Alyssa's Journal #2

I think Mr. Lucassen might be peeping up at me in the middle of the night. I happened to look down and I saw a shape move behind a curtain. Somehow it wouldn't feel right if I'm trying to stand out here taking the air and feeling the world when that old perv is looking up at me. Of course, I've never seen him looking out before. He could have just looked out for the first time. I faced the other way after that. Facing deeper into the trailers. There's a much larger chance of someone seeing me this way. That's all I need, one of those nosy-ass ladies in Packaging to start talking. "What is Alyssa doing up there?" "She's so lonely." "She needs a man." That's not the sort of town publicity I need.

One of the Marinaters flirted with me for about half and hour. Some old nut smelling of beef and spices. (I don't even eat the stuff. You get sick of it real fast. They have Prepared Beef Pie for Lord's sake! The best thing you can do with it is nail it to the door of your trailer to keep the Polacks away.) This guy needed to get a new strap for his harness. That's all he needed to ask for, all he needed to say. But, he kept going on.

"So, you're working in Supply? I'm one of the Marinaters. So, I mean, I'm pretty important around here. Not everyone can Marinate. (Just guys.) It takes a certain breed. (That's gender, dope. Guys.) We go out there and put our areas on the line and make that meat our own. You become so close with the meat after you've swum with it for an hour or two. It's very spiritual. Very intense. (He paused for a couple of seconds.) A friend of mine's balls are getting jerked."

"Oh yeah."

"Yeah. Occupational hazard. But, you play hard, you fall hard. Do you dig my ditch?"

"I'm sorry."

"Do you catch my drift?"

"Oh, Sure. Sure. What were you talking about again?"

"My muskers are in fine shape. You wanna come over some night and butter them?"

In any other job, this would be sexual harassment of the highest order. Here, that's some sort of slightly advanced form of flirting. Nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, buttering balls is something all the Marinaters have to do. It keeps them fresh. But, Good God, I don't want to do it.

"Maybe you oughta do that yourself. Or hire someone. Aren't there women off of the Rural Route who will do that?"

"I don't want to butter my own tonight, beautiful. And, I don't want to pay."

"Did you need some sort of supplies or what?"

"A new strap for my harness."

I ran back, grabbed one and returned in a moment. "Here you go. Have a good one."

He winked at me. "I'll be back next time a strap breaks. It'll give us something to talk about."

Sometimes I wish more people needed supplies around here. I'm dreading the next snap on that man's harness. That smell. I can't even imagine what it's like on the floor itself. Oh my. Pungent is too calm of a word. It's like someone's strapped a ferret to your face.

Now, I just have to avoid him at the end of shifts. He'll pose from behind the search curtain given half a chance. Oh the dread.