El Rauncho (ManxMan)

El Meaty

El Meaty

The dirt-caked tires crunch against the gravel as the meat truck halts in front of a slaughterhouse, at a faraway barn where the fields are green, the animals are loud, and the air reeks of blood.

The man behind the wheel sighs tiredly before pulling down the visor. Bloodshot eyes look back at him in the mirror and it makes him sigh even more, the red spindly veins in his eyes about ready to pop as he looks closer to view his reflection. Fuck, fuck! he curses in his head, feeling the weight of exhaustion in his chest and on his shoulders as he shakes his head to stay awake.

He pushes the visor up then takes the key out of the ignition to stop the engine. Tired and forlorn, he leans his forehead onto the wheel, exhaling and inhaling and scrunching his eyes to stave off the cloud of fatigue setting in.

After a few minutes of meditating, he pulls the visor down to look at his reflection once again. Nothing has changed. He’s still his tired old self. It might seem gay, but he gets self-conscious when he sees himself looking wasted. He feels unattractive when his skin gets all tired and blotchy. He thinks that the longer he’s awake, the less handsome he’s becoming. And it’s doing bad things to his ego as a man, almost emasculating, especially because he hasn’t had a shag, a screw, or anything close to a mind-numbing blowjob, not even a handjob for months, what with being on the road for days on end, plus all the side jobs that needs doing just to make ends meet in this rural America.

Times like this he wishes he had some form of education, or anything, just to make him less vocationally-handicapped in this sucky economy. The stress of not having options when it comes to employment weighs heavily in his heart. Even more so when he crosses from city to city in his delivery truck, because in the cities is where he sees people living a life of convenience. And it makes him jealous of the things he can’t acquire like steady employment, someone to bang, or a nice little house.

He looks to the mirror to see bags under his eyes, a reminder that he’s been driving and making deliveries two days straight with little to no sleep. He exhales his frustration and closes his eyes. And when he opens them again he looks to the glove compartment to claim the small bottle of eye drops.

He tilts his head back and squeezes cool water into each eye then flutters his lids, spreading the revitalizing fluid to seep into his sockets and enliven whatever spirit they had left from within, “Right on, right on,” he says in a form of encouragement to will his stamina to stretch just a little bit longer.

Surely his stiff employer will pay him extra if he drives for just one more night without phoning for backup. Besides, as much as it’s irritating, he needs this job. It’s the only job out of the three he’s doing which doesn’t require the use of math, speech, or anything other than his driving skills. It’s just driving.

For someone in his profession, it’s an occupational hazard to drive with very little energy. The chance of meeting an accident is critically high, especially with the route he’s taking from one interstate to another, down and up and over the freeway to kilometers of dry land, packed soil, and barren wasteland where it’s colorless, boring, lonely, and bland like a fucking carton of stale McDonalds French fries.

His consciousness is pulled back into the now as he hears the clucking and bellowing of animals.

The cock-a-doodle-doos of beastly fowls die as they get submerged in scalding water, their innards disemboweled for sale to vendors who make use of the liver. The bellowing moos of fat cows expire as they get spliced for their red meat. And don’t forget the grunting of overworked and sweaty men in their coveralls as they toil with manual labor under strict measures to keep the meats as fresh as possible.

The sound of dying animals ring through one ear and out the other as Mason maneuvers the meat truck backwards, to the side, and around to park the back against the loading dock. He doesn’t need to see what’s happening inside the slaughterhouse because the squeals alone are enough to project the image of something terribly violent happening inside.

Ever since he started doing this job, his taste for meat has considerably left his appetite. He likes eating meat of every variety. He just doesn’t like what meat looks like before it becomes meat.

Mason used to be carnivorous, a protein-junkie. But now he feels like his sustenance comes from a place of death and misery. Now that he’s seen the carnage, he knows more the peril that animals go through than he cares to admit. And in that sense he feels almost guilty of partaking in anything that has meat. To Mason, eating factory-farmed meat is like feeding on tortured flesh. He dislikes the feeling of tortured flesh becoming his own.

The meat truck is almost like an extension of his body as he slides it into position with ease. He parks it nicely and the beeping sound of the truck makes known his arrival, signaling for the men inside the slaughterhouse to hustle quickly and load the truck.

The men drag fresh, cold cuts of meat and full-bodied dismembered cows into steel trolleys, pushing them outside and lining them up for checking into inventory. They skewer the varieties of meat using steel hooks to hang inside the subzero temperature of Mason’s delivery truck.

Mason jumps out of his truck to sign the clipboard, appending his signature on several sheets of paper, “You look like someone fucked your ass,” says one of the men with blood all over his coveralls. Mason looks at him and shrugs, too tired to process the snarky comment and come up with a wiseass remark, “You sure you can drive, man? That’s a lot’a meat back there and we ain’t gon’ be responsible for any loss of any kind, you hear?”

Mason huffs through his nose and wipes a sheen of cold sweat on his forehead, “I know, man, I know. Just load it up and shut up cos you makin’ me dizzy.”

“Nah you ain’t drivin’ like this, fool,” the man comments, pulling the glove away from his hand using his teeth, “Am callin’ a driver, you be ridin’ shotgun.”

Mason doesn’t give a shit anymore. As much as the gesture makes him feel inadequate, he surrenders, knowing that making a safe delivery is better than compromising a truck full of meat.

“Yo! You called for me!?”

A well-built, dark-haired Caucasian wearing a denim jumper with no inside shirt jogs from inside the slaughterhouse to where Mason is standing. The first thing Mason notices are the man’s beefy biceps and hairy chest. Mason makes a face of jealousy because he too is muscular but a much smaller build. And if there’s anything Mason can’t stand, it’s the sight of a carbon copy who’s better-looking than him in every way imaginable.

The thickset Adonis wipes his nose with the back of his hand, then runs the same hand down his jean jumper before extending it for a handshake, “I’m Blake, man, how ya doin’?” Blake starts, to which Mason reluctantly gives his hand for a lame handshake, “You don’t look so good, man, you aight?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine. Let me take a look at you,” Blake reaches forward but Mason slaps the hand away.

“I said I’m fine. I don’t need your help,” Mason snarls confidently, but his body traitorously says another thing. He shakes his head as he sees gray dots blurring his vision, followed by lightheadedness, falling over, and the sensation of feeling light.