Food Science a Standout Course for Former Poet Laureate

FOOD SCIENCE A STANDOUT COURSE FOR FORMER POET LAUREATE

By Rich Hanson

     In June I went to Knox College in Galesburg Illinois to attend their graduation ceremonies.  The impetus was an opportunity to hear the Nation’s 19^th Poet Laureate, Natasha Trethewey, give the commencement address.  I’ve admired Ms. Trethewey’s work since reading her Native Guard, a book of poetry that tells the story of the Louisiana State Guards, an all-black Union regiment that was made up mostly of former slaves.  Ironically, they were given the assignment of guarding Confederate prisoners of war.  This book, Ms. Trethewey’s third, earned her critical acclaim and the 2007 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry.  In 2012 she was chosen as the Poet Laureate of the United States.  She is also Mississippi’s Poet Laureate.  In choosing her to represent the Nation as its poet, James Billington, the Librarian of Congress said that “he was immediately struck by a kind of classic quality with a richness and variety of structures with which she presents her poetry…she intermixes her story with the historical story in a way that takes you deep into the human tragedy of it.”

     Her life is tied to history in so many ways, from the fact that she was born on Confederate Memorial Day, to the fact that her parents were married illegally at the time of her birth (the state laws that forbade such marriages weren’t struck down until a year after her birth,) to the fact that the War in Viet-Nam left her mother’s second husband a deeply troubled man, whose war-induced post-traumatic stress issues eventually caused him to snap and kill her mother while young Natasha had just entered her freshman year in college.  Ms. Tretheway said that that incident was the impetus that turned her to poetry, as she attempted to analyze and understand the emotions and underlying causes that led to such a horrible event.

     She envied her classmates who entered college certain of what their career path would be.  She was still searching, and although she chose to major in English, she sampled a number of courses in other areas.  One of two courses that she credited as standing out in her memory was a history course, in which the instructor took each student’s hometown, and by recounting events that happened in it, tied them to history by making them aware of how much history had helped to mold and shape them into the individuals that they are now.  Her choice of that course wasn’t surprising given the way she weaves history into her work.  The second course that she mentioned during her address at Knox was….

     “The other course was a food science course I took in my senior year.  It was only a two credit course, but it was one of the most memorable of my college experience.  We studied everything from the FDA and the USDA guidelines about the various grades of meat, food processing, labelling and safety, to food-borne illnesses.  In one assignment, in order to learn how to recognize which bacteria had caused a particular illness, we had to solve cases in which we were like detectives, following the clues as a sleuth does in a mystery novel.

     Until then I had not known how much I could be drawn to a kind of scientific research, to investigation, to puzzling out using primary evidence the answer to some practical question affecting our lives.  Nor did I realize there were connections between a course like this one and my shock and disgust and pleasure upon reading in high school Upton Sinclair’s 1906 novel, The Jungle, that details some of the early horrors of the meat packing industry in Chicago and the regulations that it spurred.  Nor could I see that taken altogether, these courses and my English major were preparing me for the moment that I’d recognize what it was that I had been meant to do, that it involved literature, not only reading it, but writing it and that the writing of it would involve an engagement with history, society, and culture, a curiosity that fostered a desire to do research, to go beyond disciplinary boundaries, to make my way in the world, not just in spite of certain setbacks, but building upon them.  These lessons that hardships and limitations, no matter what they are, can teach us.”

     What can history teach us?  It would not be right to end an article about Natasha Trethewey without getting a chance to hear how she crafts her life, history and culture into a poem.  Let’s finish with her reflection on Southern History.

Southern History

Before the war they were happy, he said,

Quoting our textbook (This was Senior-year

History class.) The slaves were clothed, fed

And better off under a master’s care. 

I watched the words blur on the page.  No one

raised a hand, disagreed.  Not even me.

It was late; we still had Reconstruction

To cover before the test, and –luckily –

Three hours of watching Gone with the Wind.

History, the teacher said, of the old South –

A true account of how things were back then.

On screen a slave stood big as life: big mouth,

Bucked eyes, our textbook’s grinning proof – a lie

My teacher guarded.  Silent, so did I.

