824

Izzy had it; had had it. For quite a while, he’d had-had it. Actually, he wasn’t willing to have it any longer. He, suddenly, stood ramrod straight. A maneuver typifying a person arriving at a moment, an epiphany; a decision had been reached. Concluded a string of thought. Shortly Izzy seemed to lose the determination the movement might, did, connote. He waivered. He hunched. Defeated.  As if melting, like lake ice on a warm March day, Izzy rested the weight of his broad, deliquescing shoulders onto outstretched arms, meaty, gnarled hands planted on the stone slab before him. His left hand continued gripping the large serrating knife he prided himself on handling with the dexterity of a surgeon. He wondered aloud, is there music when you die? It had been a question eating at him for some time. He usually brushed it to the back of his brain. Didn’t want to address it. Concentrate, he’d council himself, on cuttin’. Weird postulation… he mused… postulation, what da…? Mitch, his table partner on poultry paring table #32 and older brother by two years, looked across the chicken heads, gizzards and entrails piled between them, Huh? What’d ya say Iz? Izzy looked up at him, realizing what he was thinking he must’ve said out loud, I said, ya big meathead, does music play when you die? There he figured, I said it, for real.

You mean at the funeral? Yeah, I suppose you can have music. What the flip, eh Izzy, ‘It’s your funeral’ as Ma used to say! Mitch laughed heartily in a self-satisfying sort of way. Remember dat Izzy? Ma standing in the kitchen watching us go off to do something stupid, shaking her head at the back of ours as we ran out she’d be yelling ‘Go ahead, it’s your funeral…’ ha, man and she usually was right. It pretty much ended up that it was our funeral… Mitch shook his head, smiling at the memory and showing more than a little pride he had been able to answer his little bothers question, we always did the stupid thing…’cept cuttin’.

No you big dummy, not ‘at the funeral’. When you die-die. Like when you just kick off and your floatin’… above your old body, ya know? Is there music that kind of goes with you? Up to heaven or down, well, you know, down to there, Izzy hesitated, eyes bugged out a bit… nodding his head downward; not willing to say the word: H - E - double hockey sticks. It was his Catholic upbringing. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, might jinx him down the road. Mitch, going back to work cuttin’, brought his hatchet down on the chicken’s neck, severing the beaked head. The thwack through the plucked skin, sinewy muscle, thin meat and toothpick bones followed by the metal on stone thud of blade to table, brought Izzy back from his spiraling obsession. Gathering himself, he grabbed the headless torso, flipped it on its back, made two expert end cuts and pulled gullet, intestine, liver, heart and bile duct. Opening the bird like a brand new book, he pulled the lungs last. Quickly, yet with intention, always, Izzy separated the innards, depositing each according to appropriate pre-placed pile. This went on, thwack/thud/slice, sixty-two times an hour, ten hours the day. Six hundred and twenty birds a day, six days a week. The Broz Brothers, Mitch & Izzy, were the best; they owned the record, 824 birds in a day, back in ’11. They were younger then. Mitch had pumped ‘em up with some uppers and off they went. Izzy didn’t sleep for three days. Some say they were the sole reason the factory hadn’t automated. Heck, hadn’t closed, moved to Mexico. The two were faster than any machine, earned 10% over minimum wage and inspired the other paring tables to maximize their production too. Minimal capital investment. Mitch reveled in their shared fame, cynosure, even though he contributed minimally. He enjoyed the occasional free bird to take home for dinner, the cheers that greeted him on Thursday bowling night at Mel’s Lanes out on old rural route 613. Although married he was not too timid to return the smiles from the three secretaries he’d find reason to stride by each payday. They knew he, and his quiet brother, Izzy, were responsible for the factory being open. Except for them, the three would be fighting for lap dances up the highway at Tally’s Truck Stop & Diner. Contradicting his   pride in cuttin’ for a living, Izzy demurred internally. He felt each bird’s heartbeat cease before he completed his slices. He knew the parts he scoped would be cold before they hit their respective piles. Izzy knew death.  A bird’s dispatch was, to Izzy, same as a human passing. When he dealt out their demise he heard… music. A faint song, lingering melody swayed to and fro in Izzy’s mind all day. Ten Hours. Angelic voices, tenor and alto, sang praise to jesus. Almost lustful energy would fill Izzy. This was the secret to his calm cuttin’. Lust. It occurred to Izzy, when he dies, there will be music. But, he pondered, who will hear?