strange meat

My arms fell from around her as the sight returned to my eyes and her taste left my lips for the last time.  I’ll miss you.  I’ll miss you too.  And that was the last of her voice I would hear.  The last of her eyes I would see.  So as I walked through the sliding doors and into the terminal I sank into myself.  There was over an hour for my return flight to Washington and at last my appetite had returned.  I had spent the last three days in Boston hungry, but unable to eat much.  I lied about my nerves being on edge, and now having found their end I was hungry.  I sought solace in a Burger King Whopper and took a seat that looked out over the tarmac.  I blinked and fought back tears a few times, and an urge to vomit when I thought about what exactly it was I was eating.  I’d be home soon enough.  Broken, but home.

I didn’t want anyone to see my eyes as I got on the plane so I waited ‘til the line was nearly gone to board.  So of course the majority of seats were taken and the overhead bins along with them.  Surprisingly there was a seat open between my aisle and the man sitting at the window.

“Would you mind if I put this under the seat in the middle?”

“No that’s fine.  Luckily I’ve been flying all day and all my flights I’ve managed to have the middle seat open.”  He spoke too soon as a not unattractive blonde who would soon be asleep and drooling on herself made her way to our row.  I offered my aisle seat so I could clamp my bag down between my legs instead of having to stow it away somewhere far from me.  I almost regretted my decision immediately.  I don’t know where he came from, but it looked as if it was the outdoors, and the body odor was apparent.  Maybe it was because I didn’t want to listen to my music, maybe it was because I didn’t want to sulk into myself for the hour flight, or maybe it was because if I’m talking I’m not breathing through my nose, but I decided to be one of those people in public that befriends a stranger and started to talk to him.

“Where have you been flying from?”

“Anchorage to Salt Lake and for some reason the flight got routed to Boston.”  This was an anomaly.  Two summers ago I had flown to Anchorage by way of Salt Lake, as that’s Delta’s Hub, why they came to Boston I didn’t ask, we were both here, the reason didn’t matter.  I nodded in approval.

“I’ve been to Alaska, it’s gorgeous.”

“Oh yeah?  Where?”

“Flew in and out of Anchorage, through Denali, didn’t see Mt. McKinley, it was too cloudy, up to Fairbanks, down to Valdez, across to Seward, then Homer.  Camped the entire time, it was great.”

“Sounds fun.  What brought you to Boston?”

“Visiting the girl…I was dating.”

            “I see.”  He nodded with a smile.  “Who did the dumping?”

            “It was mutual.”

            “Yeah, distance is tough.  You’re not really yourself.  You’re always on your best behavior.”  He was right, distance was tough, but I always thought it was authentic.  And it was mutual, but she brought it up.  Ah well.  “So you live down in Washington?”

            “Just outside of, in Arlington, house with friends, boring desk job that makes ends meet, nice boss for a good company though so it’s worth it for now.  Trying to figure that all out anyway.  What about you?”

            “I worked for a salmon farm in Homer.  Coming home taking turns with my brother to help take care of my dad.”

            “I see.”  The point was too personal and he had picked up his Harper’s.  I decided to sink into my music.  “Well, I’m going to throw my headphones on…” He raised the magazine showing he has something to do too…“but if you want to talk feel free.”

            A few minutes passed and I glanced over him and out the window.  You could see city lights far below.

            “I don’t fly well.”  He didn’t show it.  “It’s crazy being on this huge piece of metal being hurled through he air.”

            “One of my best friends is in air traffic control.”  I probably wasn’t going to help but I carried on with it.  “If you put on channel 9 you can listen to the cockpit and controllers on the ground.  They’ll tell the plane to veer right or left, maintain altitude, that sort of thing.  It’s pretty interesting.  I hate turbulence myself and I have a fear of falling, but you look out the window and you see all that it is we can do, so why worry?”

            “True.”  We shared a few airplane stories, one involving Leslie Nielsen, another about a plane that landed on a racetrack.  Then the topic receded back to life in general.  “So you’re not sure what you want to do?”

            “Not really. Contemplating grad school.  I’ve had a few jobs here and there, some “professional” others not so much, you know, substitute teacher, Trader Joe’s on the weekends, temping.  I’m pretty good at sleeping but I haven’t worked that angle yet.”

            “Right.”  He laughed.  “Yeah it takes time you know.  Otherwise you just get stuck.  Go to college, get a job, get married, have kids, divorce, then you die.”  Optimistic he wasn’t, but honest.  It was sad how divorce had worked its way into the standard, had been ingrained into the American dream.  We continued to talk and he mentioned some business ventures of his own in Alaska but of course the talk turned to what Alaska was really all about, wilderness.

            “I remember seeing a halibut that was six inches taller than me, and a hundred pounds heavier.  Somewhere along the way someone mentioned you could hunt grizzly if you had twelve grand.”

            “It’s true.  You get a good mix of folks who appreciate the life out there, and then some that are gun-toting nuts.  I actually just went out and got some caribou.   The meat’ll last us six months so we’re actually using it and it wasn’t just sport.”  He didn’t really have to defend himself but it was nice him explaining anyway.

            “I’ve had caribou sausage.  Too salty.”

            “Steaks are better, I’m actually bringing a cooler back right now.  The meats really tender and flavorful.”

            “I see.”  By this time the flight had landed.  We grabbed our bags and made our way to baggage claim.

I felt I had reached a point where we could exchange information in case I was ever in Alaska again, and I was going to offer as I was writing it down, but he beat me to it.

“Do you think you could give me a lift home?  My brother’s being a bit of an ass and wants me to take a cab to his place.  I’d be glad to give you some caribou steaks for it.”  Now this was an opportunity.  I had never had caribou steaks.  My roommate would love to try it and his birthday was coming up.  They could be the worst tasting steaks I’d ever try but who meets a stranger and is offered strange meat in exchange for a lift.  And of course a man who looked as he did may have very well been able to hurt me, but what was the chance he got a weapon by airport security.

“Sure thing.”  We kept an eye out for his cooler, full of strange meat, then made our way to my car.  He offered some dollars to pay the fare.  “No worries, you’re paying me in caribou steaks.”

“I guess I have to now.”  We both smiled.

Upon arriving at his brother’s house I helped unload the car.  The cooler which had been bound with nylon rope and duct tape weighed a ton.  He tore it open and pulled out two steaks in size I can’t describe, each having to weigh at least two and a half pounds.

“You’ll want to trim about a quarter inch off from the sides and scrap the bone dust off of them.  We ground packed them so there’ll be some lichen stuck to it.  Let me get you some jerky too.”  This was going to be good.

            Only it wasn’t.  My roommate was thrilled.  I nearly gagged.  The jerky, great in texture, entirely too salty.  I didn’t care.  I left Boston broken, but I came back with a story.