by Various
Pulling a towel off the rack, I dry my breasts, my belly, the insides of my legs, the bottoms of my feet, and then scrub at my wet hair with the efforts of nine determined fingertips.
The harsh blare of the alarm clock seeps into my consciousness through the hot haze of slumber. I stretch across Makok’s broad, dark shoulders to finger the snooze button. Unable to stifle a belch that reeks like last night’s whisky sours, I slump back for nine more minutes of rest, draping my arm across the width of his back. He stops snoring, but doesn’t stir.
Morning’s light streams through the bedroom window, and I squint. Makok works on Karl’s floor but I don’t think they’re friends. His wife does dayshift on the line. She’s not in my section, but I can see her from where I stand at the boning table. I’ve seen the two of them at the IGA together; they’ve both worked at the plant for a few months now.
I think back to last night, and don’t recall much. Makok smiling at me as he leaned over the pool table, cue in hand. Asking him to buy me a drink though I could afford my own liquor. Flattering compliments in halting English. More drinks. His brown eyes locked with my own, an unspoken decision to go ahead.
He faces away, hugging a pillow. I scan his smooth back, visually tracing its one blemish: a three-inch, curved white scar across his right shoulder. Must have been a meat hook; that’s common. Or something that happened back home – like many at the plant, he’s from Sudan. I’m not going to ask.
The alarm buzzes again. Makok shakes awake; both of our hands reach for the noisemaker this time. He smacks the top of the clock and then grabs my fingers.
He turns and our eyes meet. I lean toward him, we kiss. He pulls his bulky frame onto mine and I welcome the pressure. We fuck one more time; fiercely and quickly. Before the alarm sounds again, we’re done. Makok eases out of me, strokes my cheek, then abruptly pulls himself to his feet and stands naked above me, a drizzle of semen still hanging off the tip of his foreskin.
“Mende is pregnant.” He walks to the bathroom.
I sit on the toilet and piss while Makok showers; I put out a clean towel. He doesn’t offer me a ride to work – he leaves while I’m in the shower. I tie my hair into a loose braid and throw a sweater into my knapsack. Hot as it is outside, my part of the plant is refrigerated.
I pop four ibuprofens on my way out the door. Hop into my Civic and head for the plant. I crack the window. It’s too hot not to, but you don’t open it very far. The closer you get to the plant, the more the air smells like shit. Bosses call it “the smell of money.” No matter which way the wind blows, you can’t escape it.
The locker room smells like wet sawdust and it’s crowded. The air’s humid with steam emanating from the shower stalls at the end of the room. On a bench between two rows of lockers, I’m surrounded by women. I recognize some but have never talked to them. You can’t know everybody in a plant of two thousand people. Once we’re suited up, recognizing anyone is hard.
Lockers are assigned in numerical order based on hire date and then reassigned because of turnover – not everyone can handle this job. All around me, women chatter, yell, laugh – none of it in English. You get used to that.
I put on my gear in the same order every morning. First the yellow rubber boots. Next I pull on my steel mesh apron. It runs from my shoulders to my knees. I reach around to tie it in the back, drawing my head to my chest. There, I catch my first whiff. Though I scrubbed it at the end of yesterday’s shift, my apron still hosts the faint but dizzying scent of bull’s blood.
I hear a rumble from the shop floor; they’re turning on the grinders and getting ready for the shift to start. I check my pockets for earplugs. Rubber sleeves that run from my wrists to my elbows. A hairnet, then my bump cap – a yellow construction helmet. Plastic safety goggles that hang from my neck by a nylon cord; I’ll put them on once I’m on the line. I grab my long, thin knife and stuff it into the waist pocket of the apron. Thank God I sharpened it yesterday. With this hangover, I’d cut myself if I tried today.
Last, thick rubber gloves, with a crumpled paper ball jammed into one fingertip to keep it from flopping, or getting caught in anything. All around me, women who’ve arrived late crowd in and clamber into the same uniform. We have to be on the line when it starts up.
Wading through the crowd and the roaring machines, I arrive at the boning table to find my co-workers already in position. With a smirk, Kwadwo calls out in his West African-accented baritone.