     Ms Trethewey was kind enough to autograph three of her books for me and to thank me for coming to hear her commencement speech.  She’s a gifted writer and a gracious and inspiring individual.  She will be coming to Knox College to give a reading this coming April.  I will be there.  I urge any of you who have an opportunity to hear her read at a venue near you to take advantage of the opportunity.  You won’t be disappointed.

 

A Eulogy for My Mother

Vera Itana (Phillips) Anderson Hanson   1930 to 2014

     The poet William Wordsworth, wrote that "the child is father to the man."  One might just as easily say 'mother to the woman."  Few of you know of the heartache of my mother's early years; the longing for love and stability that shaped her psyche.  To have been handed over to foster care by a mother who was not yet ready to accept maternal responsibility, to anticipate the joy of an eagerly-awaited visit from her mother, knowing that it would be followed by the knife-wrenching hurt of her leaving again; these are emotional trade-offs that no youngster should have to endure.  I can imagine young Vera waving goodbye to her mother as she drives away yet again.  She had to begin to wonder if she had done something terribly wrong, or if there was some fundamental flaws in her character that everyone but her seemed to be aware of.  That's how Vera lived the first eight years of her life; on the tether hooks of uncertainty and abandonment before her mother married a second time, and Reynold Anderson was kind enough to adopt her, and treat her as his own.

     Vera had been given a family, and soon a brother (Aaron) and a sister (Rosemary).  Vera's resentment though at being shuttled through foster homes was a hurt that festered throughout her life.  It was a topic that she reflected bitterly upon during my last visit with her.  I can't help but wonder if she assumed I was going to be speaking at her funeral and wanted me to remember and chronicle this formative time of her life.  I have.  Now let's set the resentment aside.  Let's look at the young woman who loved music; whose passion for it even led her to attend music college for a year.  Then she met Swede and married him, despite her mother's opposition, who at this time of her life didn't want to give her up, the talented daughter who had even cut a demo recording of "The Indian Love Call."  My aunt recalls how Swede used to laugh and tease Vera when he heard the operatic warbling being played by her proud mother.  When Vera married she set her dreams of a singing career aside, but never her love of music.  She joined a local chapter of the Eastern Star, and for years served as their organist.  She did her best to pass her love of music on to her children as well, and succeeded to a great extent, despite my aversion to the discipline of piano lessons or her reluctance to recognize Bob Dylan's efforts as "music."

     My mother strove to give us the good home that she so wanted as a child.  The security of place and the bond of family was so important to her, as was coloring within the lines, adhering to a familiar routine and following the rules.  A foster child didn't dare to display a streak of rebellion.  Our family vacations took us regularly to Shallow Lake.  I often wondered, with some frustration, why with so many other parks and campgrounds to explore, my parents seemed so drawn to this one.  I believe now that it was the family aspect of the cabins up near Warba that my mother loved.  Not so much the destination as the people who would be there; Bill and Mabel, Jack and Shirley and the rest of the Rakowsky clan.  There was gossip, relaxation, convivial imbibing, and the friendly competition of the marathon 31 competition.  Perhaps my mother's love of casino gambling can be traced back to the Shallow Lake card games.

     My mother was taught to work hard by both Rey and Gen.  I cling to my own mental images of her bulldozing through her chores, be they vacuuming, mowing the lawn, picking berries, canning or cooking, attacking them with energy and resolve.  My wife Nancy would often marvel that "I've never seen anyone work like your mother."  And how she did!  I believe that both my parents instilled a solid work ethic in their children.  They were capable of sacrifice as well.  My premature birth caught my father, a construction worker, at the end of a long winter with no work and no insurance.  My six weeks in the hospital before I was released to accompany them home ran up a tremendous debt, yet they worked and paid it off.  Their first house, on Lindahl Road, later their two car garage, lacked indoor plumbing.  I vaguely remember the outhouse year and going to bathe with my father at the communal showers at The Cabins, and my mother stepping out of the house clanging two pans together to scare a bear away from the garbage cans outside the door.  I can still hear her yelling "Get out of here you son of a bitch!"  Despite such rustic beginnings, my parents persevered and soon had the home of their dreams on the hill just beyond the garage.

