Brother Pig

By Frank Harbuckle

Perennial failure Aaron Jessup fits the label of “Loser” to an L. An overweight, exiled Wisconsin mama’s boy, Aaron slaves away in a Milwaukee slaughterhouse to pay his girlfriend’s way through cosmetology school. He bumbles through everything in his life, but he's been trying to make good by prepping to take the GED a second time, which he hopes will impress his girlfriend and get him a raise—he’s even reading a book he found in a grocery story checkout line, a cat burglar mystery, and he’s trying to memorize his state capitals. But when Aaron is caught "red-handed" with his boss's heart and is framed for his murder, it's up to Aaron to get smart and clear his own name before the killers take him out too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Frank Harbuckle
• Release date: Oct 15, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311433893

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To the masterminds of Junto, especially Tony and Lucas. Thank you for lending me encouragement and confidence when I needed it most.

CHAPTER ONE

Aaron Jessup’s ’79 Dodge kicked the bucket on the last stretch of I-94, just a mile short of the exit for home. He’d been lugging around cattle carcasses all day, and the nerves in his back flinched when he jumped out of the cab. He popped the hood and with the one glove he could find, he pawed at the battery cables.

Don’t let it be the alternator, don’t let it be the alternator, he mumbled, shivering, his tongue smacking against his teeth.

Snow coated his shoulders as the temperature plummeted. Aaron banged his hand against the hood and kicked the grill so hard, he felt it echo in his left shin. If he didn’t get to work on time tomorrow morning, he’d be canned for sure. Just this morning, his boss Len had pulled Aaron into his office and placed him on probation, and Aaron knew his job at the plant faced certain death if he couldn’t stop screwing up.

If you hadn’t joined the union, you’d be out on your duff, Jessup, Len had said to him, scowling at Thom Thorpe, Aaron’s union rep, who slid into the room just before Len slammed the door.

Len’s balding head came to a pointy crest in the middle, with scowl lines cemented between his eyes – Aaron thought he kind of looked like an angry baby. Aaron didn’t laugh, though. The man was twice Aaron’s size and looked like he’d eat him for breakfast if Aaron so much as coughed wrong. Instead, Aaron nodded at Len’s every word, not daring to steal a glance at Thom, who stood at Aaron’s side.

Though Thom’s presence comforted Aaron — the man was six feet of muscle and wore a wide grin that would win anyone over — Aaron knew his days were numbered. He’d stood in this office so many times, he’d memorized Len’s Outstanding Employee plaques (For ten years a beacon of excellent service, one read); he felt affection for the picture of Len's two little girls on a swing on some miraculous Milwaukee summer day; and he could even tell that Len had hidden his box of Cubans and that ridiculous Glamour Shots picture of his now ex-wife the guys always laughed about.

But today, instead of examining Len’s office, Aaron stared at the cracked gray concrete floor, lowering his head to keep Len from seeing anything but his frizzy, almost blond fro.

What do you think we’re playing at, Jessup? Len ranted. You might be the lowest paid guy out there—that’s including the wetbacks. You break anything else, and I mean anything—even a knife—and you’re out on your ass. You got me?

Aaron nodded. He’d thought about telling Len everything, about the way the rack broke, but he knew better. The man didn’t want to hear about shaky equipment, and he sure as hell wouldn’t listen if Aaron told him about the broken bones in his right foot. It didn’t matter that Thom stood by Aaron this whole time; he was just there to make sure Aaron got a fair shake, but around here, a fair shake really meant a whole lot of nothing. So after Len finished spewing at him, Aaron had just turned and walked out of the office.

And now he was screwed — the engine wouldn’t turn and the alternator was definitely busted. Aaron grabbed his belongings and limped the long, last mile off the expressway exit, back to his house.

It was his 26th birthday.

By the time he stumbled through his front door, his steel-toed boots felt like buckets of ice stuck to his feet. The furnace was blasting, and Aaron threw his boots onto the muddy entryway and waited for his body to thaw.

Sofie? he called.

His voice bounced off the wall and down the tiny hallway leading toward the kitchen. No answer. He’d hoped she’d be at home, dyeing one of her wigs a strange color like puce or eggplant, but no such luck.