“Wanda, you look like you were up late,” he says in a chastising tone.
My shoulders slump. Then I puff out my chest and beat him at his own game. “I was with your dad last night, Kwadwo. I hope you have as much energy in bed as him!”
Kwadwo giggles like a tickled schoolboy. “My father is fifty-six – and he still lives in Ghana. No wonder you are tired …”
“I went out to the Ox for a few – but not much was going on,” I confess.
“As long as you weren’t with Kwadwo’s father – or any other fathers – then it is good,” Agnes pipes in, arching an eyebrow as she adjusts her hairnet over a short-cropped Afro.
Agnes is a generation older than me, but the Sudanese community is close-knit. Could she be friends with Makok and his pregnant wife?
She smiles and gives me a friendly elbow. “Use protection, or you will make someone a father!” I grin, relieved.
Next to me, Kwadwo, Agnes, and three girls from Newfoundland work at our compact boning table. We’re short one man, a French-Canadian, the nephew of Mr. Leger, the floor supervisor. Funny that our table is mostly whites – we’re a minority on the floor. That’s another thing you get used to.
With another clickety-clack rumble, the line kicks into gear. Meat moves into the room from the kill floor downstairs. Along the west wall, enormous whole cattle emerge from the trap door, suspended from above by hooks that pierce one of their back limbs. The men at the front of the room take them down one by one and begin to cut.
First, off with their heads. Then, out with their guts. Next, off with their hides. The carcasses hit three other cutting tables before reaching ours. We get manageable, medium-sized slabs ready to be reduced to supermarket-grade cuts. The first will reach our table in just under ten minutes. Several hours of slicing and dicing later, we get lunch at eleven o’clock. I’m so used to separating meat from bones I could do it in my sleep.
Mid-morning, I glance at the bone-shiners table further down the line.
There, a group of women wield electric knives to remove excess meat from bones before they’re sent to Rendering. It’s hard to tell anyone apart between the mouth protectors, goggles, hairnets, and helmets, but I think I recognize Makok’s wife, Mende, among the dozen African women at the table. Most chat and smile while they work – with one tall, rigid exception.
At lunch I sit with Agnes, Kwadwo, and Kathy, one of the girls from our group. The cafeteria fare is bearable today: lasagna and fruit salad. We keep it light – no sex, religion, or politics at the lunch table. My aching, dehydrated brain is glad for that. Normally, I love to listen to Agnes talk – she is passionate about current affairs in her homeland – but I couldn’t cope right now.
Taking my tray to the garbage bin, I feel an object thunk onto my back. Turning around, I look at the floor and see a leftover grape from someone’s fruit salad. A loud guffaw, and then a big, blond dickwad is in my face – Karl’s brother, Kevin Willson. He has a V-shaped scar on his cheek and the smile of a carved pumpkin with one front tooth missing.
“Oh sorry, Wanda. I was aiming for the trash. Guess I missed.”
I offer a fake smile.
“Hey, heard you had a busy night. Up late, weren’t you?” He sneers. “You like the dark though, don’t you?”
That fucking piece of shit. I didn’t see him at the bar last night. I shove him out of my way, and head back onto the floor.
Leger approaches our table as we ready to go back to work, a young girl in tow. She looks nineteen. Vietnamese probably
, with a very pretty face. She won’t last long – she’d be better off in another section. This girl is too short. She’ll have to reach upward to make all her cuts. The boning table is designed for people of average height; she’ll end up with very sore shoulders.
“Kids, this is Anh. Show her the ropes.” With that, he walks away. From behind, it looks like he’s picking his nose.
Agnes and I exchange a knowing look. But she smiles when she turns to Anh.
“Where are you from, girl?”
Her voice is a whisper but I manage to hear because she’s right next to me. “Cambodia.”
“Pull your face mask over your mouth, Anh. I’ll show you what to do.”
Anh exhales visibly. Agnes has a way of making people comfortable. We all pull our face masks on and get to work. Because of staggered lunch breaks, meat has begun to pile up.
