Spoiled Meats

Warning: Contains strong language.

“Hey, Lauren called off. You’re working a double.”

A statement, not a question.

I turn my face toward Tacky Tie Guy, also known as the deli and produce manager, to say something, but before I can lift my eyes, I see the heel of a creased pleather shoe stepping around the corner. I smile, close-lipped, and turn back to slicing deli ham, on sale, for $4.99 a pound.

Well, at least that’s more money to put in my savings.

Ten hours later, I limp through the automatic double doors of the grocery store, stiff-legged from standing for so long, and shuffle to my car, head down.

I don’t notice the scrape and dent that dances along my driver side doors until my hand is already wrapped around the handle. I dare hope for a note on my windshield – nothing.

Well, at least I can put all those insurance premium payments to use.

I slowly step up the four flights to my apartment and can feel my neighbor’s glare through the peephole of dwelling 403. I have no idea why she hates me – she just does.

Well, you can’t please everybody.

A cacophony of cat bawls abuses my ears as I squeeze through the narrow door opening I made for myself, so no one dashes out. My two cats, Henry and Harold, circle around my feet and playfully bite at my ankles as I set my work bag on the floor. I guess Gerald forgot to feed them again today.

Well, to be fair, they are your cats, even if it was part of your agreement that he feed them while you’re at work while he lives here rent free.

“Hey babe, what’s for dinner?” A call from the other room.

It’s 10:30 at night. I was hoping you’d have dinner for me. But this is your own fault. You don’t go dating someone just because you think it’s cute his name rhymes with your cat’s name.

But I just say, “How about a frozen pizza?” instead.

Gerald has an idea for a weekend getaway at the local resort about an hour from my apartment - on my dime of course. He hasn’t been able to find work, even though he tells me he’s been applying every day for the past three months. I have no choice but to believe him; I can’t prove otherwise when I’m not here most of the day. We plan for the last week in August.

Before clocking in, I head to the manager’s office to put in my request before I forget. I mumble my reason aloud to my manager as I write down my information on the request form, but then I notice he’s just smiling and shaking his head. Today’s tie is dancing squash.

“No can do.”

“I.. I’m sorry?”

“No can do. We have meat party trays lined up for the rest of the summer. No request offs.”

I stop writing mid-sentence. Without looking up from the form, I say, “But I have over 150 hours of vacation time built up, and I can’t even remember the last time I requested off.”

“Sorry, you’re my best employee. We need you. You can take a nice getaway in the winter.”

“There’s no request offs around the holidays, though.”

But he’s already put his headphones back in his ears before I can finish my sentence.

I crumple the form lightly under my fingers and throw it in the trash can as I walk back to my slicer in a muted daze.

Well, I hate summer anyway. Too sweaty for a getaway. I can always plan something for the spring.

The muted daze lasts for the next few hours as I mindlessly shove hunks of meat back and forth across the slicer blade. I don’t even realize I’ve cut my finger until by blood swirled in roast beef juice is dripping off the stainless-steel counter and onto my shoe.

The employee first aid kit offers crusted bandages from 1978 that won’t hold due to the glue long becoming a dust, so I wrap some black electrical tape around my finger and go to report my injury to Tacky Tie. I knock lightly on the door, and in that moment decide to try my luck at my time off request again.

Turned three-quarters away from me, I look at the glowing computer screen in front of my manager and see the schedule for the next two weeks. My initials N.J. appear on every day. On today’s date, I see my initials in red with a note under that reads: TARDY 2 MINUTES. The headphone ear bud visible to me is resting on his shoulder, so I begin.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, but I would like to continue our conversation from earlier today. I’ve been an employee here for six years, and never once asked for a raise, despite never being written up, never complaining, picking up extra shifts when others call off because I am told. And I couldn’t help but notice that you marked me late for work today when I was in your office well before my starting time and was only late with the technical punch-in because of our conversation. And I also find it a bit unfair that the one time I want to use my earned time off, you tell me that it’s not possi-“

His snore interrupts my monologue. I feel my face blush into a furious rouge. From frustration or embarrassment, I do not know.

