ODD? (20 page)

SAUSAGE

by Stacey Levine

Stacey Levine is the author of My Horse and Other Stories (PEN/West Fiction Award) and the novels Dra— and Frances Johnson. She was awarded The Stranger Genius Prize for Literature in 2009. “Sausage is taken from her 2011 short story collection The Girl With Brown Fur.

A factory of upside-down bicycles, this was the way to make sausages, pedaling so quickly with my hands, my feet; never a thought for stopping, unable to know if I was sitting or standing; unaware if the daytime was starting or ending—

In those days, my every muscle was willing; the meat was all ready, well ground, as if chewed; I churned wild circles, miles of bloody brown sausage accumulating beneath my wheels; perhaps I lagged; I was worried, filled with shame; but wasn’t my work earnest? Wouldn’t I produce to the heavens? My limbs were adept, for squeezing forth sausage in regular shapes, and my fingers strong, too, for each night, very late, I sewed all the skins shut with a heavy black thread, knotting it twice to keep everything in—

The Warder entered: huge, circling, judging our production, the condition of our bodies. Yes, I nodded, in answer to everything he said, while sensing, as ever, that I had done something wrong; indeed, the Warder’s very presence implied that this was so. He laughed uproariously, for a reason I could not discern; then, in a sudden rage, boomed that our legs were pathetic, weak, weaker than rags; they must be oiled, strengthened, the muscles stretched; he stooped then, massaging my calf with a thick handful of fat, and put his lips to my ear, whispering, “There is a strong chance that this ointment will not help you at all. And I worry, you see, for when your failure occurs, it is my failure too; I depend on you; so in a sense, does the entire nation; we need sausage; it is now a staple; so, don’t suddenly move, or draw attention to yourself; in other words, be true, even-keeled—display high spirits! Don’t let your mind stray. Have you ever seen me lose my temper?”

He left, thumping shut the barn door (these buildings were solid, hand-built decades before, twenty stories wide and tall); churning wildly, I breathed for more sausage, ashamed that my attention ever had wandered; how could it have, with our work being so vitally important?

Sweating heavily at my station, I grew worried again, frightened of failure, and full of shame; then suddenly, from sheer nervousness, I pushed forth monstrously, producing more sausage than in the entire hour previous; and production was relief, as the Warder always had said; and he was right, too. Drenched, exhausted, emptied of strength, I decided that I must immediately change, and learn to selflessly give—of myself, and my body, as if giving a gift.

That year we had seen record production, the ninety of us issuing more sausage per day than ever had been achieved; our numbers were steady—incredible numbers, rising daily, so that it became no longer possible for the management to tabulate our work in the usual way; so newer, higher numbers were found to express our rates, though these numbers themselves quickly became outmoded, outpaced; then, even higher, more superlative symbols were employed, and in approaching the final horizon of numbers, the barrier to infinity, we grew giddy, as if on a ride; administrators worried; precise counts were lost; secret meetings were planned, military exercises; yet through it all, an enormous excitement, for, with our bodies, we had produced such fantastic amounts—with the sheer force of our wills, too, our wishes to be good, and with the help of regular punishments—

The meat was always ready, boiled hard, in vats; the skins lay in rows, clean, stretched; everything in order; nothing was the matter; barring, occasionally, a ripple of emotion—anger or pleasure rolling inside us, as if deep beneath the crust of a mountain—

Our wants were satisfied daily; our mats lay spread in the barn; ten minutes of sleep before each back-to-back shift; to eat, sausage-gruel in huge amounts; to drink, steaming cups of blood, as much as we liked. There was time, too, if we wished, to find one of the confused, blurred critters who wandered these yards, and lead it away for relief in some corner of the dark—

“Good, very tender,” said the Warder, having entered, stooping to test the links with his teeth. “Continue,” he cried, arms trembly. “Today work for size; tonight, for speed! Achievement, achievement—but I worry that you will not—” then he turned away, dropping his huge, hairy head to his palms, overcome. “My God,” he whimpered, “I can’t manage my own doubt—”

Alarmed, we pedaled faster, ninety bicycles whirring in place; on my seat, I pushed harder than ever, continual bursts of dampness like storms at the back of my neck; sausage dropped through the rafters, to the floor in gleaming coils. “Ah,” groaned the Warder, raising his swimming eyes, “keep going, don’t fall behind!”

