sure. No way.”
Several other folks pitch in as one voice, all making tangible a similar mood of fear and foreboding.
“Tip of the iceberg. Calm before the storm. Early warning sign. Before the shit hits the fan. Before all hell breaks loose.”
By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.
Everyone with an opinion.
A female officer turns to a second. “What do you make of it?” She glances out the corner of one eye toward the object that is the apparent cause of all the excitement.
“Beats me. Doesn’t look like much, sitting there like that.”
“No, it doesn’t. Do you think anyone from that group will be along?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. They always seem to find out. Usually before we do.”
