Free Seventh Avenue by Norman Bogner

lights. Several hundred men stood in line outside, waiting for the darkened box office to open. Rhoda read the sign outside: ALL NIGHT BURLESQUE – THIRTY LOVLIES EXPOSE THEMSELVES TO A NIGHT IN A MOROCCAN HAREM.
    The door on Rhoda’s side was suddenly opened, and Barney Green gave her a pat on the arm.
    “Shove over, huh. I’ll get in the back.”
    “No, it’s okay, Rhoda’ll go in the back.”
    “I will not,” she said angrily.
    “Jay, use your kopf. What’re you arguing over nothing?”
    Rhoda moved forward, and Barney climbed in behind them.
    “So Rhoda, what’s new? Long time no see.”
    “You know what’s new, or you wouldn’t be here.”
    “He’s doing us a favor,” Jay interposed.
    “You can die from such favors.”
    “Glad to see you got a sense of humor, Rhoda. But believe me, it’s for the best. You’re both too young to get saddled with a kid. You got your lives to live.”
    “Can I quote you on that?”
    “Shut up,” Jay said.
    “Don’t tell me to shut up. You think you’re talking to one of your whores? I’m pregnant with your child.”
    “Calm. Calm. Let’s have some calmness, kids. No point in losing your head.”
    “You know, don’t you, that this ride is costing Barney ten dollars that he gets for the act he’s supposed to be doing tonight . . . plus gas and wear and tear on the car.”
    “That what it’s costing, Barney? Gee, you’re really a sport.”
    “One more crack and . . .”
    “Yeah, go on.”
    Jay got back onto the main highway, and the car picked up speed. He kept it at a steady forty. Rhoda looked out of the window. It was still light. She had never been to this part of New Jersey, and she was curious to get to Pennsylvania, for she had never been there either. She wondered if it would be much different from upstate New York, or if the people spoke with different accents. Jay turned sharply; the air that blew into Rhoda’s face became foul. She had never before smelled anything like it, and she fought to contain the nausea that welled up in the back of her throat.
    “Close the window, will you!” Jay’s voice was filled with irritation.
    “What is it?”
    “What is it, the little lady wants to know? It’s Secaucus,” Barney said. “Never heard of it?”
    “Never.”
    “It’s where they kill all them pigs,” Barney explained. “Like the Chicago stockyards, only here it’s pigs. The pigs from all over the country are sent here for slaughter. Once when I was working a club in Trenton, I pick up a little Polack piece, and before I can make with the thing, she insists on me taking her back here. So we drive and drive and finally get to Secaucus, and she says she’s only got an hour ‘cause she’s gotta get to work in the slaughterhouse at four. So right outside the joint with the pigs squealing like mad we make it. She was a packer there. Afterwards, I walk her in, and she asks if I want to watch for a while - you know, the pigs being killed. I figure, what’ve I got to lose - it’s an experience I never had and maybe it’ll be interesting? Funny thing was that after a while, I didn’t mind the smell. I got used to it. So we go to a room on top, like a barn, and there are about ten guys all with big meat cleavers in their hands - the biggest ones I ever saw - and what happens is this: they get the pigs all jammed up, so they got no room and there’s a terrific noise of them squealing and moaning and pushing each other ‘cause they can’t help it. And about one a second is like forced into a small wooden opening and one of these butchers pins the head on a block and whams it off. Then he yanks it out and hands it still squirming to one of these packers who skins and guts it. Never seen anything like it. It was fascinating, and I’ll tell you something - amazing. It makes you sexy. I mean I had the urge come over me like I never felt it before, so I grab the Polack, and she says it makes her sexy too. So she cuts out, and I follow at a