He shook off his coat and dropped it on top of his boots. His socks, soaking wet, felt like sponges as he padded into the kitchen, opened the fridge door, and groped around for a beer.

Despite the tingling in his half-frozen hands, only a Pabst could ease his nerves. His truck, his job, his girlfriend, and his birthday – all complete disasters.

Grabbing the last beer out of the otherwise bare refrigerator, Aaron twisted the cap off the bottle and glanced around the kitchen. Brown, coffee-stained mugs and plates crusted with pieces of egg and sausage sat ignored in the sink and on the counters.

Aaron burped, shook his head, then wandered back toward the living room. He collapsed on the worn, yellowing couch and called his pal Marky, who agreed to pick him up in the morning.

But just this once, Marky growled.

Relieved that he might not be canned after all, Aaron flipped on the television, slurped his PBR and slowly nodded off.

* * *

When he woke up before sunrise the next morning, Sofie still wasn’t home. She'd left her favorite pair of acid-washed jeans and her lacy nighties scattered across the bed, so he knew she wasn’t going to be gone for long – she was probably just visiting her folks back in Loganville – but it sucked that she'd forgotten his birthday for the second year in a row. He wondered if she’d be this forgetful when they got old.

He stared into the bathroom mirror, imagining how his skin would wrinkle up like his father’s, but he could only see his very real scraggly beard. Aaron squinted at the bits of stubble overtaking his chin, the tiny hairs forcing their way out onto the surface, daring his skin to fight back. As he lathered his chin and grabbed his razor, he imagined the little red bumps that would erupt when he shaved the hairs off, and he stopped himself as soon as he started shaving. He’d scraped off a tiny bit of stubble, and he admired the hair-free line on his neck. He decided to leave it. Maybe Sofie could fix it later. If she didn’t, nobody else would care.

At 5:42am, Aaron heard a honk outside and shrugged on his coat before heading out the door. At the curb he climbed into a rusty Ford F150, and its driver Marky Bishop gave him a good glare. His scruffy morning look mirrored Aaron’s, but Marky was thinner and shorter than Aaron, and you'd never guess that he hauled beef carcasses around for a living, while Aaron looked like he was born for it.

Thanks for coming, Aaron grumbled.

Sorry your truck kicked out on you like that. Sucks for yesterday. Marky shifted into gear and tore down the road. It had snowed heavily the night before, and the truck veered across the icy road. Aaron gripped the side of the door, which earned him another glare from Marky.

For Christ’s sake, Aaron, we’re built Ford tough!

Aaron took his hand off the armrest and shoved a tape into the car stereo. Journey blared out into the darkened morning.

Sofie didn’t come home last night, man. I don’t suppose she took off like she did last year. From a billboard, a pretty couple flashed their shiny white teeth at him. You think money grew out of our furnace, the way she goes. Didn’t even leave me dinner—my birthday and no damned dinner.

Marky yielded to a stop sign and turned toward Aaron.

Maybe she’s got some surprise cooking up—you know, skip out, make you think she forgot, and show up wearing some skanky nighty underneath her naughty trench coat. You guys gonna be in the break room knocking shit over before you know it.

Aaron shrugged. Last year Sofie gave him a haircut to make up for forgetting. He’d wound up with a curly Mohawk in the middle of winter. And he hated all that punk music—in fact, he hated everything except for George Strait and Willie Nelson and Journey. He hoped she’d just remember to make him dinner because last night he ate cold Cheerios with his Pabst.

Fifteen minutes later, Marky and Aaron pulled into the parking lot of Mills Meat Packing. The lot was mostly deserted; at 6am only a few employees had filtered into the plant.

Marky always got there early. Jen, his wife, never stopped bitching about the old meat he brought home, so he liked to read the sports pages in the break room at work instead of at their breakfast table – it kept her off his back and kept him in a mediocre mood at best. These days, he told Aaron, that’s what he always hoped for. After Jen had dumped their life savings into a roach-infested sawdust mill and tried to turn it into a combination barbecue and beer brewery only to see the thing burn down three months after it opened, Marky’d had to go back to slinging cattle carcasses for a living. Though he told Aaron he couldn’t help but bring her the old meat he got at discount, Aaron knew Marky wanted to make her squirm a little. He couldn’t blame him, either.

