The Rose Room ((Stockyards of Minnesota)(English and Spanish))

The Rose Room
((The Stockyards of South St. Paul, Minnesota, 1966) (a Chick Evens Story))



Chick Evens went to work for the stockyards one summer in 1966, near the town-let of South Saint Paul, the summer was extremely hot, and you could bake an egg on the sidewalks.
His mother worked at Swift’s Meats (in the meatpacking department), the company, which he now came to be employed at, made a deep impression on Chick’s mind and he never forgot the thoughts and experiences that came to him during those last months of that summer working at the stockyards inside a packing house (cutting up carcasses of hogs), and especially delivering animal waste to the Rose Room!

The traditional puffing forth smoke, which attracted attention to its tall chimneys as they rumbled along and burnt up the remains of pigs, cows, sheep, and goats, slowly over miles of bones and animal waste, circulated the air, and drifted throughout the huge stockyards, second to the nation’s largest in Chicago.
One could see and smell at any section, division or corner of the town-let this putrid smoke, from the stockyards, all the way down to the Mississippi River, some five-miles away, and even across the Robert Street Bridge, to the other side of the river, where resided St. Paul, proper, the inner city, the downtown area; that dark to light gray smoke, rising into the clear morning sky.
Where some of this smoke came from was a dim lit, small room through which an employee brought in stacks of animal throw away, desecrated meats, from throughout the stockyards. From these stacks could be seen glowing and pale pus from hams, torn hides, discolored skin and unusable bones and infected guts, and so forth, nothing to please an appetite.
There was no wind, or windows in this room—this room they called ‘The Rose Room’, just an iron round plate on the floor, heavy as a Cadillac car, it was opened by pressing a yellow button, and machinery lifted this tonnage door about three feet up…then it stopped as if a person might fall or jump into this inferno pit, and there was hell’s fire. You could hear the crackling of the fire, feel the heat penetrating your pores, and smell the punishingly putrid stink therewithal, and near suffocating in the process: it all was close to gagging the lungs, to a point of collapsing.
The fire was equal to the most blazing spot in a forest fire, it grew along the sides of the pit when the iron door was opened, like snakes running up its sides to escape.

∙

In the afternoons I went to what they called the Rose Room, opened up the door to the house of flames, it crackled and snapped under my feet, even the sole of my shoes got hot through the thick stone floor, the smell of this room was putrid, foul, sizzling. It made a man think about going back to school, it did me anyway, learn a real trade—it was a room I swear rented out by the devil or perhaps God Himself, to express where souls go to decay—the repentance abyss.
My mind captured such an image even before I set foot out of this room, the first time I brought in a wheelbarrow of animal waste—I remember I had little to say, looking into that abyss of flames, pouring my wheelbarrow of rotten animal carcasses, soft tissue, over the edge of the iron rounded door, watching the massive fire consume it even before it hit the bottom of the pot, boldly and freely.
∙

The fatty tissue, he poured down, into the pit, became inflamed almost instantly. This was a house with only one window—the fire window. When he had poured the waste over the edge of the opening, the fire leaped back up at him, swept over the rim of the frame that held the iron door in place, it swept all the way to his feet, he jumped back, stood against the wall looking into the hungered fire, as if it was a living beast trying to harm him, and a voice said something, a voice to the side of him, by the door that was usually shut to the room, except if someone else was waiting to commence in the same traditional work he had just finished…

∙

The Employee


Employee: Come on, come on! Let’s get going here sunny, I don’t have all day—give the rose a kiss and get the hell out of there so I can drop my load! (A laugh.)

Chick Evens: It almost got me!

Employee: It’s a suicide escape! ((he declared shrewdly) (he comes to stand beside Evens)) It creeps in when you’re half sleeping, or daydreaming on the job, stay alert in this room kid—now move on out of here, go around my backside, give me some room to maneuver my wheelbarrow.



Note: the stockyards in South St. Paul, created and built the city of South Saint Paul, establishing itself in between, 1885-1887, and built by Gustavus Franklin Swift Jr., and prior to him, his father. Prior to Swift’s And Company, there was no city south of St. Paul, Minnesota. It was one of the largest stockyards in the world, and second only to Chicago in the United States. This story is dedicated to the Swift Family, who in their way contributed to the employment of so many people in some many areas of the United States, and especially, South Saint Paul, Minnesota.

