|
THE SAUSAGE SHOP
by Marilee Stang
As the Watts riots boiled on, East 81st Street was ablaze with its own mayhem, the Hough Avenue Riots. That forgotten, the era of Urban Renewal and the first black mayor the city ever had, suggest a sparkle of hope. That firecracker blows out even before the fourth of July smoke clears. If you draw a circle around a map of the city, chances are this spot would be the one that hit right in the crack of the fold in the paper. The streets are difficult to find and easier to avoid. Landlords and Housing Inspectors do their best to ignore these streets. It’s the place where poor African Americans and White Trailer Trash live.
Residents endure living in the inner city with all its ugliness, the sausage factory is tops on the list. Neighbors long complained about the bad smells emanating from the factory on East 81st Street. Summer, when most folks seek refuge from the heat on dilapidated front porches or inside rooms darkened with thick blinds, it creeps into nostrils of folks in beat-up lawn chairs, and under the cracks in the doors and windows.
Anthony Sowell, a small man, who walks around with his shoulders up to his ears like Richard Nixon, who wears black horn rimmed glasses, and a perpetual hangdog demeanor, has lived here a long time. Although, nobody knows exactly how long. He blends in with the street. He exchanges stories with neighbors he meets along the sidewalks; buys cigarettes for the lady across the street from his house. Doesn’t even complain about the smell, as if he doesn’t mind at all.
He does fancy the ladies, especially those who share his cocaine habit. He meets them at seedy bars that grow out of the grime of the inner city; the kind with no windows at all, as if to hide those inside. The floors bear the marks of too many shoes, and filthy restrooms never have any paper towels. Nobody minds what kinds of transactions are made here. Fingerprints on glasses destined to hold Bud Light and Millers, tell stories even before the beer is poured.
Late one night a woman scrambles up to the station house of the local police station, breathing heavily and in a state of anxiety. Someone attempted to rape and strangle her. She manages to get away by jumping out the window.
Do you remember who it was? What does he look like? Where does he live?
We been doing some rocks. Met him in a bar somewhere. Maybe East 80th. What time is it? He invites me back to his house. All hell breaks sure breaks loose. Tried to strangle me, damn piece of shit.
Can you remember anything else?
I been clean for almost six months. I just smoked a little bit; ya know what I’m saying. Clean for six months.
We’ll take you over to St. Luke’s. Have them check you over. If you think of anything else, call Detective Wilson.
I got to call my kids. What time is it anyway? Tell me what time it is. Say, I think his name is Tony. That’s right, Tony. I got to call my sister, Letticia. She come an get me.
After the rape kit is sent over to Cleveland Heights Police for analysis, it is put on the back shelf with other forgotten things.
A year goes past, then another, and another. People on crack still frequent the bars. Some manage to break free of it, only to fall back. Women who try to make a home for their children. Women who struggle with poverty, lack of education, lack of anything, but a cocaine habit. The smell of the sausage factory hovers over them all.
December is bitingly cold this one year. Freezing rain leaves the streets with patches of ice and slush. People find any reason to get wasted at the local bars. Men look for women, and women get foolish.
Hey baby you are lookin’ fine. Umm, umm, you are my kind of woman. Let me buy you another drink. Want somethin’ to smoke on jes a little bit? Get you warm on this cold night. Surely cold out there. Sure enough. You got to stay warm now momma. Let yo daddy give yo somethin’ keep you warm all night.
Lordy man, you been buyin’ me stuff all night long. I got to git my ass on home. Ya know what I’m sayin?
Baby why don-cha let yo daddy walk ya home. Keep ya warm all night long. Say ya just gotta stay at my place tonight. Jus up the street. Ya know ya don’t wanna say no.
Wha-cha name anyway?
My name Tony. Like I tol you before, Tony.
Ya officer, thas right. Sonna bitch tried pullin’ me down his house, pullin’ on my hair, punch ma face, then the sonna bitch tried stranglin’ me. I’m not lettin’ this bastard drag me in his house. No sir, not Yolanda, not me. Not now, not never.
Do you remember what he looked like? Do you remember his name?
Yolanda not goin’ let him beat on me. Tony, his name is Tony.
Where does he live?
You take me an I show you right where. I know right where.
Tony is found passed out on his bedroom floor. Police start to piece together a picture of just who Tony really is, and tie him to other mysterious disappearances on East 81st Street. The long forgotten rape kit from Cleveland Heights bears the DNA of Anthony Sowell. Jurors who visit the murder scene wear masks to allay the smell. In all 11 women’s bodies are found buried around his house.
The sausage factory is still in business. Only this time, the smell seems to have faded away – almost.
“The Sausage Shop” Copyright © 2011 Marilee Stang.
All Rights Reserved Worldwide.
Copyright licensing may be available upon request, please e-mail order@theup.biz
Marilee has been a staff author since 2010. Currently she writes from Cleveland, USA.
|