Aaron and Marky walked into the massive steel warehouse, and a stench of rotten pork assaulted them. Aaron covered his nose, but then he saw that midget Jack Locke, the plant health inspector, going out for a smoke and smirking at Aaron’s gesture, and he dropped his hand back to his side.

He shivered at the aching cold already setting in; it was just as cold in the plant as it was outside. The plant rumbled with the hum of conveyor belts and the whirring of processing grinders—he couldn’t hear any squeals coming from the kill floor yet, but it would only be a matter of time. Occasional smears of blood ran across Aaron’s footpath, and he quickened his pace as he and Marky passed Len’s office door. Len wasn’t in yet, but Aaron wanted to keep out of sight.

They turned past Len’s office and headed down to the break room, a bare, concrete room with three plastic tables and almost as few chairs. Since it was an hour before shift started, Aaron and Marky settled into the break room, Marky with his paper and Aaron with the cat book he’d picked up a few days before at the grocery store.

He thought a book about a cat burglar might be funny, and he was trying to prepare to take his GED test. He’d failed it once before and didn’t want to make the same mistake twice. Especially now that he was paying for Sofie’s cosmetology school, a pay raise and maybe a promotion at the plant would help ease their troubles a bit. That is, if he could avoid breaking anymore racks. But maybe if he could pass, Sofie’d be around when he needed her. Coming home reeking of soured cow shit would push anyone way—no wonder Sofie could barely stand to be in the same room with him anymore.

After he spent fifteen minutes trying to read, Aaron eased his head onto the table and nodded off. As he slept, he dreamt that a cat crawled over his chest and stared into his eyes, meowing in English. He thought it was reciting the state capitals, but he could only understand Akron, Akron, Akron. He asked the cat if that was right, but the cat would only say, Akron. Finally, Aaron threw the cat off his chest, but it landed on the wall, crawled up to the ceiling, and leaped at him once he’d turned his back. The cat’s claws dug into his back, and as he flailed around trying to shake it off, he fell off his chair and woke up.

Marky stood over him laughing.

You ever been committed, man? What the hell were you saying?

Aaron, dizzied, shook his head and pulled on the table so he could stand back up.

Oh, man. Something about that book, I think.

Marky picked up the book and flipped through the pages.

Cat ‘napping, huh? Sounds boring. He threw the book back on the table and walked toward the door. It’s about time to get out there.

Aaron nodded and walked back to the locker room to pull on his blue plastic coveralls, granny hairnet, and hard hat. He shoved the book into one of his pockets and walked into the sour-smelling plant.

From seven to noon he hauled slabs of beef onto pallets, reciting the state capitals under his breath as he went along. The few times Len walked the floor, Aaron tried not to limp as he struggled with the carcasses. Ever since the guy caught his wife banging the former health inspector in the break room, he’d been a real jerk. Aaron knew three guys who’d already been put on probation, and all it took was one mistake to get canned. But despite himself, sometimes Aaron gazed toward the break room, hoping Sofie would drop by to see him for lunch. She didn’t show her sweet doe-eyed face the entire day, and when Len caught his vacant stare, he pointed at him. Aaron got back to work.

At lunch, Aaron ate his salami sandwich with Marky and Thom and a few other guys from the grinding area, but he chewed silently while they discussed the Packers’ chances for next season. Marky’d blown a big wad on last night's Packers-Giants game only to have the damned team lose by three points, but it didn’t stop him ranting about the team’s chances for next year. He still had to fork over a pile of cash to Thom, who laughed in his face while Marky nearly exploded about the Giants.

Aaron tried to concentrate on Thom and Marky’s bellowing, but Sofie’s disappearance kept creeping back into his thoughts. He could call her parents, but he knew they’d just call his folks and make things worse.