     My parents aged well, neither getting sick until late in their lives.  They were able to afford to travel together, accumulating a wealth of shared experiences that they both enjoyed remembering.  Their sixty four year marriage grew stronger and more stable over the years as well, becoming a mighty oak that we all could take refuge under.  As the years progressed and the kids left home, they lavished their love on their pets.  Swede and Vera always had their cat.  I remember when they went to the animal shelter to bring home their last cat.  Samatha picked them out, getting their attention by swatting a ball out of her cage at them.  My parents were so moved by the hopeless plight of the animals awaiting adoption, and the futility of finding them all homes, that they both agreed that they would ever go back there again.  It was just too heartbreaking.  The last day I had the chance to visit with my mother, she talked of her readiness to go through rehab in the hope of getting strong enough to return home to Sam, the beautiful long haired friend that she pampered by brushing, then giving her a bath every day with a spray bottle of coconut oil and water.  There's no better life for a pet than to be a Hanson house cat.

     Vera's gone.  But she's left a treasure trove of memories and a legacy of love, hard work and accomplishment behind her.  Those of you who know me well know that I parted ways with the church a long time ago.  I can remember how angry my mother got at me when she noticed that I'd replaced the picture of Jesus that hung in my room with Lord Byron.  Still, there's a part of me that would like to believe, that would hope that Swede and Vera's spirits have re-united in some wonderful way that we haven't the understanding to comprehend, or that the good people that they were in  this life has accumulated them enough Karma credit to aspire to a better life in their next go round with existence.

     The truest affirmation of whether a life has been lived well, is that you will be missed by those you've left behind when you leave it.  Vera (and Swede), my mother and father, you both are, and definitely will be as long as you dwell in the memories of your family and friends.

    

    

    

    

    

Cassie Cream Cheese and the Birthday Poem

 It was unusual to see Brenda coming into the USDA Office.  She usually spent her break in the lunchroom with her good friends Margot and Cassie.  All three of them were good looking women.  Much to the regret of the male population in the slaughter plant, all three of them were happily married.  This avowal on their part was punctuated by rueful stories told by self-styled Casanovas in the plant who’d put the moves on one, sometimes both, and in Wilbur the Weasel’s case all three women only to be shot down in ways ranging from an almost apologetic  (“You’re a nice guy, but I’m already married to a nice guy of my own” ) turn down of an earnest “new hire” who had obviously made the mistake of not asking somebody first about Cassie’s marital status before he made his move, to the scathing insult (“Fuck off, asshole.  Every woman with any more than shit for brains in this town knows that you’re a selfish, conceited dickwad”) that Cassie had hurled at The Weasel when he made his move on her.   In defense of the new hire, it is always hard to gauge the marital status of anyone who works on a production line, since no jewelry is allowed to be worn, both for safety and cleanliness reasons.  Wilbur the Weasel though, had been the “gentleman” responsible for lavishing Cassie with her “Cream Cheese” nickname.  Before start up one morning he was sitting with some of his fellow degenerates in the lunch room when Cassie walked in.  He gave her the piercing laser stare that he was so infamous for, a leering look that was almost a physical violation in itself, then looked at the bagel that he held in his hand, then back at her.

     “Man. I’d like to be licking the cream cheese off of that bagel instead of this one,” he suggested crudely, motioning toward Cassie as he licked his lips with his tongue.

     The nickname stuck.  Cassie had been curious enough to inquire as to its origins.  No doubt that led to her contemptuous dismissal of the Weasel when he decided to make his move on her.  Or maybe she’d just heard the stories.  After all, the guy was notorious for being a world-class pig.

