Meat Hook
a short story by Tommy Paley
His father had finally given him the meat hook when he turned 19.
“I think you are ready, son” was all he said before slowly walking out to the yard to “be with the trees”.
His father was a man of few words — a drop out at an early age greatly limiting his vocabulary. The quintessential strong and silent type. Raised by his mother and father to treat others with respect, to put food on the table for his family unless they were having a picnic and then he should leave all tables at home. They also taught him to lift heavy items, often for hours at a time, with no questions asked. His parents hated questions and only begrudgingly accepted other forms of sentences too.
The apple, as the expression goes, didn’t fall far from the tree. The apples on the actual tree in the front yard rolled everywhere. “Whose bright idea was it, to plant the tree on top of the hill in the first place,” his mom always asked while not-so-subtly pointing a finger at his father. His dad was also quiet and introspective as well as a lover of well-sung harmonies. He also held meat hooks, generally, and this particular meat hook, specifically, in the highest regard.
How he had longed for this day, when his father would give him the meat hook. In his lower moments, full of self-doubt, he worried that it would never happen, that he’d let his father and, by association, his entire family, down. And then, as if on cue, his father would wink and nod his head over to the meat hook, before laughing his barely audible laugh that most neutral observers would say was more like a cough.
Get Tommy Paley’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
The hook represented so much to him — coming of age, his father’s acceptance and the ability to hang large animal carcasses from the ceiling on a whim. He saw how his father looked at the hook, as it sat there on its pedestal — yes, his father purchased an actual pedestal for exactly this purpose even though his mom would exasperatedly say “It’s a hook, hang it from something! That’s what the hook part is for!” — and wish his dad would look at him that way.
But nothing he ever did seemed enough for the old man. In school, he’d achieved good marks and his dad scoffed. On the field and the court, he’d won trophies and his dad yawned. At home, he’d chopped more wood than one hundred boys his age — an estimation, as he could never round up enough neighborhood boys at a time , something about being “too busy” and “having homework” and “dude, seriously, what’s up with you and chopping wood all the time” — and his dad just shook his head.
Never being quite good enough filled him with a rage unlike he’d ever felt before — aside from the one week when he was 14 that the family doctor attributed to an unhealthy mix of hormones, exposure to insulation in a non-ventilated room and way too much salted caramel. This anger made him punch the walls and hurl the rocks and smash the cooked potatoes that his mother had planned to make mashed potatoes with, thus helping her a great deal with dinner preparation, which made him slightly less mad and also hungry.
Whenever he tried to explain his desire to possess the meat hook that his father had promised him “when he had earned it and not a second earlier” to others — whether they be girlfriends or classmates or school therapists — no one quite understood despite the graphs and charts and “well acted considering he used sock puppets” plays he wrote, directed and acted in.
The advice was always full of good intentions. “Speak to him and tell him how much it means to you,” they’d say with their college-educated tones of voice. If he’d heard it all once, he’d heard it a thousand times, though, if he was being honest, his estimation skills were below average at best. And yet, despite nodding his head in agreement and to maybe receive a cookie, he never did.
How to approach this topic with his behemoth of a father, he didn’t know. See, they didn’t have father-son chats the way the fathers and sons did on TV shows. They didn’t go for walks together or throw the ball out back or chat about what he’d learned in school that day. When he became old enough, he’d asked his mom if it was something he had done and, after a brief moment considering just going with that option, she said “no” and then continued flossing her teeth. She was always flossing her teeth, which, while concerning on multiple levels — her almost solely drinking smoothies thus greatly reducing the need to floss at all being one — is a story for a different day.
And then, just when he was ready to drop everything and move up North or South or even West — he didn’t care, and, seeing as he had no clue how to read a map or use a compass, it didn’t really matter — it happened. He would never forget the morning for the rest of his life, he told everyone, unless many other equally thrilling mornings occurred thus giving him just too many amazing mornings to remember in detail. He had a great memory, but even he had to admit that at some point the different incredible mornings would blend together despite how momentous this particular morning was.
His father walked into his room, unannounced, and stood there. And then, reaching behind his back as if to scratch himself or to demonstrate the shoulder mobility his physio had helped him achieve, he produced the meat hook. A slight, yet audible gasp left his lips followed by a sort-of-awkward loud gasp. Despite wanting to believe, he never thought it would actually happen. Questions were everywhere starting with words like “why” and “what” and “how” and his father just shook his head much like a horse would if a horse first understood and then was also refusing to answer questions.
The hook he’d worked his whole life for was his. He’d never been happier or more alive, and yet, all he could do was weep and breathe — he was definitely breathing — and think and contemplate a light workout.
