O Butcher, Where Art Thou?

At our local grocery store, I waited at the butcher counter.

I waited, and waited, and waited.

I rang the bell that said, “Ring For Service.”

Nobody came.

“Brrring!” 

I rang it again.

Does no one respect the bell? 

After 10 minutes, I headed over to the deli counter and asked the ham-slicing boy to send someone to the meat department.

Ham-slicer said someone would be “right over.”

Another ten minutes passed and still, no butcher.

At this point, I would have settled for a baker.

Or even a candlestick maker.

Then, suddenly, on the horizon, a young man exited Aisle 2.

He walked briskly through baked goods, arriving at the front of the meat counter.

“Are you the butcher?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. Then he added in a serious tone, “But the butcher is coming soon.”

Like some sort of medieval serf, he stood at the edge of the counter facing outward in anticipation of the butcher’s arrival.

All he needed was a trumpet.

Hear ye, hear ye, all hail the royal butcher!

How exciting!

I too, stood in reverence, anxiously awaiting thy butcher.

A few minutes later, fresh from Aisle 2 (What’s happening on Aisle 2?) another man appeared.

But unlike his lowly serf, there was no urgency in his approach.

He shuffled past the croissants and meandered through the bins of beans.

I expected he would take his rightful place behind thy counter, but instead, he stopped right in front of me.

But what was more shocking was the way he was dressed: Black shirt and pants, an apron that he wore as a cape, a dark hat, and some sort of mask that covered all but his eyes.

Quite frankly, he was a dead ringer for the Hamburglar.

(For those of you not alive in the 70’s, the Hamburglar was Ronald McDonald’s wayward friend, who also wore a mask, and whose sole existence was to steal hamburgers. Now he apparently works as a butcher, which totally makes sense. Free meat!)

We stood, facing one another.

Neither of us said a word.

His beady eyes bore into mine, his hands hovering by his butcher’s belt.

It was like High Noon in the meat department. 

You don’t scare me.

He took a step forward.

Who am I kidding?

We’re all terrified of the Hamburglar.

But I took a deep breath and reminded myself, it’s not really the Hamburglar, it’s just a butcher that looks like the Hamburglar.

“I’ve been waiting for 20 minutes,” I told him.

“What do you want?” he snapped back, without a hint of remorse.

I was shocked.

Who did this Hamburglar/butcher think he was?

“I’d like a pound of salmon,” I said.

He snarled and headed behind the counter.

This guy had a real beef with me.

Was this guy even a butcher?

Didn’t he know butchers have round, smiling faces, cheerful dispositions, and take pride in serving the best meat possible?

Hadn’t he watched “The Brady Bunch?”

This guy could learn a few things from Sam.

Sam was the best!

(Besides his commitment issues.  But, hey, that’s Alice’s problem.)

“The fresh salmon,” I added as I peered through the glass.

Uh, oh.

There were only two “fresh” filets left.

One was thick and healthy and had been dyed a perfect pink. 

If fish could speak, this one would have said, I’ve had a good life, and I’m happy to be your dinner tonight.

The other filet was a limp, gray slab.

It said, Some bad stuff happened on that fish farm. You can eat me if you want.

This was about the time I changed my tune.

Maybe the Hamburglar/butcher was just having a bad day.

Maybe he was misunderstood.

Maybe Ronald wasn’t very nice to him.

“Wow, that one looks really good,” I said, pointing to the attractive salmon.

He reached his tiny Hamburglar hands into the case.

“Yep, that PINK one looks delicious,” I said, giving him my best smile.

Hey Hamburglar, I know there’s some bad blood between us, but can’t we all get along?

His eyes narrowed and he sneered though his mask.

I knew which filet I was getting.

But right as his hands hovered over the sad salmon, another butcher appeared.

“It’s your break,” Butcher #2 said. “I can take over.”

The Hamburglar/Butcher nodded, slowly stepping back.

He gave me a “this isn’t over” look, before turning and walking into the back room.

“Fresh Salmon?” Butcher #2 asked, a big smile on his round cheery face.

I nodded.

He sliced off a piece of the desirable salmon, all the while chewing the fat with me (WHICH IS WHAT YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DO WITH YOUR BUTCHER!).

Then, after wrapping it in the finest butcher paper, he presented it to me. 

“Have a wonderful day,” he said.

I smiled.

Now, that’s a butcher!

His name, of course, was Sam.