Chapter 16: Prep Work

In the basement he found Butch already doing prep for the evening. The house lights were up to full and the TV behind the bar mutely displayed a telenovela. She stood behind the bar turning lemons into lemon wedges with a large cleaver. “Wanna see a cool trick?” she asked as he approached.

“I’m not sure I need to see any more tricks today, after this morning’s episode. But if you’ll set me up with a regular-sized knife, I’ll start on the limes.”

“Yeah, yeah. In a minute,” she said, looking steadily into his eyes. “You’ve gotta see my trick.”

It was then that he realized that the chop-chop-chop of the cleaver hitting the cutting board had continued like a metronome, never missing a beat, even though she was no longer looking down. For a moment he resisted the urge to glance downward, to look at the cutting board, the lemons, at her hand, while the cleaver chop-chop-chopped. Unable to stop himself and far from sure that he wanted to see, he glanced down. When he did so, Butch brought the cleaver down sharply, embedding it in the wooden cutting board—right through the back of her hand!

“Pretty cool, eh?” she asked.

There was no blood. She seemed to be in no discomfort. A shit-eating grin broke out across her movie-star handsome face she raised the hand that had seemed to be pinned by the cleaver to the cutting board. It passed through the gleaming steel blade like a ghost.

“Yeah,” he mumbled. “Okay, I’ll bite: what the fuck?”

“Man, you’ve gotta love the magic,” she said, her white teeth shining through that grin. He just stared at her. She waited, ready to hop onto his follow-up question, but none was forthcoming. After a moment she held up an uncut lemon with her left hand and placed it on the cutting board. She raised the cleaver and chopped in two. Another blow chopped one of the halves into two quarters. Two more blows ignored the lemon entirely and chopped right through her thumb, then her index finger, which somehow remained whole and attached. She looked back to his face.

“So,” he finally responded in a bored, dickish tone, “you’ve got, what, a magical meat cleaver that doesn’t cut meat?”

“Well...yeah. Or maybe yeah and no. Whatever.” She seemed disappointed that he had shown so little reaction. “It’s a cool trick. You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

He nodded, then sighed. “Yeah, it is pretty cool. I think that everything this morning has me a bit out of it. Sorry. So, what’s up with your meat cleaver that doesn’t cut meat?”

“I’m glad you asked.” She tossed the cleaver whirling into the air several times, catching it each time with a flourish. Her tone grew jaunty. “First of all, this little baby is not—repeat: NOT—a meat cleaver. It’s what is referred to as an ‘Asian cleaver’ or, sometimes, a Chinese chef’s knife. Its blade is thinner, and the edge is rounded, not straight, and it can be used equally well for both slicin’ and choppin’.”

“And the magic? The, you know, uh, enchantment on it, what’s with that?” She was so enthusiastic in presentation that he hoped he sounded like less of a dick than he had before.

“I’m glad you asked. This little baby was enchanted for me by one of the regulars here about three years ago. I had cut myself doing prep and had a big band-aid on my finger and she started asking me about it and that turned into some pretty serious flirting for a couple of weeks and—”

“Wait,” he stopped her. “Weren’t you married at the time?”

She looked at him, imitating the look he had given her only moments ago. When he nodded in acknowledgment of her point, she continued, “Tips, man. She wasn’t my type, but you can’t tell me that you never flirted with somebody wasn’t your type when you were tending bar and had to survive mostly on tips. Anyway, Little Miss Not-my-type brought me this sweet piece of steel as a friendly gift. It’s a regular knife. You still have to sharpen it ‘n’ stuff, but it absolutely won’t cut people. I had Marci check it out—Oh, and always have Marci, or maybe your friend Amy, check out any magic stuff you come across as soon as possible. Stuff ain’t always what it seems. Anyway, I’ve used it ever since.”

“I withdraw my condescending moral judgment. Please accept my apology. But speaking of types, what is your type?”

“My type? Hmmm...what’s my type? Ya know, that’s a good—” she broke off and reached toward the pocket of her jeans. Kirby heard the tell-tale buzzing of a phone set to ‘vibrate.’ Withdrawing the phone, Butch answered it. “Hey, babe! Were your ears burning? We were just talking to you!”

He felt the awkwardness he assumed everyone felt as his in-person conversation was put on hold, and he became an audience for Butch’s side of the phone call.

“Mm hmm...uh huh...nuh uh...yeah...yeah. I’m showing the new guy the ropes today...yeah...hold on. You like fried chicken?”

He had been trying to seem like he had not been paying attention to her phone call in a half-hearted attempt to at least look like he was respecting her privacy. “Hey, Kirby,” she said to get his attention, then repeated, “You like fried chicken?”

“Yeah, why?”

“My wonderful spouse only had to work a half-day today and is offering to bring us some fried chicken for lunch. It’s Popeye’s.”

“How could I possible say no?”