    "Where's Vanderbilt?"  Brenda asked.  This was an odd request as well.  Vanderbilt would often take his lunch and a book into the locker room, where he could read undisturbed.  In the cacophony of a packing house, Vanderbilt was very possessive of and quite desirous of quiet time.  Often it was just longed for time to relax with a book that he’d been longing to read.  Sort of like the nearsighted guy on The Twilight Zone, Mr. Stanley Bemis,  who would secret himself in the bank vault during lunch to spend time with a favorite author.  This was one of those times.  Vanderbilt was believed to be happily married as well and had no reputation as a "whore-dog."  So, what was up?  What business did Brenda want with him of all people?

      "He's in the locker room.  Probably whacking off," the Boy, the youngest inspector in the Office, said contemptuously, more to see if he could elicit a reaction out of Brenda than out of any ill will towards Vanderbilt.  "Why don't you go in and see what he's up to," he suggested lewdly. 

      "Why don't you surprise everyone and act grown up for once," Brenda responded, putting the Boy firmly in his place.  Then she turned to the door to the locker room, knocked hard a couple of times and yelled "Hey Vanderbilt!  Come out here for a minute, will you?"

     About a minute later Vanderbilt came out of the locker room, still holding the book that he'd been reading, David Rhodes' "The Last Fair Deal Going Down."  He looked with puzzlement at the diminutive little brunette who was looking at him expectantly.  It was hard to step out of Rhode's bizarre alternative world back into reality.  Brenda stepped forward, put her arm around him in a friendly manner, and said sweetly, "I need a favor from you."

     "I'll oblige if I can," Vanderbilt responded.

     "We all know that you like to write," Brenda said. "I've seen your articles in the paper.  I can't say that I've read them, because the Civil War doesn't interest me, but I know that you've helped some people here at the plant with job applications and some other writing stuff.  What I need from you is a birthday poem."

     "Crap," Vanderbilt thought to himself.  "A god-damned sappy birthday poem.  Just what I want to do with my spare time."  That's what he thought to himself.  How he responded was a somewhat less negative and more non-committal, "For whom?"

     "Cassie," she said.  "It's her birthday tomorrow."

      "That doesn't give me much time," Vanderbilt muttered doubtful.  His unenthusiasm for the project must have been evident even to Brenda, as she put her arm around him and said in an entreating voice, "come on, Vanderbilt.  It's for Cassie.  We really want to do things up for her birthday."

      "Well, alright," Vanderbilt finally agreed.  "I'll see what I can whip up.  How long do you want it?"

       "That's up to you," Brenda said.  "Just one more thing though."  Vanderbilt thought it was funny that she was using Lieutenant Columbo's signature line, but noticed she was grinning wickedly.  He readied himself for some caustic or disparaging comment about his writing skills.

      "I want you to write a raunchy poem," Brenda said, grinning broadly now.  "I want it so raunchy that she'll turn every shade of red in the spectrum when I read it to her.  I mean, I want it crude.  I’m not just talking crude.  I’m talking disgustingly Hustler crude.  And I want her to have the starring role on it."

     "Christ, I can't do that!" Vanderbilt protested, panicked now by what he envisioned having gotten himself into.

      "Yes you can," the Boy interjected.  "You've got a warped enough mind."  He was joined in this chorus of affirmation by the other inspectors in the office, and urged on further by Brenda's very persuasive "Pllleeaseee, Vanderbilt."

      "Alright," he sighed.  "I'll do it.  But make sure that my name is kept out of this whole deal.  Understand?”  He looked at her sternly.  “I don't want to get my ass in a wringer or hauled in to get written up for sexual harassment, unprofessional conduct or anything like that."

     "Cassie will never know who wrote it," Brenda assured him.  "Now, be a good boy and start writing.  And use your imagination.  The more perverted the better.  I mean, Margot and me, we both want something really wicked."  She bestowed on him a flirtatious "thank you" smile, and then reminded him, "I'll be in to pick it up tomorrow morning," as she turned to leave the office.