Written 5-16-2009 ((No: 398) (SA/5ds))


Spanish Version


El Cuarto Rosa
((El Corral de Ganado de San Pablo Sur, Minnesota, 1966) (Una Historia de Chick Evens))



Chick Evens fue a trabajar para el corral de ganado un verano de 1966, cerca al pueblito de San Pablo Sur; el verano era tan caluroso que podrías cocinar un huevo en las veredas.
Su madre trabajaba en Swift’s Meats (en el departamento de empaque de carnes), la compañía en la que ahora él había sido empleado, que formó una impresión profunda en la mente de Chick ya que él nunca se olvidaría de los pensamientos ni de las experiencias que él obtuvo trabajando en el corral, en la casa de empaques, durante los últimos meses de ese verano (cortando la carne de los cerdos muertos) y especialmente: ¡llevando los desechos de animales al Cuarto Rosa!
La tradicional nube de humo—que hacía que llamara la atención de sus chimeneas altas mientras éstas sonaban a lo largo y quemaban lentamente los restos de los cerdos, vacas, carneros y cabras, sobre miles de huesos y desperdicio de animal—hacía circular el aire y se iba a la deriva a través del corral inmenso, el segundo más grande en la nación después de Chicago.
Uno podía ver y oler en cualquier lugar del pueblito este humo putrefacto del corral, todo el camino abajo hacia el río Mississippi, aproximadamente a cinco millas de distancia e incluso cruzando el Puente Roberto, al otro lado del río donde residía la ciudad de San Pablo propiamente, el centro de la ciudad; aquel humo oscuro, ligeramente gris, levantándose en el cielo claro de la mañana.
Había una luz tenue de donde este humo venía, un cuarto pequeño donde un empleado traería, de todas partes del corral, montones de restos de animales para botarlos, carnes malogradas. Podía verse, en estas pilas, intensos y pálidos pus de los jamones, costados rasgados, piel descolorida, huesos inutilizables e intestinos infectados, etcétera, nada para complacer a un apetito.
No había ventanas ni corría viento en este cuarto—a este cuarto ellos lo llamaban “El Cuarto Rosa”—sólo un plato redondo de hierro en el piso, tan pesado como un carro Cadillac, éste se abría presionando un botón amarillo, y las máquinas levantarían este tonelaje de puerta, cerca de un metro de altura…luego éste se detendría como si una persona podría caerse o saltar dentro de esta fosa infernal; había un fuego de infierno. Tú podrías oír el sonido del fuego, sentir el calor penetrando tus poros, aparte de oler esa hediondez putrefacta y casi sofocante; en el proceso: todo esto estaba a punto de asfixiar a los pulmones, al punto de colapsar.
El fuego era igual al punto más ardiente en un incendio en la selva, éste crecía a lo largo de los lados de la fosa cuando la puerta de hierro se abría, como serpientes corriendo arriba a sus lados para escapar.

En las tardes iba a lo que ellos llamaban El Cuarto Rosa, abría la puerta de la casa de llamas, esta crujía y chasqueaba bajo mis pies, incluso la suela de mis zapatos se calentaban por el piso grueso de piedra, el olor de este cuarto era putrefacto, repugnante y sofocante. Esto hacía pensar a un hombre en volver al colegio, esto me hizo pensar de todas maneras, aprender un oficio real—este era un cuarto, lo juro, alquilado por el mismo diablo o talvez por Dios mismo, para decir a dónde van las almas a descomponerse—el abismo de arrepentimiento.
Mi mente capturó tal imagen incluso antes de poner un pie en este cuarto, la primera vez que traje una carretilla de desperdicio de animal—recuerdo que tuve poco que decir, mirando en el abismo de llamas, vaciando mi carretilla de carne muerta descompuesta y tejidos suaves sobre el borde de la puerta redonda de hierro, mirando al fuego masivo consumir esto antes que éstos tocaran el fondo del recipiente, audaz y libremente.