“You couldn’t.” To the phone she said, “That sounds great, honey! See you soon!” She ended the call. “Dawn was right by the Popeye’s over on 23rd, so we’ve got a bit of time left. I’ll finish the lemons. You can get the other knife and cutting board from behind the bar. We’ve got to get prepped. There’s gonna be a lotta thirsty lesbians here tonight.”

Over her shoulder the mute TV displayed a local news reporter standing a safe distance from a crater in a landscape littered with boards, bricks, and other rubble. The reporter spoke into his microphone and pointed to half a house, which teetered on the edge of the crater. Across the bottom of the screen words crawled: “…Reeves, found dead on his property. Authorities blame a sinkhole for the destruction.”

ͽʘͼ

Kirby shook his head before taking another bite of fried chicken, unsure whether to be more amused at the unusual situation life had thrown his way or at the increasing futility of his own expectations over the course of the past week and a half. He could have sworn Butch had said her spouse’s name was ‘Dawn’.

On the bar stools to his right were Butch and her spouse, Don, a chubby, middle-aged bank manager. He had shown up ten minutes earlier in his grey three-piece suit, glasses, and dapper moustache and his wife had given him a welcome kiss that seemed calculated to weaken his knees. Kirby must have shown more than a little surprise because, after Don had put the bag with their lunch on the bar and had given his wife a cute little kiss on the nose, he extended his hand to Kirby and said, “She didn’t tell you she was married to a man, did she?”

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“Well…”

“Nah, it’s okay,” he assured Kirby. His voice was a deep baritone. “Being the handsome woman that she is—and given the fact that she’s the bartender at the Coven of Bitches—you are far, far from the first person to assume otherwise.”

Kirby shook his hand. “Pardon my momentary startlement but, yeah, I guess I was assuming. Nice to meet you. I’m Kirby.”

They all chuckled, and Don distributed the three-piece dinners. After a bit more small talk, they tucked into the fried chicken experience, shards of crust on their face, greasy fingers, and lots of napkins to mitigate the mess. Kirby watched the two of them eat. They glanced at each other, making what his mom would have called ‘goo-goo eyes’, and seemed to occupy a world filled to capacity with but the two of them. To say they were an unlikely-looking couple was to court an award for understatement, but they were definitely a couple. They murmured to one another, nudging for emphasis when necessary, smiled, and cooed.

Kirby felt helpless as a tide of emotions swamped him. Tina and I used to be just like them when we were dating. When we were married. We were happy like they are, until... Fuck! It happened like that. The scars ripped open and bled again with no effort on his part. Five years. It’s been five fucking years since the divorce and I should be healed. It shouldn't still be this hard. I had finally been in a place to move forward, maybe even to move back home, to get on with my life there and then she—

“Hey, Kirby.”

—she reaches out of nowhere and mindfucks me! She just totally mindfucks—

“Hey, Kirby,” Butch repeated loudly, snapping him out of his increasingly angry reverie.

“Uh…yeah?”

“You okay, man? The look on your face was pretty out-there, if you know what I mean.”

“I was lost in thought.” He was unsure what they had seen in his face but knew that his excuse was insufficient to cover it. “Family troubles back home in Houston. I should just let it go. You know how it is.”

Don agreed. “Hoooo! Do I ever! Been there; done that.”

“Yep.” Butch made it unanimous.

“Do you know why your family can push your buttons like nobody else?” asked Don. “Because they installed the fucking buttons, man!”

“That’s a pretty fair point,” admitted Kirby.

“Yeah. It sure is. I forget where I read that, but whoever said it had a pretty good handle on family stuff,” Don said.

“Hey,” said Kirby, holding up a finger, “Let me ask—”

Don was not listening. “What happened to your hand, man? I know it might be rude, but I’ve got to ask.”

“This? You mean the black?” The question was probably unnecessary.

“Well, is there something else going on with your hand?” Don was being a smart-ass, but his grin made him a likeable one.

“Don’t be rude, boo,” warned Butch.

“No, it’s alright. I guess I’ve got to get used to the question—or to get another pair of gloves. Anyway, a couple of weeks ago I was helping an artist friend of mine pack some art stuff for shipping, including some little bottles of that new, ultra-black pigment. I suggested shrink-wrapping them all together, so they wouldn’t slam into each other and break if the package got banged up in shipping. He said he didn’t have a shrink-wrapper, but that he had a vacu-forming rig in his workshop that he’d built for making costumes.”

“Oh, man,” said Don. “I think I see where this is going.”

“Yeah.” Kirby had practiced the lie with Amy in order to tell the story convincingly. “Bing. Bang. Boom. One fell on its side. I reach in to stand it up and—”

“And your buddy doesn’t see you reach inside and cuts the machine on again?” asked Don.

Kirby confirmed Don’s hypothesis. “Right in one!”