      One thing about working as a line inspector in a packing plant; one has plenty of time for reflection.  One's mind becomes a kite.  As long as one can keep it somewhat tethered to the mundane and monotonous task of inspecting the hogs as they move by, looking for signs of contamination or pathology that merits being railed out for the USDA vet to look at, one can let one's mind take flight and soar far away from the stink of the plant.  When Vanderbilt returned to the line he let his thoughts turn to the task of writing Cassie's birthday poem and how he would go about it.  Yeah, he had fantasized about Cassie.  What guy on the Kill Floor hadn’t?  Still, sexual fantasies are best kept secreted in some hidden compartment in one’s mind, not laid out for an audience of Cassie and her friends to pass around and guffaw at.  Yeah, he’d have to make this poem so over the top and outlandish that it could never be construed as an insight into his innermost desires.

      It had to be a parody of some existing poem.  That was obvious.  It would make his assignment a lot easier if he could squeeze Cassie's birthday poem into an existing poem's structure, preferably one that might even ring a distant memory bell in the minds of some of the packing house workers who had encountered it in school.  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow soon came to mind.

     “The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.”  Yeah, that would be a fun one to parody.  Damn near everyone knows it.  Hmmm.   Let’s change the title to The Midnight Ride on Cassie Dear.  Yes.  That would work.  The foundation was laid.  Now it was time to make sure that Cassie was.  Soon it was break time and he began to write.  The words came quickly.

     Listen my pussies and you shall hear

     Of the midnight ride on Cassie dear,

     That cock-raising tale of a lusty young maid

     Whose sole ambition in life was to go out and get laid.

     Vanderbilt grinned to himself.  The poem was damn near writing itself.  Sure, the meter didn’t scan, but he was writing for a slaughter plant audience, not the North American Review.  Who’d notice if the lines scanned or not?

     It was early evening on a Saturday night

     When women look for sex and men long to fight.

     Cassie squeezed into her tightest jeans with a bellow.

     Now she was set to search out Mr. Long-fellow.

     Vanderbilt was on a roll now.  It was time to go back to the line, but he knew where he wanted to go with the next three verses.  This was beginning to be more fun than he’d ever imagined it would be.  He couldn’t wait to take the poem home and play with it some more.

     “Hey Bev,” Cassie said.  “You’re quite the horny chick.

     “Let’s both of us go out and find us some ‘dick’.”

     “I’d love to,” Bev sighed with a low throaty moan,

     “But I’ve got to stay home.  You’ll have to go it alone.”

     “But do me a favor, and please don’t forget.

     Let me know what kind of action you get.

     In your big bedroom window you’ve got room for a candle.

     Signal me as to what type of action you’ll handle.

     One candle if by pussy; light two if in mouth

     Light three if he enters you from the South,

     For we both know, Cassie, that you ain’t got much class

     Cause you like the feel of a bone in your ass.”

     “Maybe I’m going a bit overboard with this,” a part of Vanderbilt’s mind was cautioning him.  His libido had taken control by now though and he decided to throw any inhibitions that he had to the winds.  “What the hell, I’ll let Brenda decide whether or not she wants to use it.  If she doesn’t like it she can just wad it up into a paper ball and throw it away.  It’s not like I’m depriving the world of a literary masterpiece or anything like that.”  Having thrown that sop of rationale to his conscience, he continued with the raunchy birthday poem.

     Cassie parked herself in Danny’s and downed quite a few beer

     She kept getting more nervous as midnight drew near.

     She was waiting for Mr. Right, you all know whom I mean,

     That pile-driving cocksman known as “The Sex Machine.”

     Just then he came in and sauntered up to Cassie

     And said “I’ve got the means to rock your world, Lassie.”

     I’ve heard you’re the best, so blast my Scottish hide,

     I’m here to take you home for a midnight ride.”

     Ouch.  “Cassie” and “Lassie.”  The rhymes don’t come much more blatantly forced than that, Vanderbilt winced, ashamed of the couplet.  Again he consoled himself with the thought that he wasn’t creating anything lasting, anything to be proud of.  He was just attempting to comply with a request from a friend and was having a lot of fun doing it.

     Cassie led him home to her kinky bedroom where

     Hung whips, straps and a trapeze in the air.

      She slammed shut the bedroom door and fastened the lock.

     Licking her lips, she moaned “I’m ready for cock.”