Your bastard son’s lost our girl again, he could hear Sofie’s father say to his dad. He’d go on and on about Aaron’s complete lack of everything necessary to survive in the world, and the phone call would end with a grunt of acceptance from his own father, who’d given him fifty bucks and a grimacing hug when Aaron left home. Aaron’s mother had cried for forty-eight hours straight and couldn’t talk to him to this day, so calling Sofie’s parents in Loganville seemed worthless.

Instead of making the call, at quitting time, Aaron hopped into Marky’s truck, and they wound up at the Tastee Burger Sports Bar for the Friday Fish Fry, knocking back PBRs at the bar and staring at ESPN’s Sports Center.

Aaron ordered his usual plate of cod, but when the food came, instead of scarfing it down, Aaron just soaked his fish in tartar sauce until he could see only the sauce. He just couldn’t get his mind off Sofie. His fish, soggy and disintegrating, went to waste as Aaron tried to focus instead on reciting his state capitols. He tried to ignore the license plates scattered along the walls—he knew they might clue him in, so he stared at the swamp of fish in front of him.

Albany, Annapolis, Atlanta, Augusta, Austin, he repeated over and over—he couldn’t remember the first B city, so he just repeated the As until Marky slapped his back.

God, you retard, why don’t you shut up? No wonder your girl’s gone missing. You sound like a damn broken record, Marky said.

Aaron nodded and stopped repeating the capitals. He stopped watching Sports Center and pulled out his book again.

Marky saw what he was doing, and gestured at the bartender. Look at Socrates over there, man.

The bartender laughed and threw his towel at Aaron, who shoved the book out of sight.

All right, all right. You win, Aaron said. He nodded toward the television. What’s your bet for tomorrow’s game? You gonna blow a wad on that Max again? I bet you he twists his ankle this time.

Fuck you, Jessup. The only thing you know is a fuck lot of nothing. Marky threw a fry at Aaron. "Let’s get out of here—it’s getting late, and fucking Jennifer is gonna get on my case about some shit she saw on Dateline or one of those fucking vegetarian liberal-ass shows."

The guys slid off their stools and pushed out the door, stumbling back to the truck. Marky slid all over the road as he drove, and Aaron tried to crack the window, but Marky barked at him to keep the cold air out of the cab. Aaron fumbled for one of his emergency cigarettes, but caught a wave of nausea and lost the cigarette to the floorboard. He held his head back as the heater blasted him in the face.

* * *

During the weekend Sofie called to tell him she’d been out with her girlfriends and they’d gone for a weekend in Chicago.

I didn’t have time to leave a note, so sorry about taking off like that. I’ll be back in a few days—probably Wednesday night or Thursday morning—it’s just that while we were working on this Hair n’ Hugs wig campaign, Renee got this idea that we needed to visit those Mitchell hair salons out here and see what they got going, and since we told them we’re students, they’re letting us hang out and watch them. The manager got us tickets to Oprah’s show, so that’s why I’m not coming back until later. Isn’t that great?

Aaron could hear her blowing smoke out of her mouth as she spoke. He could even see her neon pink nails tapping on the phone, and he smiled.

Yeah, that’s great. You guys be careful coming back. Tell Oprah ‘Hi’ for me. Maybe bring some Chicago dogs back with you, okay?

Sofie laughed, a thin, high-pitched laugh that hurt his ears, but Aaron was just glad she was working and hadn’t gone back home to Loganville and left him in the middle of Milwaukee. He’d done everything he could to get her here for school, and if she bailed on him now, he’d wind up miserable like Marky, only he’d be alone, which was worse.

Bye, sugar, love you bunches, see you later. Kisses, Sofie said.

Bye Sofie, I miss— The phone clicked before he could finish, but Aaron figured she knew what he meant. She hadn’t mentioned his birthday, but maybe she’d surprise him with something from their favorite city.

Monday came, and Aaron hadn't had extra money to take care of his truck, so he managed to get Marky to pick him up again, but they spent most of the ride in silence. When they walked through the side entrance of the plant, Aaron saw that Len was already there, standing outside his office, his arms crossed and eyes trained on the door. Aaron lurched toward the break room, but Len started right for him.

Jessup, stop right there. In my office. Now.