Los tejidos grasosos, que él tiraba en el hoyo, eran inflamados casi al instante. Esta era una casa con sólo una ventana—la ventana del fuego. Cuando él vertió los restos sobre el borde de la entrada, el fuego se extendió hacia él, barrió sobre el borde del marco que sostenía la puerta de hierro todo el camino hasta sus pies, él saltó hacia atrás, estuvo recostado en la pared mirando al hambriento fuego, como si éste fuera una fiera viva tratando de herirlo, y una voz dijo algo, una voz al costado de él, por la puerta que normalmente estaba cerrada, excepto si alguien más estuviera esperando para comenzar con el mismo trabajo tradicional que él acababa de terminar…


El Empleado

Empleado: ¡Vamos, vamos! Continuemos yendo, no tengo todo el día—dale un beso a la rosa y sal de aquí para que yo pueda vaciar mi carga (una risa).

Chick Evens: ¡Casi me alcanza!

Empleado: ¡Es un escape suicida! ((él dijo astutamente) (él vino a pararse detrás de Evens)) Este te alcanza cuando estás medio dormido, o soñando despierto en el trabajo, mantente alerto en este cuarto niño—ahora muévete de aquí, anda alrededor detrás de mi, dame más espacio para maniobrar mi carretilla.

Nota: Los corrales de ganados en el Sur de San Pablo, crearon y construyeron la ciudad de San Pablo Sur, estableciéndose ésta en el medio, entre 1885 y1887, construida por Gustavus Franklin Swift hijo, y antes que él por su padre. Antes de la Compañía Swift, no existía la ciudad de San Pablo Sur, en Minnesota. Este era uno de los más grandes corrales el mundo, el primero estaba en Chicago en Estados Unidos. Esta historia está dedicada a la familia Swift quienes, en su forma, contribuyeron a dar empleo a tanta gente en algunos lugares de los Estados Unidos, y especialmente, en el Sur de San Pablo, Minnesota.

Escrito el 16-Mayo-2009 ((No: 398) (SA/5ds))

Stalking and Ambush of the Amazon Puma (a short story; more truth than fiction)

Stalking and Ambush
Of the Amazon Puma


The Stalking

The trail was a quarter foot deep in the ground and roughly worn where it slanted up, to go down the hill, that looked like an over weeded irrigation ditch, we climbed down it slowly, a short but steep hill, and halfway down on the right we sat there with our backs against the now, two hill tops, and tall grass all about us, and bushes, a few trees. It was very green and warm country, with small hills, embankments, jungle all around: below the rainforest was a thick grassy, bushy plateau, where our lodge resided, just beyond that flatten landscape as the lodge itself was enmeshed into a jungle like setting.
The lodge sat on a cut of land, alongside a tributary that ran— out into the Amazon River, with a few other water courses.
Avelino was jealous of no one at the lodge, as far as guides go. He simply knew he was better than all of them; more of a hunter, a faster tracker, and guide, a no-nonsense person, didn’t drink or smoke, and he had class in almost everything he did, his one fault, if you can call it that, was, he nearly ever smiled. If anyone was jealous it was perhaps his assistants: Jose and Manuel (who managed the boat trips usually), if not possibly Captain Marcelo (the lodges only licensed pilot on the river). It seemed as if or appeared to be, Avelino took command of the show.


This day had almost come to an end, evening was descending all around us; Avelino, myself and Rosa, in the thick of the jungle, had walked about three miles from the canopy, and were a mile from the local tribal village, we had visited in the morning. We had left the canopy area too late to get back to the lodge before twilight—and the trail was becoming hard to see. Avelino said, “This country is like my backyard, I know it like the back of my hands, don’t worry, we only got a little ways to go!”
Even in spite of the puma following us, more like stalking, about one-hundred years to our left side, in the deep, perhaps closer now, it was hard to see.
If it was still daylight, and if you looked away from the jungle, and the hill side, this hilly slope, with its long gradation, of high and low foliage, we were headed toward flattened land down below us, grass burnt yellow and brown, cut in sections by our lodge, so one could see what might be lurking, and across this long sweep, lead right to the lodge’s wooden walkway, and chain of cabins, which lead to the main lodge.
We all sat here, while I got my strength, and energy back, and heart beat went back to normal, and watched the lights go on, one by one, in the lodge, far-off in the distance.