Don's shoulders visibly slumped as he commiserated. “Shit, man, that’s messed up! How long is your hand going to be like that?”

Channeling some of the outrage he actually felt about the staining of his hand, Kirby said, “That’s just it! All the stupid doctor could say was ‘I can’t really say.’ What good is that? For what I pay for health insurance every month, he ought to be able to tell me something.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Butch chimed in, joining the lie. “Tell him the best part, Kirby.”

“Oh, yeah,” Kirby said, prompted by Butch’s remark. “I said, ‘This isn’t going to be permanent or anything, is it, Doc?’ and he said, ‘I’d like to say no, but I’ve never heard of a case like this before.’ How do you like that?”

Don did not seem to like it at all. “Hmph! Well, I’ve never heard of something like this, but you’d think he could give you some kind of guess.”

“Exactly!”

While they spoke, Butch moved to the other side of the bar and started collecting the cardboard boats and Styrofoam cups that remained from their lunch. She tossed a bar towel at Kirby. “Make it shine,” she told him as she disposed of the waste. He dutifully wiped down the bar where they had eaten.

Butch and Don talked quietly at the end of the bar. Kirby noticed him trace a finger along her forearm. She bit her lip. He pretended not to have been looking as she turned and asked, “Hey, Kirby, you live close by, don’t you?”

“Yeah. A couple of blocks down. Why?”

“We got in awful early this mornin’ after runnin’ that errand for Miss Adelaide and most of the prep has been done. We don’t open ‘til six and it’s not even two. Why don’t you take a few hours off and come back at five? You were going home to change before work anyway, right? You can take a nap or something and we can knock out whatever prep is left when you get back.” Her tone of voice left no room for interpretation. They wanted to be alone. Don looked slightly embarrassed but winked at him.

Playing along—what else could he do?—he stretched and made a yawning noise. “Yep. A nap sounds good about now. Thanks, Butch.”

“Don’t mention it.” She put her well-muscled arms around her husband’s chubby shoulders and gazed into his eyes.

“See you at five,” Kirby said over his shoulder as he pushed the door open. No reply followed.

It was only the first of July, but it was shaping up to be a record-breaking year for temperatures. He felt thoroughly roasted after walking the two blocks to the bungalow. Some of the businesses on the street had customers entering or leaving, but none of his neighbors were out and about. Who would be in this heat?

As he approached his bungalow, curiosity got the better of him and he began squinting, then opening his eyes wide, followed by rotating his head, so that he could look at the bungalow from out of the right, left, top, and bottom of his eyes. He was glad no one else was on the street to see him making these unusual contortions of his face, head, and neck. He tried, as he had for each of the past three days, to see the magic, the sorcerous enchantments that protected him while he was at home. Each day met with mixed results—but it was getting a bit easier. Today, he saw faint lines extending from the earth vanishing into the sky. Tilting his head, he squinted, trying to bring them into focus. They sharpened up as he approached. He saw similar lines rising from the yards of all the houses on his block, like the bars of cages meant to keep out the bad things. On an impulse, he crossed the street and approached the house next to his, where Patty and Marci lived, and touched its picket fence with his black hand. His vision of the magic was enhanced a hundredfold. The thin lines sprang into three-dimensional, technicolor vividity, giant bars of light reaching upward. Strung between them were a plethora of colored strands and chains, woven like wattle. He released the fence and his ability to see the enchantments nearly vanished. Experimenting, he touched the fence several more times, comparing the differences in what he saw, trying to resolve them.

The front door opened suddenly. Marci’s stood in the doorway. Kirby looked up and saw that she appeared to be carrying a bright yellow yardstick. The yardstick seemed to pulse with an energy, a sharpness, that made the enchantments protecting the bungalow seem watery and imprecise in comparison. “Oh, it’s you, Mr. Kirby!”

He waved. “Hey, Marci, how’s it going?”

She adjusted her large, round glasses. “It’s going pretty well. You know I can feel that, right? When you touch the fence with your hand? The black one.”

“I did not know that. Sorry if it bothered you. I don’t know much about how the, uh, mumbo-jumbo works, and I was trying to, you know, see if I could see it better. I can see it when I touch the fence, but not so well when I’m not touching it.”

“Well, the next time you practice, could you please let me know first? I monitor and maintain the wards for this entire block, and I can feel when they come into contact with… um...with things like your hand.”

“I can definitely do that—and I think I’m done for now. I’m going to go and enjoy some air conditioning. See you later.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Kirby.” Her head and arm disappeared into the bungalow. The door closed.

Once inside his own place, he stripped to his underwear and enjoyed the air. When he was cool and had toweled off the sweat from his hairy torso and arms, he dropped onto the sofa. With his left hand he set a timer on his phone to wake him at 4:30 and, with his right, he thumbed the remote control until the TV displayed a World Cup match, lowering the volume as he did so. He then lay his head upon one of the plush throw pillows and closed his eyes.