No amount of bleach could battle the aging grey of Alfonse’s apron. No method of chemical treatment could revive the brightness that once gleamed through the glass display cases, replaced now by a dishwater dinge from decades of use.
Each day, the old man faithfully tied the strings behind his back, and while the blood stains always came out, the passage of time was not so easily scrubbed away.
“Joey, get back here!”
As Alfonse slapped the cleaver back into its spot on the magnetic strip, joining the other razor sharp tools of the trade, his son strolled through the double doors gnawing on a toothpick.
The old man smiled wistfully at the sight, a mirage of his former self standing before him, and remembered having that thick black hair, that powerful jaw, an unscarred neck.
The boy blistered with confidence, his scant two decades on the planet spent handsome, dancing through his days with the high privilege of the beautiful.
“Hey Pop, what’s up?”
Alfonse rubbed his hands together, the knots of his knuckles rubbing tectonic as he paced, his face growing grim.
“We’ve been at this a long time. Me, my father, your great grandfather. Years. The business of bones. That’s what we’re left with, you know?”
Joey nodded, and felt guilty for pretending to understand. He’d worked the cash register, tagged hamhocks on the weekends. For most of his life he was adjacent to the business at best, then slowly, as Uncle Ernie moved to Portland and Alfonse’s hips got worse, responsibilites fell to the only heir of mention, the youngest of eleven.
His father beckoned him to come closer.
“You know the supply, you know the filet. You know the bacon-wrapped flanks those idiots wait in line for. But you don’t know. You don’t.”
Alfonse rolled up his sleeves and reached for the strings at the small of his back. He fumbled for a few moments, and breathed a sigh of defeat as the boy came to his aid. Standing behind his father, Joey noted the curving trajectory of his spine, the whispy, white hair swirling around the crown of his skull. For perhaps the first time, Joey observed the weights borne by the man more than thrice his age.
“Pop, you don’t have to worry. I’ve been paying attention. I’ve seen you do everything there is to do around here. I’m more capable than you think.”
The young man deftly unraveled the apron strings and helped his father pull the loop over his head. He stood silently holding the tattered fabric, waiting for Alfonse to speak, half expecting a lecture on the thickness of ribeye.
“I’m tired, kid, and none of this gets any easier. I’m grateful for your help, I am… But cutlets are only part of the hustle. I’m telling you. You don’t know shit.”
Alfonse took the apron from his son’s hand and tossed it over his shoulder. He nodded for Joey to follow, and slowly plodded his way to the office in the back of the small building his family had owned for a century. Easing himself into a chair behind the desk, Alfonse opened the bottom drawer and pulled out two glasses, then an unlabeled bottle of liquor. His hand shook slightly as he poured.
They shared a silent cheers and sipped amber liquid. Alfonse set down his glass and looked up with fear in his eyes.
“That old telephone booth out front by the sodas. A relic, right? Just a decoration from days gone by? It ain’t. Not even close. That phone rings, but only at night. From now on, you’re gonna answer it.”
He poured more bourbon.
“See, it rang last night. They’re coming. These people, well, you’ll want to do exactly as they say. Won’t be easy, but it’s easier than crossing them.”
Alfonse watched his youngest for a reaction. The baby of the family was notoriously level headed, and treated most encounters with an indifference that drew even more attention from admirers. In this moment, he was anything but cool and a thousand miles from aloof.
The leather of the aging desk chair whined as Alfonse rocked, and stood with a quiet grunt. He took a few steps toward his son. Pulling the glass from the boy’s hand and draining its contents, the old man put a wrinkled hand on Joey’s shoulder.
“In a few hours, you’ll see how this family stays in business. The real business. You’ll need an apron.”