Oscar Alcazar - "Oscar's Meat" back room
After 8 years, Oscar didn't mind the smell of meat. He didn't mind touching, or cutting, or the blood oozing down in hands. In fact, he liked it. His everyday interaction with raw slabs of muscle was one of the only constants in his life, the only thing he could count on. A butcher doesn't have it easy.
The Alcazar family had it hard times back in Columbia. They pooled their money, and elected Oscar to forge a path to America, with dreams of opportunity and wealth. Funny how his fortunes ended up. A small butcher shop, dwarfed by a towering apartment building, struggling in Baltimore's ghetto. But he had friends. He had his regular customers, and then those that just came for the gambling. The back room of "Oscar's Meat" doubled as living space and illegal dogfighting ring. The entry fee was $50 and the password was 'New York Strip.'
It was hard for such a big man to get around. At 6'6 and nearly 400 pounds, Oscar suffered from compulsive feasting and knee problems. His hulking, mammoth form could be seen cleaning the outdoor tables every day, closing the red and white striped umbrellas, or just sitting, staring, and watching the world go by.
An old Cadillac decorated his back parking lot. The rims were chrome and the leather soft, one of the perks of having family in the Columbian drug trade. But that's where his valuables ended. It was 6 o'clock. He flipped the "Open" sign over. It now read "Special: New York Strip." The night would soon begin.
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The streets were chilly as Mrs. Flogsbottom stepped onto the cracked pavement. Her orange plaid coat wasn't enough- if only she had also brought her hand knitted neon green mittens and matching hat- she pulled her coat tighter around her body as she walked quickly up the street to Manny's Grocery- her not yet declared lover's work. The wind whipped at Mrs. Flogsbottom's skirt and it flew up, revealing her plump knees. Looking casually around, she spotted an onlooker, beguiled by her beauty. Oscar, the butcher, watched her curiously from the comfort of one of the chairs behind an outside table. He wasn't wearing a coat, but his huge form didn't require one. Mrs. Flogsbottom looked away, she wouldn't condone his sexual advances, she loved Achilles, besides, he was big enough to squash her entirely and not even notice until he scrapped her orange plaid blob off the floor.
The rundown exterior of Manny's Grocery made her heart flutter. From the grimy windows, covered with everyday sludge and foggy from the chill, she could see Achilles. His strong jaw, his warm mocha brown eyes, and his shining head. She did not see his receding hair line, fused with gray streaks, or his growing gut. His glasses were thick as a bread slices, but they added an allure- the green rim matched her own glasses stunningly. Sure she changed the color of her glasses to match his, but it was all for the price of love.
Pushing open the heavy wooden door with chipped paint, she stepped inside, grabbing a shopping cart for good measure. Achilles turned and smile widely, exposing the wide gap between his two front teeth.
"Well Mrs. Flogsbottom! What a lovely lady to see on such a dreary day!" Achilles said, bowing as he always did, just for her. Mrs. Flogsbottom turned a bright red, shyly looking down, counting in her head for 2 seconds, before looking up to him. It's all in the eyes, she thought, flirtatiously batting her eyelashes.
"If anyone deserves a brighter day, it's my special veggie man!" Mrs. Flogsbottom chortled, trying to laugh lightly, but sounding like a snorting pig.
"That coat looks mighty fine on you, the color is very unique, brighter than any carrot I've ever seen" he replied.
"I'd hoped you'd like it, but don't go and grow a watermelon head you tease!" Mrs. Flogsbottom laughed, delighted to hear Achilles laugh that resembled the sound of a horn blowing. "I suppose I should do my shopping- you know how busy I am, if you asked me out tonight I would have to refuse, that's how busy I am. So much to do, that's me- but how I love going out, especially with other people. It's so lovely. I love it. Oh, I'm dithering so, I'd best get back to shopping!" Mrs. Flogsbottom carefully walked down the first aisle she came to, sure to swing her hips vivaciously so Achilles would see. Needing some milk, she walked to the back section and saw Delilah pondering over the juices, but Mrs. Flogsbottom knew better. Ever since she and Delilah had wanted the same can of lima beans weeks before, she knew Delilah was enthralled with her. That's why she probably spent so much time at the juices just as an excuse to see Mrs. Flogsbottom. Well, if she ever tried to declare her love, Mrs. Flogsbottom knew exactly what to say, she had rehearsed it many times- with as many admirers as her, one always had to be ready.
It's not you dear, really. I think you are a stunning person and beautiful in your own sparkling way, but I cannot love you. I have another I have given my heart to completely and it wouldn't be fair to you to get your hopes up. And I like men. But she would only say the last part if she was talking to a woman, because her charms worked on both sexes. Curse the Gods for making her so irresistible!