     Bev took a look out her window to gaze at Cassie’s place

     And a look of penis envy soon occupied her face.

     Two candles were set in the window that Bev could see.

     She sighed and lustfully said “I wish it was me.”

     Then excitement enveloped her, her pussy was wet,

     So she ran outside, the neighbors’ attention to get.

     “The Sex Machine’s coming, the Sex Machine’s coming,” she cried.

     “He’s over at Cassie’s.  She’s giving him a ride!”

     Vanderbilt was astonished at how easy the poem was falling into place.  “Maybe I’ve missed my calling,” he mused wryly. “Maybe I should be writing parodies for Penthouse or maybe Larry Flynt can use a writer with some style.”  He was being facetious, of course, but he was also somewhat surprised at how much fun this little project had become.  He was home now, and would have the poem wrapped up within the next half hour.  He knew it would sound a bit sick to admit, but he was rather proud of it.

     In front of Cassie’s window her neighbors gathered in awe,

     Because now three candles in the window they saw.

     Soon there were six, then seven, then ten

    “Look!” the crowd gasped.  “They must be going at it again.”

     Eleven, thirteen, and finally fifteen.  No more.

     Anxiously the crowd murmured outside Cassie’s door.

     “Oh my God,” someone gasped.  “She’s taken one away.”

     “She’s penalized him for something,” I heard someone say.

     “No, not Cassie,” someone argued, “She’ll let anything pass.

     I mean, we’re talking about one perverted young lass.”

     “She’s fucked him to death!” someone said with a frown.

     “You’re right!  the crowd shouted.  “Let’s break the door down!”

     “If I haven’t gotten their attention by this time and have held it, I’ll never pick up a pen again.” Vanderbilt thought as he pondered for awhile how to bring the saga of Cassie to an end.  He looked over some of the details that he’d already added to the poem.  The trapeze, the candles… Yeah.  He had it.  He could just about hear the drumrolls in his mind as they rose to a crescendo.  He’d end it with a line that would punctuate it with a finality that would resound as emphatically as a clash of cymbals.  Yes, he had it.

     The “Sex Machine” lay on the floor moaning and choking

     While Cassie lay nude on the bed, just calmly smoking.

     “The ‘Sex Machine’ was good," she laughed. “He sure tries hard to please.

     “But the poor guy doesn’t know how to ride a trapeze.”

     “We made love a few times, and he fucks like a bear,”

     “But I said ‘You ain’t balled til you’ve screwed in the air.

     He was game.  We climbed up and he inserted his wang

     But when I started buckin, he hit the floor with a bang!.

     There he is, his leg broken, his back needing traction

     And I’m here on the bed, still craving more action.

     But don’t worry,” Cassie laughed, “I’ve still got all I can handle.

     “You never lack a lover when you’ve got a foot-long candle!”

     “Mission accomplished!” Vanderbilt exulted to himself, borrowing the phrase that George Dubya Bush made sound so ridiculously insipid.  He couldn’t wait to show the poem to Brenda when she’d come to the office for it in the morning.  In a perverse way, he’d become very proud of it.

     Brenda didn’t disappoint him.  She was waiting in the office when he got to work.  He grinned, handed it to her, and said “I’m going into the locker room to change.  Read it, and when I come out let me know whether it works for you or not.”

     When he had changed and come back into the office, Brenda was holding the poem.  She looked at him quizzically and asked “Did you write this?”

     “Yes,” Vanderbilt assured her. "I polished it off last night.  I hope it’s what you wanted.”

     “Really,” Brenda asked him again.  “Did you really write this?  I mean, I would’ve never expected something quite like this coming from you.”

     Vanderbilt wasn’t sure whether to take her comment as a compliment or a gauge of disappointment.  His uncertainty must have shown on his face because the next thing he knew Brenda had grabbed his arm, pulled him toward her and kissed him on the cheek.

     “It’s perfect!’ she squealed. “In fact, it’s more than perfect.  It’s even raunchier than I could have imagined.  I love it!” 

     “I told you Vanderbilt was a pervert,” the Boy grinned.

