Nothing Looks Familiar

More praise for:

Nothing Looks Familiar

I’ve been saying that Shawn’s stories shimmer and sparkle ever since I first encountered them. They are queer in the way all our interiors are queer—radically singular, cruel, gentle, wrong, vulnerable, and erotically secret. I don’t know another writer like him for facing down the strange with such warmth of heart.

—Kathryn Kuitenbrouwer, author of All the Broken Things

"Here was my experience reading each and every story in Nothing Looks Familiar: I’d arrive—breathlessly and often shockingly—at its end, and I’d have to set the book down. I’d have to think through my own assumptions, and how Shawn Syms was challenging me to look deeper, to find our common humanity, our fear and fury and joy. His range is incredible; we’re in the mind of the kid who punishes himself for swearing, the heart of the eighty-year-old woman so desperately wanting to be touched, the hopes that the meth addict has for her children, and countless others, all drawn in direct, unflinching, near-cinematic prose. The best story writers ask us to look past what’s familiar. Count Shawn Syms among the best."

—Megan Stielstra, author of

Once I Was Cool and Everyone Remain Calm

In memory of Frank Syms (1943–2014)

On the Line

I won’t go out with another man who works on the kill floor. I can’t handle the smell of them, or their attitudes. Forget about men from the plant altogether, that’s what I should do. It would drastically cut down on my chances for a date though. Maybe a better solution would be to get out of town altogether.

I take a deep breath, inhaling the eucalyptus scent, then immerse my head in hot, soapy bathwater. My knees rise above the water line, the tips of my breasts poke out above water, still covered in suds. Underwater, I rub my temples with both thumbs. I stay submerged as long as I can, until I come up gasping for breath again. Work ended at three-thirty. It’s almost ten now, and I’m finally beginning to feel human.

Turning up the tap to add more hot water, I pour silvery conditioner into my hand and lather up my scalp. Run my fingers through the full length of my dark hair, starting at my forehead and tracing behind my shoulders. Touching my scalp, I feel a phantom fingertip—as if the last half inch of my right baby finger were still there.

The accident was over two years ago. Can’t complain much; I got $2,700 in insurance money and seven days off work, with pay. I don’t even think about it anymore. Except the occasional Friday night—like tonight—when I drag myself to the Ox for cheap beers. Even then, I only think about it for a second, reminding myself it’s one less nail to paint. A lot worse coulda happened.

In the grit of a dive or between sweaty sheets, most guys don’t notice. Some men I’ve dated took weeks to mention the finger. Then again, roughnecks aren’t much for holding hands or paying close attention to you. Some don’t even kiss.

I ease my head back under to rinse out my hair. I’ll be in this town till Dad dies. Don’t know how long that’ll be. He’s taken to falling though. He needs me; living right downstairs has come in handy more than once. Valerie got to escape to Vancouver once she got married. I’ll get there too someday.

What’ll I even do in BC? I’ve been cutting meat so long I don’t know what else I’m fit for. Maybe lick my wounds and go on pogey for a while? That’s hard to imagine. I’ve always had a job. Val stays at home raising three boys, and I don’t envy her. I like to work.

You get used to the plant. You cope. I wield a sharp knife all day long. It’s ridiculous, I know, but sometimes I pretend I’m slitting fabric to make little girls’ dresses instead of carving carcasses into steaks. Agnes, who works next to me, sings Sudanese songs to help get through the day. She taught me one, called Shen-Shen. I asked her once what that song is about. Life is unfair, Wanda. That is what it is about, she said, and went back to singing. Agnes sends money to her mother and father in Juba every month via Western Union. Can’t complain about the wage. Fifteen dollars an hour is nothing to sneeze at. The men you meet though. Christ.

Last guy I dated from Slaughter was Karl Willson—a blond behemoth, Prairie farming stock. He was twenty-four, six-three, and very strong—so he was quickly recruited for the harshest job on the kill floor. He’s a stunner and sticker: he kills live cattle and drains their blood. I don’t think less of guys in Slaughter because their jobs are dirtier than mine. The rest of us can’t feel holier-than-thou about chopping steaks, filling sausage links, or grinding burger meat. The reason I don’t like Karl is he’s a prick.

He came to Alberta a few months ago from Saskatchewan with his younger brother, who got hired to dress carcasses. Karl was well-suited to a job as a cutthroat. He didn’t mind killing; he liked it. He was fast. Speedy workers are the company’s wet dream.

We only dated for a few weeks. Karl was brooding and edgy. That made for rough, satisfying sex—but I knew something bad would spring from his constant, simmering anger. One night at the drive-in, I teased him about something—I think it was a cowlick that made his hair look funny—and he punched me hard in the face. I don’t put up with bullshit—that was the end. We haven’t spoken since.

He got moved to B shift. That means I work days and he works nights. When I go to the Ox on a Friday, he’s usually not there because he can only make last call by coming right from the plant. He sometimes does, the need to drink outweighing the duty to clean himself up first. The smell of Processing isn’t as bad as Slaughter, but I never go to the bar without taking a long bath first.