So I pressed on, dripping a meat-scented sweat, whispering the highest known numbers to myself—

For there was nothing else beyond these walls, only the empty town of Nicholls, and beyond that, the silent, wind-soaked plains of “France”; there were no other nations besides our own, a fact we had learned long before, in youth—

During these weeks of stupendous growth, I became, at certain moments, somewhat cocky, even brash, once slipping from my station, muscles shaking, laughing to myself from sheer tension; I sought a lone, dry corner, swallowing down a piece of beer-soaked bread (having stolen it shamelessly from a nearby trough—an act which, eventually, would weigh gravely on my list of wrongs). I grew thoughtful, serious, legs apart, powerful, thick, and resembled, in these moments, as it happened, the Warder, bellowing tremendously; then embarrassed, I struck myself with the back of my fist. Suddenly, I heard a whisper spurt through the air, landing in my ear, as if mad to get home; the words were hard and clear. They told me to take charge, as it were, and stop suffering needlessly because of my work. A plan came miraculously to me then: I would assume responsibility for all the mistakes, foibles, and wrongdoings of another sausage-maker, now dead.

I had not known this man, but I would soon set out to possess all his wrongs: in this way, I saw, my own guilts would be obscured; I would atone for him publicly, thereby winning respect from the management; I would live freely then, never again burdened by the weight of my actions or their consequences.

Early the next morning, I went to ask permission, duly, officially, before a panel of porcine judges assembled in the lower barn (chairs stacked high against the rear wall, and stored between each, a thick layer of winter sausage fully encrusted by salt and meant to nourish the highest of the management, keep them warm against the deadly cold). I was vocal; I expressed myself clearly; I wanted to possess the dead man’s wrongs and repent for him, since I was so exemplary—

With the banging of a gavel, they assented, scarcely looking up; it was decided; I was to live the rest of my life atoning for the dead one’s wrongs; it was official; now, at every turn, I would be enfolded by his innumerable ill deeds, with my own movements free from suspicion, for the first time in my existence—

Such relief! All my life, I had needed this. Exuberant, I stepped up to embrace the administrators, judges, and even the mayor, who briefly had stepped in. Though in clasping him, my lips brushing his scented beard, I realized that he was devoid—not numb and overfed, as with diplomats, nor brainwashed, as by religion—but empty, outrageously blank of any mental content or register, resembling, even faintly, a birth monster. And then, from sheer excitement, he mewled, looking to the ceilings, bobbing his head, and everyone laughed, for he was a docile, well-loved man, and filled his post perfectly, I had heard.

Giddy, I raced toward my station, springing past stalls, careering through aisles, sluice gates, pulling up my pants, invigorated, thrilled by the thought of acquiring the dead one’s wrongs, and then, by chance, I passed his pale body in the dim hall, where, naked like others, it was strapped against the wall, embalmed, on display, completely shaven, head dropped down, for he had simply weakened, then died of work, a crime under jurisdiction of both factory and state. Diagrams and arrows, supplemented by a brief text, were printed on his flaccid torso to explain exactly how the veins of his heart had burst and collapsed—this occurrence had been entirely due to his own problems: poor habits and disorganization, most probably, it read. Secured in a bottle to his left lay the heart itself, ravaged bloody roots springing from its top. All had been his fault, only his, the tract read, since he had been unable to manage his time and work, and misfortunes like these were just part of life and could happen to anyone, at any time. Still, this man’s case was fairly rare, the text said, a fact that made everyone thankful and glad; and soon, it finished, there would be a celebration for all living employees who were wonderful with detail, and, in general, good; so, as a rule, deaths like these would scarcely occur if we worked dependably and always produced as much as we could.

Having run all the way, I arrived at my station, nearly forgetting who I was, producing sausage to such delirium, yet luckier than most, I felt, and surely not dead, and perhaps, I dared hope, the best worker in the place, since I was so wholesome, full of energy, and, starting today, so completely without wrongdoing that even I was astounded. Then, somehow, that night, I began to doubt. I checked the list I kept beneath my mat: indeed, I had committed no outstandingly wrong acts, except for the minor infraction of the bread, and I could explain this by saying I had been seeking to emulate the Warder, and had tried to gain weight; surely I would not be punished for eating, I decided; so for now I was safe.

