Bone Sour

The moment the waitress steps over to take my order, I sniff the scent of menstrual blood lingering beneath the stench of grill smoke and fryer grease. My mouth waters more for her than it does the plates of meatloaf and country fried pork making the rounds of the fifties-themed diner. So intoxicated am I by her smell that I forget the reason she’s hovering at my elbow. It isn’t until she asks, “Do you need another minute, honey?”, that I snap from my trance. 

She blows a bubble as pink as the neon lights lining the windows. Punctures the gum with her teeth. Pop! Licks the sticky dollop from her pouty lip. I squeeze the laminated menu until it squeaks, hankering for a taste of her fruit-flavored tongue. 

I glance at the menu and order the first thing that catches my eye. “Steak, please.” 

She scribbles on her pad. “How would you like it?” 

I picture her flesh flayed, exposing the pink beneath. “Bloody,” I whimper.  

She snorts. “That’ll give you worms.” 

I smile, cheek muscles straining from the effort. “Then I’m good to go fishing.”  

The waitress returns my smile. Her smile is genuine. The kind of smile that puts a person at ease. 

Her name is Brandy. 

I say her name beneath my breath: Brandy. Syllables as sweet as the liquor she’s named after. “Pretty,” I tell her. 

She snorts again. “You can thank my daddy, mister. He’s the one who named me.” She taps the pad with her pen. “Have your food out in a jiffy. Just holler if you need anything.” 

Brandy strolls to the kitchen, whistling along to the pop song playing on the jukebox. There’s enough meat on her bones to fill my freezer for weeks. Nice thick cutlets that’ll go perfect with a side of baked beans and mash potatoes. 

When Brandy returns and slides the steak in front of me, she leans close enough for me to catch a whiff of her onion-y body odor. It takes all my willpower not to drag her onto the table and sink my teeth into her juicy flesh. 

For a brief second, we catch each other’s eyes. “Is everything okay?” she asks. 

“You’re new, right?” I blurt, afraid she’s seen through my disguise.  

Brandy says she grew up in Gap Mills but lived in Blacksburg for the last ten years. Moved back here about a month ago on account of a bad breakup and a sick momma. Just started working at the Do-Wop the previous weekend.

 “Anything else I can get ya?” she asks. Pop goes that pink bubblegum again. 

I thank Brandy kindly for her service and fork a slice of steak into my mouth. It tastes sour, like it’s gone bad. Soon as she disappears into the kitchen, I spit the rancid morsel into a napkin. I should know better than to eat any animal that has a disease named after it. 

I drop the morsel on the floor and kick it beneath the booth. Push my plate to the side, dig in my wallet, and toss enough cash for the bill and a modest tip before leaving. 

A slight drizzle dampens my flannel, along with my mood, as I dart across the lot to my pickup. Once inside, I slam my fist against the dash. Dammit! How could I be such a chickenshit? She’s perfect. And yet I ran out of there like the kitchen’s on fire. 

For a minute, I consider heading back inside. But what would I say? Sorry, I changed my mind, serve me another cut of that tainted meat. 

I turn the ignition, rev the engine, peel from the lot, and head for home. 

Gap Mills is an unincorporated territory deep in the woods of a mountain valley. I live down a dirt path appropriately named Mudd Hole Road. Swaths of rickety motorhomes blot the land where nothing much grows. Mine is painted robin egg blue and looks as if an enormous bird hatched from it. 

I park in a pile of dead grass between two yellow birches. The second I step out of my car, my neighbor’s Pit, Rupert, begins scratching at the wooden fence separating our properties, barking a warning to stay on my side. I kneel and peer through the inch-wide crack. Laugh as the stupid mutt works himself into a frenzy, jumping up and down, snapping his jaws as if he’d like to chew me to bits. 

My stomach grumbles. Rupert’s plump body would make a nice cut of brisket. 

From the bag in the backseat of my pickup, I retrieve my skinning knife and creep back up to the fence, whistling for Rupert. “I got a treat for you, boy,” I say in the cheeriest tone possible. I reach my fingers through the slats to snag a hold of his collar, clutching my knife tightly in anticipation. 