With a gallon of milk, 2 candy bars, ice cream, and fettuccine pasta, Mrs. Flogsbottom tried to think of anything else she might need. A sudden crash of cans brought her back to reality as she watched Delilah bring a pyramid down, probably to get her attention. The cashier walked over to clean up, and Achilles quickly took her place at the counter. In break neck speed Mrs. Flogsbottom was in line and smiling coyly at Achilles. "Did you find everything?" Achilles asked, scanning her goods and putting them in paper bags.
"You have everything I need-" She waited a moment, forced a blush, giggled and said, "I mean your store- silly me!" Mrs. Flogsbottom smiled inwardly, she had been working on that line for 2 weeks, and it was even better than she thought it would be.
"I love to see you happy," Achilles replied, winking.
"You Don Juan," Mrs. Flogsbottom replied, "Why if you asked me out, you're so smooth, that I might just have to accept! Even though I'm so very busy and all, but I would probably push everything back, just for you!" Writing a check she handed it to him, making sure he could see her perfectly filed nails. "And my phone number is on there, in case there are any problems. Not that there would be, and even if there was, I live right down the street, Washington Heights, 2nd floor first apartment, so you could find me. How close we are! It's almost like a sign!"
With a final flirtatious wave, she walked out of the store, giddy as a school girl. With all her subtle hints, and his flirtatious responses, they would be together in no time- but now came chapter 3. Not seeing him for a while so he misses her and realizes how much he really loves her. It would be one of the longer chapters for her, but she was ready.
George Jefferson - The End of the First Night
The night had gone well in the beginning. He had stopped two small time robberies and scared the living daylights out of a crack dealer. With his deep voice he would bellow something awe-inspiring, then he would leap out with his sword and whack their weapons right out of their hands. He would then proceed to work them over with his sword and his fists, and he would top it off by handcuffing them to a nearby object. There they would stay until the police came, if they were lucky. He knew he had struck a fear of the night into at least four criminals, and they would not be returning to crime anytime soon. Except, of course, for that last one.
In his wandering he had come upon what seemed like a classic crime: a man was holding a gun to another man's head in a dark alley. He couldn't hear what they were talking about, but he didn't care - they were obviously criminals. Jefferson leaped from the shadows and yelled, "Criminals never prosper, motherf---er!" in his most menacing voice. He sliced the sword down on the first man's hand, sending his gun flying, and possibly breaking his wrist. Jefferson then clocked him in the face, knocking him to the ground. The second man fled. Jefferson chased after him, assuming he was also involved in the crime. It was his first mistake.
Jefferson caught up to the second man and grabbed him by his collar, but he fainted in terror. Then Jefferson heard the cocking of a gun that saved his life. He turned just in time to see the first man, his nose bleeding profusely, aiming the gun directly at his chest. Jefferson dived headlong into a nearby window just as the first man fired. He could've sworn he felt the bullet narrowly miss his hand. He climbed out of the window with a few cuts and bruises but unscathed overall. That leather jacket was a lifesaver. The man with the gun was nowhere to be seen. Jefferson dragged the fainted man's body over to a nearby lamppost and handcuffed his hand to it. An elderly woman walked by, who Jefferson recognized as Mrs. Pearl, one of the tenants of his building. "Someone should call the police" Jefferson said, and fled into the night. He hoped she would not recognize him under his mask.
Jefferson ran through the back alleys of his neighborhood, shaken. That man was obviously a part of some sort of organized crime. Small-time druggies and messed-up kids could be scared straight, but crime bosses and their followers were something else. He stopped in the vacant lot next to Washington Heights. If he kept this up, he could be dead within a week. Then he remembered why he had started this crusade in the first place. This was one of the most crime-ridden parts of the city; it was also the neighborhood he grew up in. This was where he had first decided to become a police officer. He had done it with the hope that he could clean up the city. That plan had failed, so he moved on to another plan - the sword.
Jefferson stood up. Within a week he could be dead, but, he asked himself, how would that be different from any other week? He would have to change his tactics. He would deal with crime from the top down., instead of just scaring the bottomfeeders straight. This neighbor was where his first crusade had began, so this neighborhood was where his second crusade would begin, as well. Jefferson looked across the street. He could see the owner of Oscar's Meat setting up shop, and also discreetly taking down a sign that read "New York Strip." Something illegal was going on over there, but he would have to wait to investigate. The sun was just beginning to rise over the skyline, and Jefferson was still in costume. Also, he was tired. Jefferson climbed the fire escape, but he paused and looked out over the city. He would focus his efforts here, until Washington Heights was a beacon of hope for the rest of the city. Or he would die trying.