Avelino was looking carefully for the brown, sleek puma, squatting on his heels to see movement in the tall grass, behind a few bushes. We were all weaponless. There was a warm breeze that appeared to come from the direction of the tributary; it blew the tall grass around some, on the hillside. There were many small pale to gray clouds overhead, and there were no trees to speak of, more like tall hedge plants, and shrub, on and round this spot; here the foliaged was so thick—so it seemed—you could almost walk on top of it.
For a quarter of an hour we did not see anything. Then with Avelino’s long white poking stick, as we were about ready to make our descend down the rest of the hill, then to the edge of the rainforest, across the flattened land, and cut grass section to the lodge, I saw something moving over the shoulder of Avelino, towards us. I was sweating so badly, I had to wipe my glasses clear. A flash, I witnessed a reddish-brown-colored something, lighted by the moon, moving slowly, but with quick jerking like motions though the grass, it didn’t seem to me it was the puma though, too near to the ground.
The sky was now filled with dark shadows, and we fought to make each step in the tall grass, pushing head-first, fighting and pushing the grass and bushes to our sides, while we watched for the puma, and at the lights of the lodge.
It was near inky dark now, except for the stars, and the moon, and the lodge’s lights, and we were close to the edge of the rainforest—think, I was thinking, the puma had failed its mission.
Edging down a little further my tennis shoes ruined, feeling roots and rocks and holes under them. I was excited with this night because we had seen the puma, but now it had put me on guard.
The closer we got to the lodge, I could taste the aroma of coffee on my tongue and thought about eating a breakfast, not a dinner; still my heart pounding but now on the flattened land, somehow I felt safer but not Avelino.
“Everyone stay close to one another,” he said, as if the excitement was about to start.
Avelino pointed back towards the edge of the rainforest, watching where he was pointing, his white stick in his right hand, to the left of the stick was a deep gulch, gap in the landscape, and then an open patch of forest, “That is where he is;” said Avelino, and as we a walked towards the lodge, now a shadow and movement followed us in, moving very quickly, and pushing some of the bushes aside, it was now too dark to see a thing, and we all transverse as we walked, we did not see the puma, but we could hear him. We could no longer hear birds overhead, nor saw them flying, but that was all. I stepped in some dung, I could smell it on my shoes, but we saw nothing, not even the green, and no sounds of monkey’s; the lodge and its preemptor was jungle, not as the flatten land we were now on, and we were still 600-feet from the wooden walkway that was attached to the cabins, and main lodge.
I was thinking, maybe the puma had gone back to the main part of the jungle—its home, I knew they were a stalk and ambush predator, and could jump some forty feet, but inside the jungle was cooler, perhaps it wanted to get out of this heat. But that was my ignorance speaking, it was hungry.
I was beginning to feel brave again, and it was nice to be able to walk in an easy stroll, I mean, simply walk, not worried about the puma. Rosa strolled very close to me. Avelino had his white stick resting on his shoulder. And the moon overhead was hot, hot enough to make me sweat, as if its light was burning with the breeze.
Avelino motioned to us two, to stop, in front of us was the puma. It was near eight feet long, brownish coat, perhaps close to 150 to 160 pounds, it wasn’t ambushing now I told myself, it was confronting. But what did I see back on the slope, it was reddish-brown.
Avelino had his eyes staring at the cat’s movement, his stick in front of him waving it, it seemed worthless to do it, but he did it nonetheless. He grinned.
Usually puma’s were shy of humans, so I was told, but I don’t believe that anymore, it was a bunch of hogwash, and we were valuable meat, and the beast was hungry. In a way it seemed natural for it to be here, no longer was it a mystery, nothing odd or unseemly in the pacing of the beast, in a half-circle, or in a man carrying a white stick.

The Ambush


The puma gave a great leap, a jump—Avelino shot his stick up, the cat was several yards from us, he gave a second jump then ran off fast.
“Avelino,” I told him, “What.”
Lying on its side was a large reddish-brown rodent; it looked like an oversized guinea pig, perhaps two feet in length, and forty-five pounds, a rat, a giant rat.
We all stood there a moment, as casual observers, it was a capybara, they grow much larger, and this was perhaps half its size. I think I was more amazed than in shock. To all appearances, he was dead, and the cat had taken what it considered, the least resistant, meaty meal, thank goodness.
I could feel my heart beating as if I wanted to push it back into place—my chest felt hot against my fingers, watching the cat ripping at the beast-rodent as if to show off, “Let’s hurry out of here,” said Avelino.