Crunch! 

His canines pierce my skin. I pull back my hand as his teeth dig grooves from knuckle to nail. Tumble backwards on my ass and wrap my fingers in my shirt; a red puddle soaks through the cotton. 

The filthy mutt snarls. 

A porch light clicks on. My neighbor’s door swings open. “Rupert!” he snaps. I crawl behind my truck, hoping he hasn’t seen me. Rupert charges up the stoop, nails clacking against the wood steps. 

“What the fuck is that on your mouth?” my neighbor asks Rupert. The dog barks in response. “Is that blood? What in kern hell you gotten into?”

I remain still despite the singing fires in my fingers. How would I explain to my neighbor why his dog bit me? Though we’ve lived next to each other for several years we’ve hardly spoken a word. I clutch my knife. I could just gut him. Roast his torso for dinner. But the motherfucker’s built like a brick shit house. Far too tough to take in a fight.  

He calls Rupert inside and slams the screen door. Am I really that desperate that I’d eat a dog? My stomach answers with a groan. 

I scamper to the side of my trailer and let myself in. Blood drips into the kitchen sink in a series of micro-splashes. I suck on my fingers, relishing the salty flavor. I grab the cleaver from the wall and stick my hand on the cutting board. Consider sautéing my digits in a pan with butter and rosemary. But despite my hunger, I don’t have the guts to finish what Rupert started.  

I slam the cleaver into the cutting board and wash my wounds with cold water. Retrieve gauze from the linen closet and wrap my fingers, which proves difficult with one hand. Once finished, I grab a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and stumble over to the living room, collapse on the couch, and turn on an episode of Buckmasters. Take a few slugs of Wild Turkey and blackout before the program ends. 

The deathly stench of The Hillside Slaughterhouse blights the green pastures of cow country a half-a-mile in every direction. I’ve witnessed grown men double my size bend over and puke their guts on the side of the road at the first whiff; quit the job before they even stepped foot in the white brick building. But it’s the only place around here that pays a decent wage. Otherwise, you’re left scrounging to get by. 

Carrying my tools in a canvas bag, I stroll through the barn entrance and head to the locker room, where I change into my sanitary garb. Inside the pen, workers stick the stunner pistols to the pigs’ heads, and knock them unconscious with a jolt from the bolt. They strap chains to their hooves, lift them in the air, and rotate them along the production line. I climb up the ladder to the platform, pull out my knife and cut each cow’s carotid artery—sever the main blood vessels near their hearts and bleed them dry. Once bled, I remove the hide, the head, then toss the innards into trash barrels lined on the floor. I perform my duties clean and methodically. It’s easy for bacteria to spread from within the carcass’ bones, spoiling the meat. The thought of it makes me ill. Not that I’d ever eat the dirty swine. 

“Hey Cochran,” my supervisor Ronnie Becks shouts, lifting a decapitated pig’s head by the ears. “Isn’t this your girlfriend?” He puckers his lips and makes kissy noises. 

My co-workers chuckle. They’re mostly rugged cowboy types. Men who pound a six-pack after work and hunt deer on the weekends. 

 “Don’t you want to give her a kiss?” Ronnie pushes the head at my face, once again eliciting a round of laughs. 

I give the piggy a long look. “Isn’t this your wife, Ronnie? She always was sweet on me.” 

The crew hollers. 

Ronnie shouts at the men to get back to work. He shoves the head into my chest. “You’re on clean up duty,” he says. “I expect this floor spotless by the end of the day, or these pigs won’t be the only thing losing their heads.” 

 I toss the head into the garbage and spend the rest of the day sweeping guts. 

 “Where did you disappear to the other night?” Brandy asks as I perch myself on a stool in front of the Do-Wop’s counter. 

I take a breath through my nostrils, inhaling her natural fragrances, and remind myself to stay calm. “Got called to an emergency at work.”

She arches a penciled brow. “What is it you do?” 

“Meatpacker.”