Veal for supper
I woke up this morning wondering if yesterday had been a dream. Some crazy man was in my house when I came home... talking about some business about being a detective. I don't know if all of it was real or if I am going insane. I just can't stand it anymore. It's just too much for me. When I moved in with Marcus (my deceased husband), everything was glorious. The street lights worked and the diner wasn't a place for lunatics. Maybe that guy, Michael I think was his name... who "investigated" my apartment yesterday was right. I must be on some sort of drug. It all seems like a blur now. How did this retroevolution of Washington Heights occur. Maybe the Jewish Homes would be better than this... well certainly not better but maybe safer? I guess it doesn't matter... let someone come in a murder me, what else is there that I need to do? I just hope Alexander doesn't get into trouble in this neighborhood.
Today I went to the butcher, to pick up some food for Alexander. He always tells me I don't give him enough food. He's eating me out of house and home. I don't mind buying him meat though because that butcher, Oscar, is one of the nicest men I've ever met. Such a nice man to have been serving that fresh meat for all these years. He's always giving me deals too. His place is always pretty full... but not with people I would think would be in a butchery. Shady looking men... with dark-colored trench coats and thick accents are usually hanging around the place... playing cards or talking about current events. Today when I went, Oscar was out of ground beef... I had to figure something else out or Alexander would be enraged.
"Well, if you don't have the beef what else do you recommend Oscar," I said.
"Aw, well the veal is great Ms. Pearl," Oscar replied.
"Veal? I don't know if Alexander would like that," I said.
"O'course he will! The meat's so tender 'cause they keep the little things in cages, so they can't use their muscle, some may call it inhumane, I say it's brilliant," he said.
"Alright Oscar, you always know what's best so I'll take your word for it," I said, admiringly. "I better get a pound and a half, Alexander can't stand not being satisfied after a meal."
I came back to the penthouse, hoping there wouldn't be another strange man eating Alexander's chocolate chip cookies in my apartment.
"Alexander I'm fixing you supper, it'll be ready in about thirty minutes or so," I said.
"Grandma, actually I'm going out to dinner with some friends tonight," He said, nonchalantly.
"Well why did you wait to tell me until now, I went to Oscar's," I said.
"I forgot Grandma, but I need 10 dollars too," he said, even more nonchalantly.
"Alexander, you're killing me," I thought in my head but not-surprisingly said outloud.
"And... can I get the car too," he asked, already knowing my answer didn't matter.
I didn't say a word. I put the veal in the freezer and handed him the key. "Call me later," I said... knowing the call would never happen. "See ya later grandma, love you!" he said.
I don't know how much longer I can take this. I just don't know what to do. This place is driving me crazy.
I Still Got It
I knew that today would be a busy one, my days always were. I had sevral "business ventures" to pursue, and even more wrongs that needed to be righted. Being the Boss isn't an easy job. Every now and then I would take a well deserve vaction. Maybe out to Vegas to blow some cash, or mabe back to Italy to pick up to Pastrami. I liked having options. I knew that I was going to have some time to relax later on that night, so I told my right hand man to Lefty to go to the buther shop and buy a New York Strip for $650 on the best piece of meat in the shop. I had been eating this same piece of meat now for three weeks straight and it hadn't disappointed me yet. It was just simply better that all its competion, so it proved to be a worth while investment. The butcher was a real okay guy. He was a beast of a man, and he had no problem choppin up body parts. This much I know from personal expirience.I had him do me a couple favors a while back. I never told him exactly what "animal" it was that I needed him to cut up, and he didnt ask either. Thats just the way I like it. You see, Oscar understood the order of things. He has a few relatives in Columbia who just happen to be good friends of mine, so I tried to make sure that nobody screwed with the poor bastard. But as far as I was concerned, he was a good guy.
When Left came back back and told me that the deed was done, I decided to go downstairs to the bar and see what I could see. Was there any potential customers for my gus to take care of, where my girls making me any money, there was always something to be done. I didnt too much like to get my hands dirty. I have people for that. Those days of me being in the trenches are over now. Im too old to be muckin around in the jungle with these animals. Now, I order, they execute. That is just the order of things. I've grown far too accustomed to the lion's den to leave now. The trick to being the king of the jungle is simply making sure that everyone knows that your the king of the jungle. Some times these young guys get a little too over zealous though. They think with their hearts and not their head. Thats why I got Lefty. Everyone comes through Lefty. Lefty is a stand up guy, and me and him go way back. If he sees any young lions among these scavengers, then we take em' and groom em' and tame em'. If they are anything like I was, then the fire in their eyes and the hunger in the pit of their soul simply wont allow them to be tamed; so I have them taken care of. I hate to see the good ones go, but to let them go may be to bring about my own downfall. Im a business man, and young hungry lions simply arent good for business.