I pick up the first piece and carve, glancing from time to time to watch Agnes and Anh. The girl’s cuts are tentative, which is to be expected at the start. Given the jostling from the other tables when things get busy, she’ll likely cut herself today. Might as well get her first self-slice out of the way. In contrast to boisterous Agnes singing and carving next to her, Anh looks fragile. I fear one slit from a sharp knife might cause her to completely disassemble.
Just as Anh gets the hang of things, a loud male scream erupts from a table ten feet away. A tall white guy grasps at the red gush of blood coming out of his right biceps. His still-buzzing hock cutter, a hand-held version of a small buzz saw used to slice the limbs off cattle, bounces onto the table in front of him. The electric saw falls onto the concrete floor, glancing off the woman next to him. Shit. Continuing to cut my meat, I watch Leger rush over with a nurse, face riddled with anxiety. I know the bastard’s worried about keeping up the speed of the line, not some poor sucker’s hacked limb. It wasn’t fully severed anyway. I put my slices into a grey plastic tub, put them back on the belt, and grab my next piece of meat.
Anh has dropped her knife on the ground. She watches with widened eyes as the tall man, now hunched over with a white towel pressed against his red and sopping shirt sleeve, is led away by the nurse, sobbing. Meat continues to pile up on the belt in front of us.
Agnes reaches down to grab Anh’s knife up off the wet floor and holds it lightly by the blade, pointing its handle back at the young woman. She gestures to Anh with the handle. “Anh, you can’t stop.”
Anh continues to stare mutely toward the hock area, where everyone else is busily back at work with a tiny bit more room per person. Agnes puts the knife into Anh’s gloved hand, closes her hand around it, and gently turns her back to face the boning table.
“You can’t stop.” Agnes sighs and looks in my direction, then picks a piece of meat up off the belt and places it in front of Anh. Anh looks down at it, and cuts.
The guy is back on the line two hours later. I go into autopilot for the rest of the day. I’m no longer slicing meat, I’m fashioning a simple, elegant wedding dress out of peau de soie, an A-line with pleats that run from the waist to the feet. No frilly train, but a subtle band of patterned lace around the waistline. Sleeveless, though not low-cut, with thin straps. Pretty yet unassuming. And the sheerest, most delicate bridal gloves. No fancy patterns, basic white, and they cut off just before the elbow.
The day ends. I hope Anh comes back tomorrow. We need the extra hands at the boning table. I head for the locker room. Pushing my way numbly through the all-female mass, I reach my locker and pause. My lock’s been snipped with a bolt cutter. I remove the severed combination lock and pull it open.
The severed head of a dead calf lolls lazily on the top shelf of my locker. Most of its hair has been shaved off, but tufts still cling to its floppy, oversized ears. Both lips have been removed, exposing its skeletal teeth. Its fat, amputated tongue has been stuffed back into its mouth, and it sticks out at an abnormal angle. It smells like vomit. The flesh around the base of the head is mottled and bloody. Along the hacked neckline, two flies sit and feast.
Fucking gross. I slam the locker door shut with all my strength. It bounces back open, forcing the raunchy odour back in my face. With the force of the jolt, the calf’s head bounces and tips forward. It topples out of the locker and heaves onto my yellow rubber boot. With a fearful bolt of adrenaline, I kick it down the row of lockers. It comes to a stop at the other end of the hall, where a group of women are coming out of the showers. They stop en masse, emitting yelps and grunts of disgust, looking over at me and swearing. The calf’s tongue came free of the head when I kicked it; it lies on the ground a few feet away. I crumple to the bench and find myself crying for the first time in years. I wish I were anywhere but here.
I step out of the women’s locker room an eternity later. As I head for the exit, a deep voice calls out to me.
“Hey, slut.” Karl Willson stomps my way with a crooked sneer on his lips.
I cross my arms in front of my chest. “What the fuck do you want?”
He answers in singsong. “Is Princess having a bad day?” Karl reaches forward with a start and shoves my crossed arms so hard I fall backward to the ground. He leans in and I cover my face quickly. He’s yelling in my ear. “What? That black bitch show you what a fucking cow you are?”