Throwing my head back, hooting with relish, raising a rough, corrugated stick we often used to show purpose and excitement, I began to pedal backward (a trick we knew for making sausages fancier, bloodier, less congealed, stronger in color). I was free; life was different, my luck would hold because of the dead one’s deeds. No more burden or remorse; my wheels raced steadily, while below, piglets scrambled across the floors in packs; surely I was good, and produced properly at all moments—this being the pride and requirement of our factory and nation. All was fine, I reassured myself, combing my hair, rearranging my smock, forking, when no one was looking, steaming heaps of meat into my mouth—

My neighbor to one side, an elder, was wheezing, exhausted as he worked, bathed in a dark, slick sweat. He raised his head, eyes bewildered, and cried out, “Forget the dead one—your scheme is transparent! It’s shameful, in fact, this business of racing around as you do, trying to look enthused so you can get away with as much as you can!”

“I did what I had to do,” I said calmly. “It was an honest impulse, and I don’t have to explain myself. One thing, though, honestly: I feel better and more vigorous than I have in years. Don’t repeat this, but I earned my freedom through cunning, and no one else before me has done that—but then, I was never part of the common pack. Why don’t you stop being petty, and congratulate me? I no longer live as do you, constricted, worried, and guilty!”

He laughed for a long time, tears streaming down his face. “Your head is in the clouds! No one is here to keep you back or make you feel bad. The guilty are guilty because they do not fit in!” He slid from his station, bent, still laughing, wiping his body with a blue rag.

“How do you know that?” I said, yanked by discomfort.

“Because I have a bigger heart than you,” he said, standing there naked, pointing to his own chest, digging the finger in hard as if to break the skin. “I know the truth, for I am clean, appropriate, and have never strayed a day from work. You work for this factory, so why do you behave as if it were your adversary? That will age and ruin you. Instead, just relax; give in to the notion that life is naturally in place. The pressure we feel at work is no plot, no one person’s fault. It’s just a part of regular life.”

I scoffed, but in a sense, the old man was right. He only had been trying to prepare me for the next sequence of events, which began a few moments later, when I received at my station a strong, sudden message wired from the Manager-in-Absentia, which went like this:

“Just leave it, and let it go. Give yourself the luxury of a few moments’ rest, since soon you will want to disappear. Do you fear the surprise of learning you are wrong? I hate to shatter your happiness, for I know you are proud. It was nothing in particular, not even your most recent infraction that brought you into the limelight; it was the accrual of years of your inability to settle down. We will take our time; we will let you know; do you wonder what will happen? Now, repeat the word ‘fiasco’ over and over, repeat it now, in dialect precisely as is mine, not—I warn you—in parody; repeat it honestly, and with effort, because—and this is God’s truth—there is a job now available in the mountain district, and in order to be considered for it, you must successfully be able to reproduce a mountain accent, not just once, but consistently, in a variety of circumstances.”

All this, contained in the crumpled message, was followed by a second note relaying that the job in the mountains was still open, though it might soon close, and that this would be an excellent position for anyone with talent, it read, like me, and with the native ability to blend in imperceptibly with anyone or anything.

My neighbor, now back at his station, bathed in rivers of sweat, lunging, straining to make sausage, about to faint, leaned toward me, whispering hoarsely, meat on his breath, “Tear up the message! And let me tell you the most important thing!”

At which point a lean figure entered the barn, rolling the fainted man away, smiling, wiping his hands, clapping them twice, saying, “Can you please stop behaving in ways that belie your unconscious motives?”

“I never do that,” I said.

“Oh, God, you do!”

“Who are you?” I said.

“I am Rolf,” he answered, “but that doesn’t matter. In fact, it’s important that you know little about me. But I care about you, and so will say this: in your histrionic taking of the dead man’s guilt, you have displayed your troubles as if the workplace were a theatre—very inappropriate, and you don’t seem to realize it. Which in itself is important, for it shows us that you cannot see life as it really is, but only as you experience it—including your feelings about me—hesitation and distrust, I believe, and only because my clothes are smart and pressed, which you adolescently perceive as some kind of threat.