What A Butcher Does

     The sounds of work boots dragging on the gravel filled the air. A red sky hung above as a long day stood on the horizon. The mob took their time as they drifted towards the factory. Groans and yawns pierced the air accompanied by the smell of cheap coffee and cigarette smoke. However, in the midst of it all there is a sense of relief, the weekend was at the end of the long tunnel which was that work day. In the midst of this large force was Paul, groggy as ever. Cradling his thermos in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Walking alongside him were two of his co-workers who worked the same station he did; gutting.

   The factory was massive, 70,000 square feet to be exact; a monument to industry. It had stood for nearly twenty-five years, although like all companies it had been forced to modernise. Technological advancements were made for a smoother operation, and of course, less people they needed to pay. It was not just technology, however, there were other things at play. There had to be reassurance from the public relations office that everything was performed in the most ethical manner. People's modern sensibilities kiboshed the old ways; the average consumer wanted their meat slaughtered humanely.

“How many hogs do you think we’ll get through this week?” asked George.

   Sharron laughed, “I always try to keep track when Monday rolls around, but then I end up losing count half way through the week. My hands are too busy to tally them.”

    Paul remained silent, taking small puffs of his cigarette, and intermitadley sipping coffee from his thermos.

“Pauly, what do you think, huh? How many hogs do you think we went through this week?” asked George to Paul.

“I’m not sure.”

    Sharron chimed in, “Barbra said that the higher-ups are looking for at least 90,000 a week. Can you believe that?”

    Sharron was not exaggerating, if anything, the higher-ups of Hopewell Pork.Co would have pushed for another 10,000 if they could. However, with such high turnover rates, among other things, they figured the extra was not entirely feasible. The factory was structured to ensure that the numbers were mostly met, but then again, the numbers they needed were immense, and human error was inevitable. The people who gut the hogs needed to make sure they kept up the pace, or the operation slowed down. If the carving stations aren’t operating quick enough, the killing station needs to reduce the amount of hogs they are sending to the CO2 chambers.

Everything needed to be done accordingly, or else, the whole process would be slowed down.

     It began around 7 a.m., when the first round of hogs were delivered to the loading docks. Before they were killed, they were made to rest for up to two hours; decompress, destress, that sort of thing.

After, they are slowly coaxed in small groups towards the area that would be their end. Pigs are social creatures, they don’t like to move in a single file.  If they are allowed to be in groups, it’s less stressful for them in a way.  The CO2 stunning rooms are considered an ethical means of killing, gas chambers where the pigs slowly lose their consciousness, or at least, that's what the company would suggest. In reality, it's been compared to drowning, and despite the fact that there is no blood, it stands to reason that their death, while occasionally quick, is not entirely painless — albeit, pleasant.  The reaction pigs have to the CO2 varies, and it’s been proven that not only can it be incredibly awful, but it will most likely be painful, for some. They have the unfortunate curse of intelligence as well, which only further adds some to speculate that they may know exactly what's happening, even worse, bare the dreadful knowledge that there is no way for them to escape it. The RSPCA has recommended that these methods be phased out, but that would cost a lot of money, and Hopewell wouldn’t bother to change anything unless they were under legal obligation to do so.

    There’s always been debate in the animal lover’s community about this. The reality is that there is no creature that is going to go without a fight; no matter how much you allow them to relax, feed them, bathe them, allow them to do as they please — they do not want to die. It’s unfortunate, but it’s just the way it works. Long story short, there is no humane way to kill anything, you are killing something. Sure, there are quick ways to die, but death is death, and there are seldom organisms satisfied to meet their end when forced to do so.

Back to the process. After the first round of hogs are gassed, their lifeless bodies are pushed onto a conveyor belt which initiates the preparation for the processing phase. A small incision is made in each hind leg, a bar is placed in between them, and they are then placed on hooks which carry them to the next part of their journey.  After being dipped in a large pool of boiling water, they’re then moved through a machine which burns the excess hair off of their bodies. They are one by one sliced horizontally with all but their heads remaining intact. Then, what remains is carried off and butchered into various cuts, cleaned, and packaged to be shipped off to the markets.       Noon had come quicker than usual, and most of the workers were either in the smoking area or having lunch in one of the many break rooms. Paul, George, and Sharron always ate at the same table together where George was stuffing his face as usual. Sharron was fixated on Paul who seemed to be staring blankly at his food. “Paul slow down there, leave some food for the rest of us!” said George.

   Sharron shoved George, “Don’t be a dick. What’s wrong Paul? Are you not hungry?”

“I’m not hungry, that’s all.” 

    George laughed, “Can’t blame you for that. I’m surprised any of us are able to eat a ham sandwich on a break in this fuckin’ place.”

“You aren’t eating a ham sandwich, George,” said Sharron. 

“Oh ya. No, this is artisan chicken. My buddy Karl owns his own farm, does the slaughtering himself, but he always gives me a wicked deal on the meat.” 

“Exactly my point, you aren’t eating pork, George.” 