At the lodge I had scars on my forearms from all the bushes I had to push out of my way; some even on my forehead, some folks asking if I had fallen off the canopy as a bad joke. I had one good, near severe welt on the bottom of my foot, a few broken toenails, holes in my socks, scratched shoulders, torn shirt.
In the morning we all went out to look at the carcass of the giant rodent, Avelino to burying the remains, if there were any. Not sure why I wanted to go along, perhaps to see what the cat had done, could do, does when he’s hungry. The cat had eaten and tore out the rodent’s liver, kidneys as if with a knife, skillfully the cat had slit open the stomach and turned it inside, emptied it out into the grass, must have shook the rat-beast some, like a tree, to have eaten other delicacies in it, I figured, the paws of the cat were large I remember, good for sweeping out the inners.
“You folks go on back to the lodge, and get ready for Jose and Manuel to take you on a boat ride, I’ll get to burying this rodent,” said Avelino, without a smile, just a plain old grin. I was completely happy it was over.


5-8-2009

Eating her Own Death (A chapter story, on WWI)

Eating her Own Death
((A Chapter story from “To Save the Lopsided Sparrow) (Sequel to: “Cornfield Laughter”))



It was funny to Corporal Shannon O’Day to see Leticia shot at close range. There was something strange, almost comic to it—a bullet and all of a sudden an agitated surprise to the mad woman’s face, a surprise to find inside of her, in the center of her lair, to see her drop backwards (than catch her balance), next—to watch her go frantic in dizzying circles at some robotic electric impulse, as if she was racing ahead of death itself, inside of her. But the great puzzle was—for the moment anyway—the great puzzle of all was, the thing Shannon O’Day shook his head back and fourth about, and had to turn away from was—as she laughed (ashamed he was even looking at this mad woman’s humor) —that she madly ripped at her stomach area, tearing at it, until it split open, and pulling out her intestines and then stood there jerking them out and eating them, jerking them out and eating them, taking pleasure in it, relishing it; Shannon just would shake his head, horridly so, as it was unspeakable.

It was an awful sight. Self eating and devouring of the near-dead, herself, as she was dying; it all became stinking, foul. Death had played a dirty joke, so he felt. He looked around for whiskey, anything to drink, to get drunk on, anything kind of alcohol would suffice, and found a bottle of Watermelon wine under the straw topped bed, the one he was sitting on, and the very one he had recovered from his wound on, the very one he had slept on for eleven days. It was a half gallon of wine, the label read, “Watermelon Wine, aged one year, 2-3 large watermelons, up to 7-1/2 lbs, finely granulated sugar, 3 tsp acid blend, 2 crushed Camp den tablet, 3 tsp yeast nutrient packet Champagne yeast…(makes three galloons). It was in: English, French, Russian and German; someone was not taking sides, and selling his stock of wine to all the future, and potential, War Veterans, and anybody who could pay in general.
Shannon, sat on the edge of his bed started drinking the wine, drinking it half empty, looking at Leticia, drinking faster than he could swallow his saliva, having to spat on the side. He knew he had to get out of the lair, lest he get sick, and he never got sick from drinking, and he pulled himself together, sat outside, nervously holding onto the bottle, drinking it empty.
This was not anything to laugh about, openly or anytime, but he felt somehow superior to and wondered at this, as he looked at her, over his shoulder, her body still on the floor, than staggered out of town out of the war torn hamlet, called Douaumont, once and for all. He knew, instinctively so, that the battle of Verdun was over, if only now he could find his French Battalion.

Fifty day, 5-6-2009, written out on the roof, Lima, Peru · A Chapter story for “To Save a Lopsided Sparrow” · 529

The Farm (The Missing Chapter, to the Novel: "Cornfield Laughter.")

The Farm
(The Missing Chapter, to the Novel: “Cornfield Laughter.”)



