MEAT PACKING PLANT/Carl Snowball Outside of the mail terminal, across the metal railway tracks and to the west, the silent winds of summer blew out from the grove of cottonwood trees that leaned along the river's banks. A full sun stood in the west, huddled close to the earth, burning in a horizontal line across the sky. Its afternoon rays touched on the huge windows of the terminal's west glass wall, escaping through the panes. But the postal employees inside sat in their mail stalls with their sweaty backs facing the sunblazed windows. The rays became magnified onto their backs, causing them to itch; and to become uncomfortable with the sweat. Norman Simms came to work early that afternoon. He always came to work early. And when they asked him why, he would point to the main center partition that stood between the burning sun and the mail stall where he worked. "That wide partition," he explained, "is the only one in this wall of windows. It gives my stall shade from the sun. You guys sit where the sun hits right at you. I come early to grab this stall before any one else gets it." He would usually laugh then. At breaktime, Norman began walking with the other workers toward the west door which went outside. His body was short and quite lean, like a willow walking among trees. The group of workers stepped outside into the sun. With their hats they shielded the sun's blinding rays from their eyes. A silent wind blew out from the grove of trees, and carried with it the fetid odor from the dead pigs and horses at the meat packing plant which stood by the river just west of the terminal. Only the railway tracks separated the plant from the terminal. The stifling odor made the air rotten. "Damn! It stinks out here," one worker complained. "It smells like decayed moss from the river bottom." 'That's because of the poor quality of horses they use," a fat worker informed. "It wouldn't stink if it wasn't for that." "I thought they used pigs," some one asked. "They use both," said the fat one, "But it's the horses that are of poor quality. When I was a kid, my old man took an old horse over there. Very worthless. Stood around looking very dumb. We took it over because it went blind. They told us over there that it was a very fine animal. That shows the quality they use." There was no question now. The fat worker seemed very pleased. Everyone laughed, including Norman, who stood on the cement ground; the sun touching on his pale forehead. He took out a pair of dark glasses with metal frames and put them on. They protected his eyes from the dizzying sun. When the workers moved on to the break-room, Norman and another worker remained behind. They stood there in the putrid smell. As other worker watched the packing plant, his face grew pale. The building stood silent below the sky. And though the sky was clear that afternoon, it was not blue. It had faded, becoming ash white and dry. Below its eternities the building stood silent, silent like the sky itself. The only motion about it was the gray smoke that pushed up from its chimney. But the smoke, too, was a silent thing and would soon become lost in the wind. And yet, with all that silence, one almost knew that somewhere within its red brick walls, pigs lay dying, squealing with their throats sliced 26 open, and horses stood dumb, waiting to be crushed into dog food. "This smell is bad," said the other worker, "but much worse for those who work inside the plant." The worker was Nicholas Boulevakis. Norman laughed, then followed Nicholas over and sat with him on a rickety mail cart. They positioned themselves so that they faced the meat packing plant. They watched it. "Do you want a cigarette?" Norman asked. "No. I've quit for good." Nicholas was a proud and very concrete looking man, much older then Norman. The sun burned hot on Norman's head. He did not like it. His smile went for a moment, but then he chuckled. When Richard James came from the breakroom, in a terrible hurry, they both looked up. "Has either of you seen Steve Blake?" he asked, becoming anxious. "He went home feeling sick," said Norman. "What time was it?" asked Richard, who stood where the odor caught him. "It was five," said Norman. "I watched him leave." "Why do you ask us?" said Nicholas, who could not stand the red-headed Richard. "He owes me a dollar, and I need it for something, now." Norman snickered. "Would you have a dollar, Norman? Perhaps that you could lend me for now?" "No. I haven't a penny." Norman flipped his wallet open and showed him that it was empty. "I just loaned my last dollar out to Dave Carter, that Negro kid." "That's a bunch of bull. He never borrows money," said Richard. "He borrowed from me," said Norman, "just a moment ago." "Yeah. All right then." Richard did not bother to ask Nicholas. He knew Nicholas did not like him. When he was gone, Norman began laughing again. His laugh was shy, because he closed his mouth and turned his lips under, the laughing came from his throat and nose. His laugh was always shy. "A very humble person," people would say about him. He laughed often. And, at times, it puzzled the other workers as to how such a shy person could be so happy. "Why do you laugh always?" asked Nicholas. "Why do you smile when sometimes there is nothing to smile about?" "I have good folks. I have good friends, maybe not so many friends down here at the terminal, but I have more at school. Things just go my way." "You don't have no problems, huh?" "No." "Of course you do." Nicholas was positive. "Life wouldn't be worth living without some conflicts. That's the way I feel." Norman said nothing, just laughed. Some time passed while Nicholas read in a book. Several times Norman noticed that his own shoes were much shinier than Nicholas' shoes. This pleased him. The odor that had collected in the air seemed to have left, but it had not. It was there, but just forgotton, much like thoughts big thoughts that stay in the mind always. It is only the hundreds of minor thoughts that make the big thoughts stray, to seem be forgotten, but they soon will return again. Nicholas looked at Norman. "Do you ever read, Norman?" "Sometimes. But I'm not very good. Sometimes I can read a whole page and not know a thing that I've read." "Reading's a good thing," Nicholas told him. "I love to read." "I like to laugh. You like to read." "I want to become a writer. That's why I read so much. It helps you with your writing." "I suppose so," laughed Norman. "What are you reading?" "It's called Somewhere Within." "Is it any good?" Norman asked. "It's a book of poetry." "I've never read much poetry," said Norman. "It's too hard for me to understand." "Some of it is pretty hard," agreed Nicholas. "Perhaps when you read it you don't dwell on it long enough to find its full meaning and its truth." Norman laughed. "Perhaps." "But this book here's not too bad." Nicholas turned to a poem. "Here, read this. It's not too bad." He pointed to the poem. Norman did not feel like reading. He felt too uncomfortable, sitting outside in the sunlight. "No. I'm not in the mood," he said. (continued on next page) 27