As I took a shot of my usual (Bourbon, straight up) I noticed a women in the bar with some bright red heels on. She was a big woman, but you would be surprised how many requests I got for the mammoths. Well, time to see if I still got it.
Colombia is spelled with an O, not a U!!!
The phone dropped to the floor. Elizabeth crossed her arms as she began to pace the room. Her options were limited - now more than ever, but the facts remained.
'There's Mal,' she thought, 'the psychotic Private Investigator who stalked me across the country — because he couldn't take no for an answer. And my car—’
She paused.
‘Out of the picture, tainted by a tracking device. … there's no way out,’
She sighed.
‘And no way back.'
Elizabeth reached for her coat and headed out the door. She couldn't sleep. Not now. She needed to face him ... somehow, but she needed back up.
Without a second to loose, she pulled out her cell phone.
“Hello?” Mal answered.
“Meet me at Oscar’s in fifteen.”
“Liz, is that—”
“Order the New York Strip.”
Elizabeth ended the call as she crossed Bucher Drive. She noticed the police station, but notice it was all. Besides they weren’t at the top of the food chain. Mr. Machelli owned this town, which was the exact fact Elizabeth was counting on.
“Elizabeth,” Oscar smiled. “What can I get you tonight? A little filet mignon for the lady?”
“Tonight, I need a New York Strip.”
Oscar’s eyebrows lowered.
She slid him the fifty bucks as he led her to the back.
“Where’s Mr. Machelli?” she asked.
Oscar was kind enough to lead her to him. “Mr. Machelli, this is Elizabeth Farraday. She—”
“Do you need me to take care of someone, Ms. Farraday?” Mr. Machelli asked, continuing to watch the night’s activities. “I’ve seen a stranger hang around your car for too many hours in my parking lot. Malcolm’s his name, isn’t it?”
“Yes,”
“Is that him now?” He asked, noticing the newbie walking into the ring.
Malcolm was the same as he had ever been. He wore a tweed suit and a black collar shirt, a brown fedora in his hand.
“Yep,” she said softly. “That’s him.”
“Do you want him—?”
“No, just far out of town. Leave me a tab for the gas."
He nodded.
Elizabeth tried to leave the ring without causing a scene, but it was no use. As she slipped past Malcolm, he smiled. “Elizabeth,”
“Malcolm,” she said, quickening her pace.
“Elizabeth!” he called, turning.
Silence fell around them, as they were beginning to appear more entertaining than the bids.
‘It’s now or never,’ Elizabeth thought.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Home,” she said, turning to him.
“Back to Cali? Great,” he smiled. “We should have lunch sometime.”
Elizabeth scowled at him.
“What are you going to do, Liz?” he laughed. “Hit me?”
Elizabeth sighed, turning away as if she was going to leave.
“Oh, right.” He continued. “You’re the girl who couldn’t hurt a fly.”
The crowd ooed and hissed as they watched the encounter.
Without a moment’s pause, Elizabeth turned around and punched him square in the jaw.
He dropped like a dummy.
'Luckily you're nothing more than scum,' she thought.
Elizabeth squatted beside him as he blinked into consciousness seconds later.
“Liz?”
“Soggiorno I’inferno via da me.” She said slowly and clearly, before turning to leave.
The crowd parted to let her through.
“Liz?” Malcolm called as he slowly began to rise. “Liz — what did you say?”
“Stay the hell away from her, that’s what!” Mr. Machelli laughed as his associates circled around Malcolm.
The cool night air was refreshing as Elizabeth walked out onto the street. She could sleep. It was resolved. She could write again. Upon entering her apartment, she glanced at her laptop.
“Tomorrow,” she said, making her way to the kitchen sink.
As the hot water ran over her hands, she felt as if she was washing away more than the dirt and blood of the evening. She was clearing away a chapter of her life — a resolution.
‘But everyone knows,’ Elizabeth recalled. ‘It’s our past that comes back to haunt us.’
Holger woke and from within his straw mattress, he found the only item he inherited from his parents. Wrapped in a white cloth, the ancient heirloom was passed down generations.
