No ordinary ham
From Griffith REVIEW Edition 13: The Next Big Thing
© Copyright Griffith University & the author.
Written by Will Elliott
Download the complete article PDF
Go to the FORUM and start a discussion thread about this article
Will Elliott's biography and other articles by this writer
I never did find out what Jimmy saw in that meat – Jimmy's a weird one. All I know is he barges in and shouts: "Boris! We have just three days to eat this ham!"
Now, my name's Jake, not Boris, but Jimmy's never been too keen on details – they confuse him. You just gotta roll with the punches sometimes. Get this: he kicks open the door and staggers in with a giant knob of meat in his arms, holding it like a baby, oozing salty ham juice down the front of his flannelette shirt and glistening pink, like he'd rubbed it all over with hair gel. He never said why we had three days – I guess he meant it was going stale. He lugs it to the kitchen and slams it down on the table with a grunt and looks at me with that look he gets when he's stirred, which can unsettle folks: kinda lets foamy spittle hang around his beard, lips peeled back, teeth bared like knuckles cocked ready for a fist fight. When he gets like that, you just gotta keep your cool and let him know you're on his team – but don't say it outright, you gotta demonstrate.
"Where in hell'd you get that meat?" I said, sounding mighty impressed – which was a mistake: he might've thought I wanted it for myself. Sure enough, he gets all defensive and throws his arms around it – and don't get me wrong, it was a mighty lump, quivering pink on the table like jelly, smooching ham slime over the daily paper (I was glad I'd already read the funnies). He stands there like I meant the meat harm, which I did – we were gonna eat it, weren't we?
"Hey, what's cooking Jimmy?" I say, backing up to show I didn't mean no harm.
"Cooking?" he says, and looks all confused. Next he glances out the window and says, "Go lock the door."
"Why?" I say. "You steal that meat?"
"Lock it!" he screams, so I shrug and lock the door, then drag the couch in front of it to kind of make the point that he was yelling at me for no reason, then I put the small dresser on top of the couch. Jimmy missed the point.
"Good," he says, nodding all grave-like. "Good thinking. I'll get the back door." Like it was the most sensible idea in the world. Next thing he's bolting and chaining, wrapping a bike chain around the back door handle, would you believe, and looking for his hammer to board up the whole damn house. I watched all this, wondering: what the hell? Sometimes Jimmy gets in these moods where it's best just to let him spit it up and throw things around, and you just hide in the cellar ‘til he's done. You know what people are like. Next day, you forget all about it.
SO I WENT TO THE KITCHEN WHILE HE WAS SLAMMING STUFF around and mumbling about security and took a look at the ham. I'd never seen a lump of meat like it, big and round as a rolled-up sleeping bag. I poked it and a moist spot went under my fingernail. Next thing I know, Jimmy's right behind me, snuck-up like, and I screamed.
"What'd you say about the ham?" he whispered, creepy whisper. "You touch it?"
"Yeah, I poked it one," I said all calm-like. Times like this, you gotta put his attention back on the ham. I say: "Look at it. This ain't no ordinary meat. Where'd you ...?"
Oh no, that wasn't the right question to ask yet – not ‘til he knew I was on his team. "Check it out," I whispered creepy like him, like it was hidden treasure or something. "This is big meat, Jimmy. Wonder what kind of pig this come off? More like a mammoth or ... shit, I dunno, some kind of sea monster."
Jimmy's eyes went as shiny and beady as that rat we caught in the microwave. He didn't answer, just gave this half-sigh, half-grunt and ran a palm down the side of the ham, smearing finger-trails in the grease. Wasn't so sure I wanted to eat it after that – I've seen Jimmy's personal hygiene habits and he doesn't have any. I supposed it'd be OK if we cut the edges off, like skinning an orange.
I was about to suggest it when I heard Jimmy mumbling to himself – or maybe to the meat, I couldn't tell. His throat sounded hoarse and full of muck, almost like a man in a peep show booth trying to talk himself into enjoying the show. And what was he saying? I swear, it's not how he normally talks: "Beats it by a fine line ... just a little, one section with no jiggles, no spaces to crawl into, no ... hand to hold ... could smack it like a cheerleader's backside nonetheless ... no charges pressed ... she'd sing songs of love if I bought her the lips for it ... stuff ‘em in my pocket at the butcher ... oh sweet glory ..."
He wasn't blinking, was kind of panting through the lips and a funny thought hit me that he was comparing the meat to ... nah, damn it, that made no sense. He bought it to eat, not marry, right? That's what he said when he came in, remembered it clear as day: "We have just three days to eat this ham." What changed his mind? Whoever heard of a man falling in love with a ham? Anyway, I backed outta there, not sure what to say. He looked like he wanted to be left alone with it, so I left him to it. Can't say I felt real comfortable with the whole business.