Little Piggies

The storm rolled past, rushing the scent of stockyard butchery and the misery of dying swine through the air like Superman chasing a villain. No one harkened to the reverberating howl of frightened animals finally realizing that their long journey from sow’s teat to crowded transport trucks, had come to its end. Everything had been fixed so that they couldn’t flee the agony of being gutted with nothing to veil the pain. There was no iconoclastic army of socialist hogs to save them, and then rewrite the rules of who governed whom. There was only blood, death and a new existence bound by shrink-wrap with the steady drone of music designed to lure shoppers into purchasing what they couldn’t afford.

Maryann stared at the plate of pork ribs before her and smiled. “Best sauce ever,” she told the waitress. “If that recipe doesn’t make you famous, nothing will.”

After paying her bill, she walked down the footpath that took her from the diner back towards the heartbreak of her empty home. Going out had become her way of escaping the ghosts of old arguments and pleadings for love that still echoed from the walls and floorboards. Even though she had felt trapped in her marriage to Derek, she was now caught in the dilemma of mourning its end. She hadn’t felt equal to his feelings from the moment he’d first shared them. Instead, she’s settled for a dollhouse existence of masked feelings and static smiles, until finally, the fear of spending the rest of her life like a frozen pillar of a retired saint, had overtaken her, leaving her thunderstruck and hungry for something else.

The hush of the early evening tide gentled James to sleep, even as the faint echo of a cabaret singer from a nearby bar danced across the ancient timbers of his room. It had been a good day and he had earned his rest. He did not dream about money or fields of wheat, but of a myriad dancing cleavers all chopping off the heads of his more demanding customers at the butcher shop. He woke smiling and ready to face them again like a lion on the prowl.

Penny put on her waitress apron, though both mind and body begged her to go home. It had been a long day at the mill and now she was here serving plates of grease and wilted lettuce to the hungry and cheerless. She had gone outside during one of her allotted breaks to escape the grease pit and the constant needs, burps and complaints of the faceless throng who came and left without retreat. The extra money of her second job beckoned her back inside, even though her feet throbbed with every step. Between orders of prune Danish and shredded pork, came the images from the night before when her children had delighted to the fake-cockney strains of Dick Van Dyke in “Mary Poppins.” Those cherished moments thrust her to the next table, the next order and hopefully a good tip for her efforts.

The sea rushed in, wildly attacking the shore as another herd of swine was transported on another truck on their journey to oblivion. 

Maryann turned off the light; finally ready to succumb to the quiet mastery of sleep. Perhaps she would call Derek tomorrow and perhaps not. The past clung to her with needy hands and the future was still too new and uncertain to rely on. James trekked down the early morning streets to the stockyard, past the booths of those he had added to an imaginary blacklist because of their unwillingness to cut him deals, to inspect a shipment of fresh meat. He would butcher the carcasses of hogs, count his money and smile at old women he would later butcher and count one-by-one like sheep before falling to sleep. Penny peeked into the bedroom of her sleeping children, almost too tired to walk the few steps to her bedroom. For some reason the childhood jingle of “Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary” repeated in her mind as she undressed and readied herself for bed. A flash of moonlight lit her room as she stood in front of the mirror. A youthful smile crept across her face as tiny feet journeyed across the carpet to stand beside her. She patted the tousled head of her youngest, and they stood together in silence. All was not right with the world, but it would have to be good enough for now, she thought. 

“What are you doing up so late?” she whispered, breaking the silence, “its time for all little girls and boys to be asleep.

“But I’m a little piggie momma. Oink.”

So another day began and ended as the storm rushed in and rushed out.