“Yes, brother,” said Gus O’Day to his younger brother Shannon, “a man sees too much if he lives too long: a lot of fellows in a lot of situations.”
He was chatting in a kindly tone with his brother on the porch steps of his farm, Gus’ wife, Mabel, sitting on a rocker on the open air porch. It was a cool evening, and Shannon had spent a good portion of it out in the cornfields drinking by him self.
“All this farm life gets yaw tired I’d think, up the nose with rules and regulations, and if you don’t produce, the government gives yaw money, and if you do, and you want to sell, and the government don’t want you to raise more crops and sell, you can’t sell them anyhow, you end up storing them in some bin, the government steps in, don’t know how you put up with it, but I love your cornfields brother, I love the crows, and the smell of dirt and the yellowish-green in the cornstalks, and listening to the trains go by on those metal tracks, and even when the breaks screech, and one car bumps into to another.”
“Yup!” said Gus, “we done made a bowl of soup out of ourselves on this here farm alright, now all we are, is recipes for the government, if they want stew with corn we plant corn. If they want stew with carrots, we plant carrots; if they want…oh you know what I mean.”
“Man don’t need a backbone anymore, brother (Gus asks for a swig of Shannon’s bottle of whisky, and he hands it to him, and Mabel says, ‘Slow with it, remember your heart, you’re no spring chicken, Shannon’s twenty-five years younger than you, so take it easy.”)
“She likes to bug me,” said Gus, “but as you were going to say brother?”
“Yup!” said Shannon, “man don’t need a backbone anymore, it’s us old critters that have them, I don’t know how big of a wrench it will take to loosen mine up, no need for it nowadays.”

“I reckon Shannon you’d be right lonesome out here just by yourself.”
“I don’t rightly know what you mean by that, why you saying—what you saying?”
“Your older brother Shannon, Gus, he’s picked out his headstone already, matter-of-fact, the other day, says he’s goin’ to need it real soon,” remarked Mabel.
Mabel lit the lantern, it was becoming dark, moved it over a bit by the two brothers sitting on the steps, shoulder to shoulder.
“Can’t see the steps,” said Gus, “my eyes don’t work much anymore, too many shadows in them, I move too slow, breath too hard, get tired too quick.”
“I need to get up,” said Gus to Shannon. Shannon nodded his head up and down, toward his chest, “Yes” he said, but it wasn’t that he needed to relieve himself; it was he needed to get more air into his lungs, his stomach. And he stood up, and held tight onto the railing.
“Nonsense,” said Mabel, “just sit on back down, the strain is too much fer yaw!”
“Honor, and pride and discipline,” Gus told Shannon, “that’s the recipe for a man, and God.”
“I know all that Gus, and trouble is the best teacher, it always comes back to haunt yaw!”
“You know I got to go, got to leave yaw, couldn’t’ do it without seeing yaw one more time though…” Gus told Shannon in an almost whisper.
Shannon knew what he meant, it was Gus who had raised Shannon per near, he was always patient, calm, with him and figured if he ever wanted to know about God, his brother must had been a carbon copy of him. He was a good model, and always kind of put himself in the background, he had a servant’s heart. —Gus didn’t need to tell Shannon twice, he saw him holding his chest, leaning on that rail that extended from the first step to the third, the top one. Gus asked Shannon to stand up by him. Mabel had laid her head back, Shannon stood up, Gus leaned toward him. And here was two men kissing each other on the cheeks, each hugging the other showing outright love, without shame. He said his last words to Shannon, “It will be a long time from now to then.”
Mabel lifted up the lantern to see why Shannon O’Day was crying, a tall, lean, old man had stopped breathing.



Note on this Chapter Story: “The Farm”: Here is one of the missing chapters to the Novel "Cornfield Laughter" concerning the cornfields of where Shannon O'Day does much of his drinking. But in this chapter, left out of the book purposely, didn't have time to finish it, mentally it was there, just not down in writing, is when he meets his brother Gus, for the last time. He owns a farm next to some of Shannon's friends, whom he drinks in both their fields a river creek separating them. Written 5-1-2009. The other chapters yet not written I consider missing, that I felt should have been written during the three days writing of “Cornfield Laughter,” is of Shannon O’Day’s experience in WWI, which he expresses in the book, but not to any extent (and of course in that first story I had really wanted to center it on a certain all around theme, that being, the gathering of the souls surrounding Shannon’s life, with contentment a seeking goal, and therefore, a few other things like the farm and WWI, developed in the near future.