The back room reminded me of the embalming room at a funeral home. Stainless steel worktable, large stainless sink, buckets for blood and guts, big bottle of bleach. Randy had a walk-in refrigerator and freezer, a shrink-wrapping machine, a commercial stove, a massive chopping block, various slicers, a couple power saws, and some stainless steel rolling racks.
“Here’s an apron for you,” he said, handing me a black rubberized apron that would fit Sasquatch. “It’s going to be a little big, but it’s all I’ve got right now.”
I put the apron on, and we went out to the parking lot behind the store to look at the pig. The smoker was a huge barrel on wheels with a wood-burning oven attached. Randy rolled the side door up on the smoker, and the whole pig was inside, head and tail and everything in between. Its mouth was open, it had aluminum foil wrapped around its ears, and its skin was singed black and crispy. I looked in at it, and it was goodnight Stephanie.
Bells were clanging in my head, the world was whirling around, and my fingers were numb. I looked up, and Randy Berger swam into focus.
“What?” I said.
“You fainted. Lucky I caught you, or you would have cracked your head open like a muskmelon.”
“The pig.”
“I know just how you feel. I almost fainted the first time I cooked one, too. It’s the smell of the gutted, fresh-killed pig roasting over the fire, dripping all its succulent oozy juices, its crispy skin charred mahogany and black.” He smiled wide. “Life doesn’t get much better than a roasted pig.”
I heard someone whimper. I think it was me.
“It’s overwhelming, right?” Randy said. “Like a religious experience. Sometimes I have dreams about pigs getting roasted.”
I was on my back on the paved parking lot, staring up at Randy, who was at that moment looking very piglike, with his round little pig eyes glittering in his pink, sweaty face.
“The snout. The tail. The hooves,” I said. “All there. Why?”
“Because it’s all delicious,” Randy said. “I have all I can do to keep from tearing into it.”
My God, I was in the throes of a pig-corpse-induced nightmare. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t happening.
“I like my pigs big, too,” Randy said. “If you’re gonna roast a pig, I say get a big one.”
He yanked me to my feet. “Up you go! Feeling better?”
I nodded. Get it together, I told myself. Don’t show fear in front of the crazy pig man.
“Okay then, let me get you started,” Randy said. “You see this gauge on the cooker?”
I did another nod.
“Just keep it right where it is.” He stuffed some chunks of wood into the oven. “You got to keep feeding the fire to keep the temperature up.”
“Feed the fire,” I said.
“You got it. Follow me.”
We went back into the workroom and he pointed to a stack of boxes.
“We just got these in,” Randy said. “We need to check them off against the bill to make sure we got the right thing, and then they need to get put in the walk-in fridge. Some of the boxes are wings for the barbecue. They got to get put in the marinade. Set them aside and
come get me when you’re done, and I’ll show you how to marinade.”
More nodding on my part.
Randy went back to waiting on customers, and I thought if anyone was capable of killing old ladies and throwing them in a Dumpster it had to be Randy Berger. They were probably lucky not to get roasted in the pig cooker. I carted the boxes into the fridge and looked around to make sure there were no pickled human body parts stacked up for late-night snacking.
I set the boxes of wings on the stainless table and went out to get Randy. I watched him slice roast beef, ham, and Swiss cheese, and weigh out a pound of ground round.
“Ready for the marinade,” I said.
Randy got a large plastic container from a top shelf and poured a big jar of brown glop into it. “Put the wings in this and make sure they all get covered. There’s another jar of sauce on the shelf if you need it. Cover the container and put it in the fridge. We’ll cook them up in a couple hours. There’s a box of disposable gloves by the sink.”