“And you got called away for an emergency?” Brandy giggles. “Did a cow break loose?” 

 “A batch of meat spoiled,” I say. 

Her haughty grin droops into a frown. “Happen often?” 

“No, no, no,” I backpedal. “Someone didn’t store it in the cooler properly.” 

My explanation doesn’t seem to calm her concerns. “Remind me not to buy my meat there.” 

I haven’t been here for five minutes and already things are going badly. “I promise, it’s fine.” I place three fingers over my heart. “Scout’s honor.” 

“What happened?” Brandy points to my bandaged fingers.  

 “Minor accident,” I say. 

Before she can dig deeper, I ask about the pies spinning in the glass case behind the register. Brandy perks up. It seems there’s nothing she loves talking about more than pies. She loves all types of pies, but in her opinion, nothing beats good old-fashioned cherry. With whip cream on top, of course. I order myself a slice, along with a hot cup of black coffee. 

While she takes a table’s order, I picture dipping Brandy in a vat of boiling oil until her skin blisters, nice and crisp, then smearing honey mustard across her thighs and pouring barbecue sauce over her ribs before squeezing her head between a pair of sesame seed buns. 

Because it’s a slow night, Brandy and I strike up a conversation. She bemoans having to care for her invalid momma, who’s in a wheelchair but otherwise scoots around okay. Just needs a little help taking a bath and cleaning the house and getting in and out of her chair. The house was a landfill before she arrived, Brandy says. You would’ve thought raccoons moved in. Now her momma just complains that she can’t find anything. Wishes Brandy would’ve left her shit alone. 

I lie about spending one weekend every month visiting my folks in Summersville. “I guess it’s our duty to be there for our parents as they get older,” I say.  

“It’s not that I mind doing things for her,” Brandy says, pouring me another cup of steaming coffee. “But since I’ve come home, I haven’t had a lick of fun. Is that too much to ask?”  

“Everyone deserves a break now and then. Otherwise, you’re liable to go nutty.” 

Brandy nearly bursts into tears. I’m the first person she’s met in this town who understands what she’s going through. 

I picture her smothered in whip cream and dig my fork into the fleshy crust of the pie. Cherry filling hemorrhages from the inside. I scoop a forkful and shovel it into my mouth. Bask in the warm, tangy flavor.  

Over the next few weeks, I make the occasional pit stop by the Do-Wop whenever I see Brandy’s beat-up Crown Victoria parked there. On slow nights, I stuff a napkin beneath my chin and listen to her rant about her pathetic life while I picture bits of her in whatever food I order. Brown eyes floating in a bowl of soup, fingers mixed in with a plate of fries, intestines slurped in an order of spaghetti. 

Sometimes Brandy wishes she’d never come back to Gap Mills. Despite all she does for her poor invalid momma, the woman treats Brandy like a servant, ordering her around worse than the customers who visit the diner. The only peace Brandy gets is the twenty-minute drive to and from work. 

And don’t get her started on her ex-boyfriend. That son-of-a-bitch keeps calling, begging her to reconsider. Promises that he’s changed his ways. But Brandy’s taken one too many beatings to know that ain’t true. The man has a violent streak hotter than burnt rubber on asphalt. Sometimes he hit her just because he was in a mood. 

“I’m finished being target practice,” Brandy says while filling saltshakers. “Next time a man tries to take a shot at me, he better be prepared to take one back just as hard.”  

For my part, I fill Brandy’s head with half-truths. The last I knew my parents lived in Summerville, but I haven’t spoken with them in ages. They’ve had nothing to do with me since I was arrested for peeping on our neighbor through her bathroom window. But as far as Brandy’s concerned, I visit often. I show her photos I downloaded from their social media accounts. She wonders why I’m not in the pictures. “I’m camera shy,” I say. She finds this hard to believe, so I photoshop myself into a couple to show her. 

One afternoon, we get to talking about pets. I play a video of Rupert in the neighbor’s yard digging holes. “He’s a feisty furball,” I say, feigning adoration. Brandy can’t wait to meet him.