Aaron turned to Marky, who just shrugged and walked away. No sympathy there. What had he done this time? Aaron had no clue. On Friday, he’d worked his full shift, made no mistakes with those stupid racks, and even remembered to clock out right on schedule. But here Len was, yelling at him again.

Aaron sighed and trudged toward the office. He checked his boots to make sure they looked clean—no blood, no mud; he even managed to avoid limping.

Sit down. Thom should be here in a minute, Len said when Aaron entered the office.

Are you sure? Because I could stand. In fact, I could stand to stand right now. Good for the circulation.

Sit. Len wasn’t smiling.

Aaron sat. He sat straight up and tried to stare his boss in the eye, just like Len was doing to him. He could feel his heart pounding faster and faster. Here it came. He was a goner, he knew it. Goodbye job, goodbye apartment, goodbye Sofie! She’d take off for good if he couldn’t even keep this crappy job. She’d find a man worth his salt who could actually take care of her. Aaron couldn’t begrudge her that. His hands shook. He couldn’t keep his eyes on Len. He started to hyperventilate and kept opening his mouth so he could breathe. He probably looked like a puffy, scared fish.

A knock at the door made Aaron jerk, and Thom entered and nodded at the two of them, his usually jovial face grim. He sat next to Aaron without speaking.

Len clasped his hands together and leaned forward over his desk. Jessup, I’m gonna take you down a peg.

It was coming. Aaron gripped the side of his chair and tried to think about the state capitals, but he couldn’t remember them. His mind, blank, could only take in the rush of words Len was spewing.

You look like you’re about to throw up, boy. Settle that shit down. I’m gonna move you to the hog pull-off. You’re still on probation, but you’re not gonna work with the cattle anymore. You’d probably get yourself killed if I didn’t. Besides, you’re shit at that job. Our production time stinks on that end and we gotta get speed up. So there you go. It’s a lateral move anyway, but you don’t get paid enough to get your salary reduced as it is, so you got any questions, you ask Pete on the floor.

Aaron wasn’t sure he’d heard Len right. He could feel his heart slowing down and his knuckles, bone white a moment before, looked like the blood might be returning to them. He stopped gripping the chair and tried to stand up, but before he could, Thom sat forward and put his hands on the desk, and his voice cut through the air.

What salary? You think he’s even getting paid what he’s worth when you move him down the line? Are you out of your mind?

Aaron looked from Thom to Len, confused for a moment. Worried that Len was going to change his mind, Aaron shook his head. Len’s wrinkled baby face turned a shade of purple Aaron hadn’t ever seen.

If you start up with that wage increase crap again, Thom, Jessup here’s not the only one who’s going to see a demotion. I took it to corporate and they said no. End of story. You don’t need to stir up anybody else in the plant, you got me? Len growled at Thom, and they stared at each other until Aaron interrupted them.

Th-thanks, Mr. Doble, thanks. I’ll ask Pete when shift starts.

I don’t know why you’re thanking me, you idiot. If everyone was demoted here, we’d have a strike, not some feminine lesson in graciousness. Get out of my office. Both of you.

Thom stood up and shook his head. You might get a strike, Len. Corporate doesn’t want to listen? Guys getting their hands chopped off because of sixteen-hour shifts? This isn’t fucking Mexico.

Len just shook his head. Shut the door on your way out. Goddamn stewards.

Aaron stumbled out of the office after Thom, barely keeping his breath and almost tripping over his own feet. Jack Locke stood just outside the office, tapping his foot against the ground. Aaron stared in surprise, and the midget sneered at him.

What the fuck you looking at, moron? Jack said.

Aaron shrugged, fighting the urge to laugh. Thom shook his head at Jack and muttered something under his breath, and Aaron followed him down the hall toward the break room, still shocked that he hadn’t been fired.

As he swung his burly frame through the hall, Aaron said, You think Locke heard all that? Goddamn ass-kisser’s gonna make trouble, isn’t he? And hey, we’re not really going to strike, right?