Holger Vollsunger is the descendant of Sirgurd the Dragon-Slayer son of Sigmund from the house of Odin. The only item inherited from his parents was the great sword Sigmund pulled out of the hard wood of the apple tree. The heavy double-bladed iron sword measured almost six feet in length. The hilt was almost a foot across curling upwards into branched points that would kill anyone who would have lived through the initial thrust of the blade. The blood that stained the sword's iron antlers continued along the entire blade of the sword. The cold iron grip of the sword fit comfortably in Holger's warm calloused hand. The broad blade imbued by Thor never broke or lost its sharpness. It could hack through the strongest armour, yet it could still slice a tomato. The sheath was made of the same material as the sword with the owners' names etched into the metal. On the side of each name were notches, a tally of those killed by the sword. Over eight hundred years of the sword's existence resulted in almost a thousand dying at the sword. The past few owners had no notches next to their name, but Holger knew that two more would be added, soon. If not, Holger would meet his death.
Holger knew in the entire area there were only two people that might be able to rival his size, George Jefferson and Oscar the Butcher. He knew that soon the time would come for them to fight for control of the town since the mayor sat in his office embezzling money and the true police officers were corrupt or weak. Holger had no love for Jefferson or the Butcher. He needed to take control if the neighborhood would thrive. The Butcher would make money but only for the corrupt. Jefferson would clean the neighborhood, but then would lose control as his idealistic views for a clean neighborhood would die with him. The door knocked. He wrapped the sword and hid it in the mattress again. He answered the door where a Latin American women was standing. He sensed some German in her though.
The elevator at Washington Heights reeked of stale urine, smoke, and hopelessness. The light was out behind the 5 button, but Delilah always ended up in the right place. Today she was lucky enough to be alone. The other day she'd ended up with the old woman from the penthouse, blushing on the silent end of a painfully one-sided conversation about Mahjong. The woman reminded Delilah of the familiar Annapolis suburbs – polite, jovial, trapped.
Delilah was free.
505. The numbers, Delilah imagined, used to sparkle. Now, the brass reflected nothing but the solemn aura of the hall, building, block, and city. Delilah turned the doorknob five times before pushing it open. The small apartment smelled of Lysol and awkward wealth. The decor contrasted sharply with the room itself, but in a strange way it all fit. She closed the door quietly behind her and walked carefully towards the small kitchen. She'd had the floors redone – wide-board hardwood. Getting around was more difficult, but the thought of what horrors resided in that old carpet had prevented Delilah from sleeping at night.
She placed the five grocery bags on the narrow counter and began stowing her groceries in the proper place. She frowned at the expectant space in the cupboard for the coffee tin. Every object in Delilah's home had a place. Delilah envied them. She doused the room with five quick clouds of Lysol before gingerly walking away.
The plush red couch sat right by the small window. Sometimes it seemed almost alive – a sleeping beast in an urban jungle. Avoiding the cracks in her floor, Delilah made her way to the slumbering sofa, arranged the five white throw pillows in a straight line, delicately removed her muddy shoes, and sank crossed-legged into the cushions. From her window, Delilah could see the amicable butcher small-talking with one of his regulars outside of the shop – a modern day Buddha. She saw a woman walking down the street that she didn't recognize. The walk was confident. High heels and high expectations. This new woman stuck out like a sore thumb in the complacently miserable neighborhood surrounding Washington Heights.
With the heartless, gray day leaving the streets mostly deserted, Delilah let her eyes wander to the opposite wall. The surface was nearly completely covered by tiny frames. Each held a single post card. She had fifty at the moment – five neat columns of ten frames hung triumphantly from tiny nails. They were all from her brother. France, Tibet, Venezuela, Kenya, New Zealand. He'd seen the world. He was a traveling linguist – learning the language, finding a job, moving on. He was 25 and fluent in 31 languages.
Delilah was 27 and couldn't master one.
As the lump of disappointment and self loathing began to lodge itself in Delilah's unused vocal chords, an unfamiliar sound drifted into her room. A unique impulse took hold of her. Leaving her shoes behind, Delilah tiptoed back to her door. The sound became clearer – more poignantly gentle. She turned the doorknob five times before cracking it open. The usual blast of sorrow she felt upon entering the hallway was softened by the easy pluck, twang, and croon cascading like a weightless river from the dingy stairway. Forgetting where and who she was, Delilah sank, her back against her door frame, onto the floor and listened. The voice was too far away for her to make out words – they betrayed her always – but the sounds themselves held her like a caterpillar in the cupped hands of a child. Warm, genuine, secure. She closed her eyes and remained completely motionless until the music faded and then stopped. As though plucked from paradise, her soul still in recovery, Delilah, in a daze, got up and walked back through her still open doorway –
high on the fumes of unexpected change.
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