Standing up to dry myself, I close my eyes a sec. Hope I don’t run into Karl tonight. I shouldn’t be going out—it’s the height of summer, so we’re on a six-day week at the plant. I need to be there tomorrow morning at seven, even though it’s a Saturday. But I need something to make me forget for a while.

Pulling a towel off the rack, I dry my breasts, belly, the insides of my legs, and bottoms of my feet, and then scrub at my wet hair with the efforts of nine determined fingertips.

The harsh blare of the alarm clock seeps into my consciousness through the hot haze of slumber. I stretch across Makok’s broad, dark shoulders to finger the snooze button. Unable to stifle a belch that reeks like last night’s whiskey sours, I slump back for nine more minutes of rest, draping my arm across the width of his back. He stops snoring, but doesn’t stir.

Morning’s light streams through the bedroom window, and I squint. Makok works on Karl’s floor, but I don’t think they’re friends. His wife does dayshift on the line. She’s not in my section, but I can see her from where I stand at the boning table. I’ve seen the two of them at the IGA together; they’ve both worked at the plant for a few months now.

I think back to last night, and don’t recall much. Makok smiling at me as he leaned over the pool table, cue in hand. Asking him to buy me a drink, though I can afford my own liquor. Flattering compliments in halting English. More drinks. His brown eyes locked with my own, an unspoken decision to go ahead.

He faces away, hugging a pillow. I scan his smooth back, visually tracing its one blemish, a three-inch curved white scar across his right shoulder. Must have been a meat hook; that’s common. Or something that happened back home—like many at the plant, he’s from Sudan. I’m not going to ask.

The alarm buzzes again. Makok shakes awake; both of our hands reach for the noisemaker this time. He smacks the top of the clock and then grabs my fingers.

He turns, and our eyes meet. I lean toward him; we kiss. He pulls his bulky frame onto mine, and I welcome the pressure. We fuck one more time, fiercely and quickly. Before the alarm sounds again, we’re done. Makok eases out of me, strokes my cheek, then abruptly pulls himself to his feet and stands naked above me, a drizzle of semen still hanging off the tip of his foreskin.

Mende is pregnant. He walks to the bathroom.

I sit on the toilet and piss while Makok showers; I put out a clean towel. He doesn’t offer me a ride to work—he leaves while I’m in the shower. I tie my hair into a loose braid and throw a sweater into my knapsack. Hot as it is outside, my part of the plant is refrigerated.

I pop four ibuprofens on my way out the door, hop into my Civic, and head for the plant. I crack the window. It’s too hot not to, but you don’t open it very far. The closer you get to the plant, the more the air smells like shit. Bosses call it the smell of money. No matter which way the wind blows, you can’t escape it.

The locker room smells like wet sawdust, and it’s crowded. The air’s humid with steam emanating from the shower stalls at the end of the room. On a bench between two rows of lockers, I’m surrounded by women. I recognize some but have never talked to them. You can’t know everybody in a plant of 2,000 people. Once we’re suited up, it’s hard to recognize anyone.

Lockers are assigned in numerical order based on hire date and then reassigned because of turnover—not everyone can handle this job. All around me, women chatter, yell, laugh—none of it in English. You get used to that.

I put on my gear in the same order every morning. First, the yellow rubber boots. Next, I pull on my steel mesh apron. It runs from my shoulders to my knees. I reach around to tie it in the back, drawing my head to my chest. There, I catch my first whiff. Though I scrubbed it at the end of yesterday’s shift, my apron still hosts the faint but dizzying scent of bull’s blood.

I hear a rumble from the shop floor; they’re turning on the grinders and getting ready for the shift to start. I check my pockets for earplugs. I put on rubber sleeves that run from my wrists to my elbows, a hairnet, then my bump cap—a yellow construction helmet. Plastic safety goggles hang from my neck by a nylon cord; I’ll put them on once I’m on the line. I grab my long, thin knife and stuff it into the waist pocket of the apron. Thank God I sharpened it yesterday. With this hangover, I’d cut myself if I tried to today.

Last, thick rubber gloves, with a crumpled paper ball jammed into one fingertip to keep it from flopping or getting caught in anything. All around me, women who’ve arrived late crowd in and clamber into the same uniform. We have to be on the line when it starts up.

Wading through the crowd and the roaring machines, I arrive at the boning table to find my co-workers already in position. With a smirk, Kwadwo calls out in his West African–accented baritone.

Wanda, you look like you were up late, he says in a chastising tone.

My shoulders slump. Then I puff out my chest. I was with your dad last night, Kwadwo. I hope you have as much energy in bed as him!

Kwadwo giggles like a tickled schoolboy. My father is fifty-six—and he still lives in Ghana. No wonder you are tired …

I went out to the Ox for a few—but not much was going on, I confess.

As long as you weren’t with Kwadwo’s father—or any other fathers—then it is good, Agnes pipes in, arching an eyebrow as she adjusts her hairnet over a short-cropped Afro.

Agnes is a generation older than me, but the Sudanese community is close-knit. Could she be friends with Makok and his pregnant wife?

She smiles and gives me a friendly elbow. "Use protection, or you will make someone a father!" I grin, relieved.

Next to me, Kwadwo, Agnes, and three girls from Newfoundland work at our compact boning table. We’re short one man, a French