I kick him in the shin, a glancing blow, and he steps back. I scramble to my feet. A dozen passersby have slowed or stopped. “What the fuck, Karl!”
“Kevin told me what you did last night, you fucking whore.”
The crowd begins to filter away. Another lover’s spat. Happens all the time.
“Those people believe in revenge. You better watch out.”
“Karl, you’re full of shit.”
He spits in my face and walks away. Two women’s voices approach, not speaking English. I climb to my feet, recognizing Agnes’s voice.
She wears a white blouse, acid-wash jeans, and a faded denim jacket. Next to her stands a tall woman with a pretty face marred by dark circles under her eyes. A dark-green, patterned scarf covers her hair and drapes across her shoulders, underneath which she wears a simple white dress. I notice the slight curve of her belly. Makok’s wife.
“Wanda, this is my friend, Mende.”
I glance downward then look up at her, my face flushed. “How are you, Mende?” I manage.
“It is nice to meet you.” Her heavily accented English is stilted and formal.
Agnes turns to me. “We’re going to church. There are things we need to speak to the pastor about … maybe you’d like to come with us.”
“I’m sorry, Agnes. I need to go make dinner for my father.” I look at my feet, and back at the two of them. Mende appraises me.
“I heard what happened, Wanda. I thought some spiritual guidance might be a help.”
I pause. “You know what happened?”
“At your locker.”
I exhale. “A stupid prank. Some joker from the kill floor.”
“I believe things happen for a reason, Wanda. If you don’t want to come now, you could attend our Sunday morning service.” She touches Mende’s arm before adding, “It can help when troubling things happen.”
I decide something. “Agnes, I’d join you but I’ll be packing. Dad and I are moving to Vancouver. We leave Monday.”
Agnes breaks into a sudden grin. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me!”
“No one knows.”
“It’s time you saw the world.” Agnes came from Africa and had lived in Newfoundland for years before coming here. “What are you going to do in the big city – work in a butcher shop?”
“I’m going to be an apprentice to a dressmaker.” I realize this by saying it aloud for the first time.
Mende appears distracted, but offers Agnes a confused look. Agnes speaks to her quickly, pointing to me several times. I realize she’s translating the conversation we just had. Karl lied – I doubt he could have communicated anything to Mende. He must’ve snuck in when the locker room was empty and busted into my lock
er himself. Whatever.
I embrace Agnes. Mende turns to me and says, “Good luck.” The two of them walk away. Men and women stream past in the opposite direction by the dozens, on their way into the plant for B shift.
Better get home and tell Dad. I exit the building and walk alongside the chain-link fence that leads from the plant to the parking lot. I can’t remember where I parked my Civic. I scan the sea of parked cars, and nothing looks familiar.
FRAN KIMMEL
PICTURING GOD’S OCEAN
We were on that beach in Florida when I caught a pervert snapping photos of my little girl. I was dumping the leftover fries into the garbage can by the busy road; Becky and Lora were close to the water. Becky hopped up and down in front of her mother, hairless and naked and milky white, while Lora worked the sand out of her bathing suit.
The guy looked like any other local, with a year-round tan, orange shorts, and a T-shirt that came from a closet not a suitcase. But there was a hunger in the way he leaned forward, the way his finger eagerly snapped. When I whirled around to take in his telephoto’s view, it was pointed right at Becky.
He bolted just before I reached him. I chased him through the tunnel that ran under the main drag and into the state park. We sprinted past the visitor centre and the circle of covered picnic tables, trampled across a burst of plastic-like flowers, and landed along a nature trail. He pounded through the forest, fast at first, flinging his camera into an island of tangled mangroves. I kept losing sight of him as we snaked through the trees. He made it to the parking lot before me, where he fell down on all fours and puked into the gravel. When I caught up, I decked him in the head, hard, and then I fell down too. A lady with an enormous yellow hat was close by, lugging stuff from her trunk and fumbling with a cellphone from her beach bag. She yelled into the phone: … his head’s bleeding real bad, the guy’s gonna kill him. It took me a minute to figure out I was the guy.
The holiday was Lora’s idea. She wanted Becky to see the ocean – to find real seashells. We’d never even been on a plane before.
