The Fishhouse
Willie, head butcher, jerks the pneumatic lever for the overhead bin. Fish swirl the counter like holiday shoppers. He whirls and twirls sockeyes, silvers and humpies…draws tails; spins bodies. Organizes them for the Iron Chink. Musters them to line and guillotine.
Down chained conveyer, fish carcass rotate 'round a drum of knives. Circle, twist and turn…pirouette blades. Guts and fins shear away. Flung upon a slimming table, their final entrails cut away.
I admire Willie for the long hours he works ‘til the cutting’s complete.
One day he says: “Now, you try.”
Alaska Series No. 6
Manong Ralph Agbalog
He enters our room. Perfumed and pomaded hair.
Sports a cardigan sweater. Seats himself on my bunk.
Eyes Linda’s picture. “You marry?”
In conversation, I learn he’d killed a man
over a gambling debt. “Punched him in the jaw.
Dropped him on a curb. Hit his head. Manslaughter.”
He tries to teach me pai gow which I don’t get.
“Better, you don’t understand.”
Alaska Series No. 7
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