Aaron didn’t want to get into any wage brawl with his boss, and he also wanted to stay the hell out of Locke’s sight – he could be just as bad as Len. All Aaron wanted was to make sure he and Sofie had plenty of food on the table and a roof over their heads. Knocking heads with a strike or Locke seemed the fastest way to get canned, but Thom shook his head at Aaron’s question.

I don’t know. Nothing seems to be right around here. First Sanchez gets mowed down in processing and then he gets canned on top of it. You’re lucky Doble didn’t fire you, Jessup. Thom let out a huge sigh, his tall, muscular frame sagging. If something doesn’t change soon, you guys might not even have a union to make sure your asses are safe. You probably ought to stay out of Locke’s way. I gotta get back to the floor, he said and shook hands with Aaron, then walked off in the opposite direction.

Though he was glad the union was around, Aaron didn’t think it could do much to change things, so he shrugged, walked into the break room, and heaved a sigh of relief. Marky, still waiting to start his shift, closed the sports page and glared at Aaron’s beast-like sounds.

What? You lose that dumb book or something? Len find it and shove it up your ass?

Aaron shook his head. He stood there for another minute thinking about his new job and Locke’s ugly sneer before he sputtered, Got—demoted.

Oh. Nice knowin’ ya. Marky returned to his newspaper and ignored Aaron.

When their shift started, Aaron shoved himself into his coveralls and made his way to the pull-off station to look for Pete. Pete looked him up and down before telling Aaron that all he needed to do was move hogs from the conveyor onto the racks for a snap chill in the freezer.

Don’t go into the freezer, though, the rack will move in there by itself. You go into the freezer, you’ll probably die of hypothermia. If something gets stuck, you call me first. Aaron nodded, and Pete left him alone.

He spent the rest of the morning swinging hog carcasses onto racks. Occasionally, a hog dripped blood all over him, so Aaron asked Pete if they needed to be re-inspected. He knew enough to know they should’ve been drained when their necks were stuck open. Pete just shook his head and said, Get back to work. Aaron did as he was told.

Near the end of his morning shift, Aaron finally got the hang of swinging pigs. As he reached his fiftieth carcass, he swung the hog’s body from the belt and carried it toward the racks. But something dropped, bounced off his shoe, and rolled across the floor.

What the fuck is that? one of his co-workers asked when Aaron picked the reddened, veiny thing up. He flipped it upside down since red goo was still draining from the holes near its top. If Aaron didn’t know any better, he would’ve said the hog should probably be re-inspected. Instead, Aaron shook the organ and specks of red goo splattered onto his boots.

Jessup, what you got there? Pete marched over to Aaron, who still held the organ in his hands.

I don’t know—hog heart? Aaron frowned at the raw piece of meat. It looked deformed—larger and definitely warmer than these pigs’ hearts—but it did roll out of a pig, after all. Aaron gave it a little squeeze, squirting more blood out of it. Some of it splashed onto his work suit and boots. He peered closer at it, its veins like tiny blue threads stitching the whole thing together. I think something’s wrong with it—shouldn’t this stuff already be outta these guys?

Pete shook his head at the mess of blood congealing in Aaron’s hands. Get it outta here. Throw that thing in with the rest of the rendering, Pete said.

Aaron nodded and walked to the bin set aside for disposables. Some lucky dog’s gonna get some sweet dinner, Aaron said, and tossed it into the bin. He went back to the hog carcass, and even though it still dripped blood, Pete made Aaron hang it on the rack with the rest of the bodies.

As he hung the hog’s body on the rack, Aaron shuddered. He couldn’t imagine what it might be like to end his life like that hog. He tried to think what he’d look like with his organs ripping and bouncing onto the floor, his body hanging upside down on some metal rack. His kidneys, liver, and heart rolling around on a conveyor belt, his blood dripping all over the hands of the guys who de-boned all that shit from the bodies.

He hadn’t even been on the swine floor for three hours, but something seemed off. Organs didn’t just fall out of carcasses—Pete should’ve known that. Aaron couldn’t count the number of times he’d seen his bosses bitching at guys to get the meat off the bone as cleanly as possible. Not a damned piece of meat left behind, that was their motto. Leaving anything in a carcass would get a guy’s pay docked, especially a heart