Foreword: I wrote this piece for my 543 teaching writing comp class. It started off as a free write in the beginning of class. On a completely different note, someone told me that they thought my away messages were interesting to read. Thanks? I thought about this before, but I’ll state it again for those not lucky enough to be exposed to it. James Joyce had this idea of radiant fragments, like really short yet brilliant fragments with the power of poetry even if it was in prose. Away messages are kind of like that aren’t they – short messages that might be super saturated with power. Or just something stupid like “I’m taking a nap call me to wake me up plzzz.” Well, either way, here’s my piece for 543.
The air was crisp and sterile, but the smell of blood floated in the air. The fluorescent lights lined up in rows on the ceiling, standing at attention in nice tidy rows. The cold air was tinted blue though it should have been red – or perhaps it was red when it should have been blue. Calm breaths burst into the air and dissipated into nothing as huge slabs of meat latched themselves onto hooks or tore themselves free. Cotton-gloves wrapped snuggly in latex stroked the apron leaving faint smears of red.
The ragged edge of the saw hewed meat in between the ribs in perfect 4/4 time. The light fell precariously – or systematically – on the gleaming metal and the red flesh with a similar ambiance. A hundred jagged hooks dangled from the ceiling as if fishing for something. Cleavers hung from some of the hooks; other cleavers sliced the meat into neat and tidy packages.
Out front, the sun shone with a warm yellow glow. Streams of light flowed vibrantly through the broad windows and made an exaggerated shadow on the floor in a jocund font: “Delicatessen.”
“Butterfly cut lamb loin. And give me the scrag too.”
“2.43 lbs. $17.34.”
Meat passed from hands into plastic sheets and through the vacuum sealer. Plastic-wrapped meat passed from latex hands to hard metal counter. Plastic cards peeked out of factory-processed genuine leather in the warm yellow light. Only one escaped, sprinting across the reflective plains into the rigid arms of its lover, spraying numbers and rubber and bar codes and liquid crystal across the LCD screens.
“5 cuts of top sirloin steak.”
“6.82 lbs. $43.98.”
“Half a pound of pork loin.”
“All out.”
“Fine. Rib roast. Small end. Half a pound.”
“.5 lbs. $8.98.”
The sky darkened. Digits, shackled to other digits, were flung into ledgers; amounts escaped to banks; and arms reached out to all of the numbers before finally resting at 8. The “delicatessen” on the checkerboard tile floor heaved up, slowly deflated and died. The glowing neon “open” in the bottom left corner of the window flickered in mourning and followed its mate to the grave. The lights stood at dutiful attention and paid their respects to the two deceased words.
Money flew to the backroom onto a clean metal table where meat once lay. Numbers partnered up and appeared on screens for their moment of fame before being hastily forgotten. Money stowed itself away to rest in a metal fortress of inch thick sterile metal, protected by a revolving guard of black and white numbers. Doors closed themselves and green lights were converted by the plastic spirit into red – guarding their hearts against the evil ones. The vigilant lights were honorably discharged and dimmed in peace.
Headlights blinked awake and engines rumbled a soft purr of satisfaction. After a series of quick stretches and warming up, the car raced off at full sprint. Cars and trucks played games in the chthonic streets – tag, follow the leader, hide and seek.
A sudden reveille at 10 p.m. called the lights back to arms. They stood at attention to watch and protect the playing cars.
