I Been a Butcher for Fifty Years

I been a Butcher for 50 years

Some jobs end up not being about the money, being a delivery boy for a kosher butcher shop was one of them. Most days I was at the shop I felt like an anthropologist fully immersed in Jewish culture. My bother had the job before me and when he could not do it anymore I got it. It paid fifteen dollars (a tidy sum in those days) for one Thursday’s evening work each week.

The Butcher’s shop was called The X Kosher Meat Market. It was a place out of a time- warp, sawdust on the floors, meat hanging from hooks and deeply worn butcher-block cutting boards. The Butcher’s name was Milton and his staff consisted of his wife Madeline and his assistant Saul. Milton was a short plump man who always seemed on the verge of a nervous breakdown and was continually convinced that the whole world was out to get him. At first, I did not know what to make of him then as I got to know him I became sure I would never know what to make of him. But “getting him” did not figure into our relationship. He gave me a list of the deliveries and the packages of meat and off I went.

If I asked a question I would get a lengthy answer or a very brief one depending on Milton’s interest or time available. I tried to be playful once asking if the meat was kosher how could a gentile like me deliver it when I wasn’t kosher. Milton said don’t worry it is well wrapped and that was that – I figured he wanted me on my way and did not want to think about it too much. I did not point out to him that on another occasion I was told to never leave meat orders with non-Jewish neighbors.

I was given an old Ford Falcon that sported four bald tires, rusted out side panels and one windshield wiper that worked every-once-in-a-while. In this tired old beast I was sent out in what ever kind of weather God provided on that evening. If I attempted to complain Milton would “go nuts”. If I suggested that I might not want to go at all because of terrible scary weather he would go immediately to the verge of tears and begin to pull at his hair declaring I was killing him by killing his business and stealing the food out of his family’s mouths. I felt at that point that I was in less danger in the Falcon so off I would go – no matter what. As soon as it was clear I was going, Milton flipped some internal switch and it was like nothing had ever happened. I might have been going off to a horrible death but his business and family were safe from the poor house. How could you not love this kind of instant drama? Believe me it was always something. But even in this no-status job Milton made me know I was an important part of his business. Or at least it felt that way. I believed little Milton said but I did like him – who can say why?

Milton’s business was a dieing breed. He served the fastidious kosher household and the not so fastidious equally. As he told me another person’s relationship with God was not his business – insuring his meat was kosher was his business. He did say to me when I asked him about “kosher”, “Frankly, Wic because a Rabbi dips the meat in a salt solution and says a few words over it, I’m not sure how that changes the meat – but who am I.” Who was he, indeed? He was the butcher and his job was providing meat for his customers and a living for his family. That was his life – he said. This was like “Fiddler on the Roof” but in the modern world – if you call that shop modern.

My regular route covered about five or so towns. Most of the customers were either quite well off or not. As far as Milton was concerned – a customer was a customer and money was money whether a rich or a poor person owned it. I liked to think that he had a loyalty to his customers even the poorer ones.

I went into many households – some got lots of meat some very little and most somewhere in between but none of them were dull. There was the very old lady who had 1 pound of ground beef delivered – paid in cash and gave me a dime tip. I knew that like the lady in the bible she gave me out of her “very little” and to bolster her pride I took it and made a show of it.

There was the middle aged lady with a family who made me sit with her under the pretense that I should wait while she “made a check” who just wanted to talk for a few minutes with a young man. I – because I was no one – was told everything even deep secrets. “My husband and I sleep in separate rooms – you are young when you are older you will understand”. Sometimes my heart broke just a little. There were those that thought I was a nice Jewish boy and many the time I was tempted with a cousin or sister that it would be to my advantage to meet. I was even told that a smart young man could profit from paying attention to his elders – a business offer could be in the future for a “good Jewish boy”. I made no claims and corrected no misconceptions that would have been a betrayal and would have cut down the wonderful experiences I was having. So who was I hurting – letting them believe what they believed. I knew I was in trouble when I realized I was thinking in dialect.

One night after returning from my rounds, I asked Milton, “Milton many on my route think I am Jewish – do you think that is a sign that I should convert?” Milton who was short suddenly seemed to grow a foot (at least) and if he had been at Bunker Hill he would have been shot because I could see the whites of his eyes as big as saucers. He said in a voice that sounded like finger nails on a blackboard, “Wic are you crazy? Have you read the Bible? Don’t you know the history of the Jews? Every time we turned around some one was making us slaves or tormenting us. Forty years in the wilderness to get to a land that although it is mostly desert, people want to kill us for living there. Every where we have gone we are hated because we are who we are. We are the chosen people of God – But for what? Wic, listen to me – I been a butcher for 50 years (I was thinking he must have started young – he could not be more than 50 now) – in that time I was chased out of Russia and Germany all the way here. Why? – Because I am a Jew that’s why. And now after all that you stand there in front of me and ask me should you choose to become a Jew. I got a chair for Milton; he looked like he would fall down any minute. I looked him in the eye and said, “Yes.” He gave his hand a negative wave, turned to Saul and said, “Did you hear him? He wants to know should he become a Jew. Not a bad kid but a little crazy in the head, don’t you think?” Saul mulled this over for a few moments while he continued to cut meat (Saul was so good with a knife that it was scary as he worked cuts of meat fell from his blade as naturally as leafs fall from a tree each cut as close to perfection as one could imagine. Saul worried me because he often seemed to be sizing me up as to where the brisket, short ribs and other cuts would be on me.). Then he said, “He’s a good kid – where is the harm? Milton through his hands in the air and said, “Am I all alone here?” He called out to his wife in the back, “Maddy help me out here.” From the back Madeline called back, “Help you with what?” She came from the back room wiping her hands on her apron and said, “So?” With that Milton poured out the story of my question of conversion – it took 10 minutes. As Milton finished his summation he said, “For God’s sake Madeline talk to him.”

Madeline looked at me over the top of her glasses and said to me, “Are you serious about this?” I said, “I was asking a question.” “Well”, she said, “before you get a serious answer to a serious question you need to be sure the question is serious.” That was that. I knew that the subject was closed unless I was serious. There was no hypothetical about this issue it was real or not. Milton said something in Yiddish which I said I did not understand. He looked at Saul and said, “He studies German at that college he goes to and he refuses to admit that he understands Yiddish. Saul German and Yiddish are they not the same?” Saul nodded his head gravely. Milton said, “And he wants to be a Jew, humph.” I tried again to say that Yiddish and German were not the same but they just stared at me. I dropped it and went to deliver the meat.

I had the job for about a year then one Thursday I showed up for work and there were Greek people there making pizzas. The meat market was gone. In one week it was gone. There was no goodbye. No explanation – nothing. For a few moments I wondered if it had ever been real. Then I was mad – they never even said goodbye. Then I just went out got on my motorcycle and went home.


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