Well, he’s the manager. I’m sure he gets tired having a lot to – no, fuck that.

I turn on my heel and dig my crumpled request form out of the garbage, turkey bits and beef juice now clinging to it. I scratch out the three days previously written and instead write three weeks’ worth of dates, starting today. Under reason I write: “Because it’s my fucking time.”

Feeling only a little guilty, I bolt up the stairs to my apartment. Without saying hello to Gerald, I pack a suitcase and gather the cats in their carriers with little coaxing. After twenty minutes of not noticing, Gerald finally slouches into the bedroom, boxer shorts the only garment on his sloth frame, and asks what I’m doing.

“I, am going on a trip. Alone. You, will be out of my apartment within the week. Don’t worry about the cats – not that you ever do – I am taking them to my mom’s for their care until I return. She’ll also be replacing my locks on Tuesday. So, pack quickly. And don’t touch my coffee pot.”

His mouth hangs ajar for awhile as I pack, and he unsuccessfully attempts to begin a conversation a few times.

After loading my scraped car with the majority of my wardrobe, I step into my apartment one more time to say, “You have until Tuesday.” Before shutting the door behind me with sharp staccato clap.

My neighbor’s stare penetrates through the peephole again, so I give her door a swift, blunt side-kick as I pass and hear a surprised yelp close behind the compressed board door.

The resort is stunning and soul-warming this time of year. I ditched the idea of the local resort, of course. All those overtime hours can pay for much better than local.

My manager only called 27 times before he gave up. At least, I think it was only 27 times. I threw my phone in the water shortly after the last call.

Barefoot in sparkling white sand, a flamingo sunhat, and a matching wrap around my bathing suit, I glide up to the beach bar and smile at a vibrant young man bartending for the evening.

“The usual?” he asks warmly and reaches for the blender.

Freshly out of high school, this bartender reminds me of myself at that age, directly to the workforce instead of feigning an interest in college. Not sure what to do after graduation, much like myself, he chose a profession he could live with. Not to mention his work came with a bonus of sunshine, relaxation, and fresh air.

“Hey, fairy! Yeah, I’m talking to you. I need another beer. Pronto.”

A beefy, sunburnt man is sitting with his petite wife at the end of the bar, sweat profusely pouring down the man's round face and onto the waxed bar top. The sweating man’s wife smiles and rolls her eyes and tries to shush her husband, without success. “Hey, funny boy, fruitcake, we all know there’s something funny about you. You can’t hide it. My drink’s empty.” He shouts this across the bar, sloshing the backwash foam left in his glass all over his wife.

“I’ll be with you in just a minute, sir,” the bartender says to my drink as he pours the frozen liquid in a neon glass, hurt and anger in his eyes, despite the smile plastered across his face. It’s a look I recognize. The look of not being able to stand up for yourself because you really need to keep this job, and you even like it most days, and you can’t let one prick ruin it for you, because if you tell this bulging sweat-head to go fuck himself, he would be justified in the eyes of our society and you would be without a job. So, is it worth it?

Everybody looks so uncomfortable, but is it really my place to – no, fuck that.

“Hey! Que-“before he can finish his thought, a force pulls him from his barstool and bulging sweat-head finds himself flattened on his back in the sand, a flamingo hat shading his face from above.

I don’t speak to the man. His kind isn’t worth my time anymore. But I do look at his wife and say, “Do better.”

My frozen paradise is waiting for me when I get back to my seat, and no one helps the wife as she struggles to pry her husband off his back, resulting in an awkward, sweaty rolling embrace of the two in the sand that everyone ignores. They leave without a sound except the groans of a grown man who was never told no in his life.

I take a sip, and the rum tingles my tongue, as I smile, teeth showing, at my new friend.