     “I don’t know how you came up with this stuff,” Brenda said, her face beaming with elation, but Cassie is going to be so embarrassed when I read this in the lunchroom.  I can’t wait to see the look on her face!’

     “You’re not really going to read that in the lunchroom, in front of everyone, are you?” Vanderbilt asked warily.  “I don’t know if that’s a really good idea.”

     “Don’t worry about it you big chicken.  I’ll keep your authorship a secret.  Although really Vanderbilt,” she grinned.  “You ought to be proud of this one.  I didn’t know you had a side like this to your personality.    You’ve suddenly become more interesting.’  Then she hugged him and said, Thanks again.  I really appreciate it.  So will Cassie.”

      Vanderbilt opted to stay away from the lunchroom during lunch and the reading of the poem.  Discretion is the better part of valor, he reasoned.  Or maybe Brenda was right.  Maybe he was just a big chicken.  From the reports that the Boy, Growly and a couple of the other line inspectors brought back, the reading had been a huge success.  Kiss-Ass Chris, the normally devious Kill floor foreman,  was laughing so hard he was almost crying, and Jennie Hodges, the mannish little girl who slit the throats of the hogs to bleed them out, was laughing so hard that her laugh had become more of an obscene screech spelled by occasional gasps for air until she could resume laughing again.  And Cassie was red.  Yes, it was a beet-red.  It was a Sherwin-Williams ‘cover the earth’ shade of red.  But she was game though.  Everyone said so.  She laughed as hard as everyone else, except for maybe Jennie.  For at least one half hour lunch period a raunchy birthday poem had forged camaraderie among the unfortunates forced to work as wage slaves in packing house hell.  At least one half hour of the day had actually been fun.  And Vanderbilt had chosen to remain aloof from it.

     It was a couple days later that Vanderbilt spotted Cassie heading down the hall to the lunchroom.  Just to be safe, he figured he’d duck into the hallway that led to the infirmary.  He didn’t know if he could look at her without turning red himself, or saying or doing something stupid to betray his role as the author of her birthday poem.

     “Hold on, Vanderbilt.  I want to talk to you,” Cassie yelled.

      “Damn.  Busted,” Vanderbilt thought to himself.  He immediately began to wonder which of his co-workers could have ratted him out.  He wouldn’t put it past the Boy.   The Boy owed Vanderbilt for a few put downs.  “But, hell,” Vanderbilt thought.  “It could have been anyone who knew.

      “I heard that you had something to do with the birthday poem that Brenda read the other day.” Cassie said in a sweet, rather flirtatious voice, but in a manner that suggested that he wouldn’t be able to offer a believable denial. 

       Vanderbilt began to ransack through his thoughts to determine how to proceed.  Pleading ignorance was always safe.  As Bart Simpson used to say….in fact, Vanderbilt decided to grab it and use it as his own.

      “I didn’t write it.  Nobody saw me write it.  You can’t prove anything.  Bart Simpson used to say that, and it worked for him.”

     Cassie laughed, then said “You’ve got one weird imagination.  You know that?  Don’t you?”

     “I guess.  I hope the poem didn’t piss you off.  It was commissioned by your friends, and meant to be fun.”

       “You big doofuss,” she grinned.  “I thought the poem was sort of cute in a warped sort of way, and I really appreciate the work you put into it for the girls.  Thank you.”  Then before he had a chance to react or to stammer out another stupid rejoinder like the Bart Simpson line, she grabbed him and kissed him.  No, it wasn’t a passionate kiss.  That was too much to ever hope for.  It was strictly a “thank you” kiss.  But that was enough.  Many were the articles or poems that he’d labored on with no reward but publication and the pride of authorship.  This poem had netted him a kiss from Cassie and a kiss and a hug from Brenda, two lovely ladies.  Pretty good wages for something that he had fun writing anyway. 

    “Hmmm,” Vanderbilt thought a few moments later as he began to make his way back to the Kill Floor.    “Cassie kissed me.  Cassie actually kissed me.  Eat your heart out, Wilbur.”