    George scoffed, “It’s all the same shit. Meat is meat! But I tell you, I got a big batch of pork chops at home and I’m gonna eat the whole fuckin’ thing tonight, beer included.”

    Paul looked up from his microwaved meal, “I thought you quit drinking, George?” 

“I quit getting drunk, I’m too old for that now.”

    Sharron rolled her eyes, “Is that why you were drunk at the last staff party?”

“Ya Sharron, I was, and you know what I regretted it the next morning. Thank god I had a day or two to relax, you ever try doing this shit hungover?”

    The three sat in silence following George's comment. Sharron, being the woman she was, seemed to be unable to take her eyes off of Paul. It only took a few more seconds for her to continue voicing her concerns.

“Paul, at least try to eat some food. Seriously, you look like a ghost. How much sleep are you getting?”

    Paul looked up again, displaying his eyes which looked as though they had sunken into his face. He scratched his head, peering around the table before he attempted to make eye contact with Sharron. 

“I think I got three hours last night.”

“Are you serious?” asked Sharron.

    George let out a loud burp after throwing his fork and knife into his tupperware. Sharron, shoving George again, then continued to berate Paul. “You shouldn’t be working if you can't sleep, you could seriously injure yourself.”

“She has a point there, Pauly. I only sleep five hours max. But, I’m also 58-years-old. You’re still young, so you ought to get at least eight hours. Especially working this job.”

    Paul sighed, “I’ll get some rest tonight. Plus I’ll be able to sleep in tomorrow.”

“Speaking of taking a load off, what about Renée? Think it’s about time you two went on a date night? Maybe she can help you to rest, if y'know what I mean? Haha!” said George.

“Ya, maybe.”

    Sharron’s eyes lit up, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but George is actually right. Maybe what you need is a fun night out? I can bring Michelle, George can bring, well, himself. You and Renée can come? It’d be like a double date, and George.”

Paul sat upright before pushing away his food. 

“I’ll ask Renée about it, she doesn’t have many friends so I’m sure she’d be interested.”

    George laughed, “I mean, neither do you, none of us do. What would we talk about? Hey, I gutted 15,000 pigs today.”

“We have lives outside of work, George,” said Sharron. 

“Maybe you do! All I have is this, and my sci-fi stories. Did either of you guys read the last one?”

“Yes, I got half way through but stopped because I didn’t want to know the details of how the main character struggled to have sex with an alien.”

     The lunch break came to an end, and everything began once again. The mundanity of the job was something that often resulted in many people spacing out, or at least, finding their “happy place,” when they worked. This was actually a phrase that George had told Paul about when they first met. A peculiar zen that was reached while working, a state of dissociation that occurred when one was not fully there, but still functioning; a robot in a sense. It was a difficult thing to achieve, as George often put it, there's a fine line between tuning out and the happy place. For instance, Gregory Markson, a former employee had attempted to find it throughout his career at the plant, but unfortunately wound up tuning out instead. This resulted in his awareness fading for just a moment, which was enough time for him to slip on some innards, falling down, and breaking his collarbone. It was a minor injury compared to what could have happened, but an injury nonetheless.

     There Paul was, beside George and Sharron, gutting one money bag after another. It was evident that George had become so adept with his blade that it looked like second nature, as if he had become one with it; a gore dance. Sharron hadn’t quite reached that level yet, but she was more preoccupied on keeping count of the hogs, determined to keep track for a week to see if the numbers that were being communicated were accurate; plus, she really just wanted to know. Paul was one to do the opposite, though being so new to this particular station he had much to learn when it came to the art of it. Hog after hog, cut after cut, bag after bag, for hours and hours, until finally 3 o’clock rolled around.   

The sun hung heavy in the sky as the masses exited the building, in nearly the fashion that they had entered. The same feet dragging on the gravel, the same cigarette smoke, the only difference was the myriad of smells that every worker carried with them. George and Sharron always car pooled because they lived in the same neighbourhood, but Paul drove alone.

“Get home safe, Paul!” Sharron yelled from across the way.

“I’ll see you guys on Monday!” Paul replied half heartedly.

    George smiled, “Have a good night there bud!”    

Paul didn’t respond, getting into the driver's seat of his Dodge Ram, and slowly making his way out of the parking lot. With a few manoeuvres, he drove towards the 418 highway, North. Paul lived about twenty-five minutes down that highway in a small town named Carth. However, on that day he needed to make a small detour to a different suburb, Plainview. Nobody knew he would go there every Friday, although he didn’t have many people to tell. The only person who had an idea was Renée, but she only knew as much as Paul would tell her. 

    It was 3:45 p.m. when Paul arrived at the house. The area was quiet; a paragon of tranquillity. A beautiful thing about living outside of the city was just that, a peaceful atmosphere, the sounds of nothing that remarked on an often forgotten luxury. Stepping out of his car he walked up to the front door, past an array of beautiful plants that decorated the lawn. He rang the bell, and waited for a few seconds until a woman opened the door. 

“You’re early, Paul,” said the woman.