Gardner Dozois - A Kingdom by the Sea

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A Kingdom by the Sea

by Gardner Dozois

Every day, Mason would stand with his hammer and kill cows. The place was big—a long, high-

ceilinged room, one end open to daylight, the other end stretching back into the depths of the plant. It

had white, featureless walls—painted concrete—that were swabbed down twice a day, once before lunch

and once after work. The floor could be swabbed too—it was stone, and there was a faucet you could

use to flood the floor with water. Then you used a stiff-bristled broom to swish the water around and get

up the stains. That was known as GIing a floor in the Army. Mason had been in the Army. He called it

GIing. So did the three or four other veterans who worked that shift, and they always got a laugh out of

explaining to the college boys the plant hired as temporary help why the work they'd signed up to do

was called that. The college boys never knew what GIing was until they'd been shown, and they never

understood the joke either, or why it was called that. They were usually pretty dumb.

There was a drain in the floor to let all the water out after the place had been GIed. In spite of

everything, though, the room would never scrub up quite clean; there'd always be some amount of blood

left staining the walls and floor at the end of the day. About the best you could hope to do was grind it

into the stone so it became unrecognizable. After a little of this, the white began to get dingy, dulling

finally to a dirty, dishwater gray. Then they'd paint the room white again and start all over.

The cycle took a little longer than a year, and they were about halfway through it this time. The men

who worked the shift didn't really give a shit whether the walls were white or not, but it was a company

regulation. The regs insisted that the place be kept as clean as possible for health reasons, and also

because that was supposed to make it a psychologically more attractive environment to function in. The

workmen wouldn't have given a shit about their psychological environment either, even if they'd known

what one was. It was inevitable that the place would get a little messy during a working day.

It was a slaughterhouse, although the company literature always referred to it as a meat-packing plant.

The man who did the actual killing was Mason: the focal point of the company, of all the meat lockers

and trucks and canning sections and secretaries and stockholders; their lowest common denominator. It

all started with him.

He would stand with his hammer at the open end of the room, right at the very beginning of the plant,

and wait for the cows to come in from the train yard. He had a ten-pound sledgehammer, long and

heavy, with serrated rubber around the handle to give him a better grip. He used it to hit the cows over

the head. They would herd the cows in one at a time, into the chute, straight up to Mason, and Mason

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A Kingdom by the Sea

would swing his hammer down and hit the cow between the eyes with tremendous force, driving the

hammer completely through the bone and into the brain, killing the cow instantly in its tracks. There

would be a gush of warm, sticky blood, and a spatter of purplish brain matter; the cow would go to its

front knees, as if it were curtsying, then its hindquarters would collapse and drag the whole body over

onto one side with a thunderous crash—all in an eyeblink. One moment the cow would be being

prodded in terror into the chute that led to Mason, its flanks lathered, its muzzle flecked with foam, and

then—almost too fast to watch, the lightning would strike, and it would be a twitching ruin on the stone

floor, blood oozing sluggishly from the smashed head.

After the first cow of the day, Mason would be covered with globs and spatters of blood, and his arms

would be drenched red past the elbows. It didn't bother him—it was a condition of his job, and he hardly

noticed it. He took two showers a day, changed clothes before and after lunch; the company laundered

his white working uniforms and smocks at no expense. He worked quickly and efficiently, and never

needed more than one blow to kill. Once Mason had killed the cow, it was hoisted on a hook, had its

throat cut, and was left for a few minutes to bleed dry. Then another man came up with a long, heavy

knife and quartered it. Then the carcass was further sliced into various portions; each portion was

impaled on a hook and carried away by a clanking overhead conveyor belt toward the meat lockers and

packing processes that were the concerns of the rest of the plant.

The cows always seemed to know what was about to happen to them—they would begin to moan

nervously and roll their eyes in apprehension as soon as they were herded from the stock car on the

siding. After the first cow was slaughtered, their apprehension would change to terror. The smell of the

blood would drive them mad. They would plunge and bellow and snort and buck; they would jerk

mindlessly back and forth, trying to escape. Their eyes would roll up to show the whites, and they would

spray foam, and their sides would begin to lather. At this point, Mason would work faster, trying to kill

them all before any had a chance to sweat off fat. After a while, they would begin to scream. Then they

would have to be prodded harshly toward Mason's hammer. At the end, after they had exhausted

themselves, the last few cows would grow silent, shivering and moaning softly until Mason had a chance

to get around to them, and then they would die easily, with little thrashing or convulsing. Often, just for

something to do, Mason and the other workmen would sarcastically talk to the cows, make jokes about

them, call them by pet names, tell them—after the fashion of a TV variety-skit doctor—that everything

was going to be all right and that it would only hurt for a minute, tell them what dumb fucking bastards

they were—"That's right, sweetheart. Come here, you big dumb bastard. Papa's got a surprise for you"—

tell them that they'd known goddamn well what they were letting themselves in for when they'd enlisted.

Sometimes they would bet on how hard Mason could hit a cow with his big hammer, how high into the

air the brain matter would fly after the blow. Once Mason had won a buck from Kaplan by hitting a cow

so hard that he had driven it to its knees. They were no more callous than ordinary men, but it was a

basically dull, basically unpleasant job, and like all men with dull, unpleasant jobs, they needed

something to spice it up, and to keep it far enough away. To Mason, it was just a job, no better or worse

than any other. It was boring, but he'd never had a job that wasn't boring. And at least it paid well. He

approached it with the same methodical uninterest he had brought to every other job he ever had. It was

his job, it was what he did.

Every day, Mason would stand with his hammer and kill cows.

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A Kingdom by the Sea

It is raining: a sooty, city rain that makes you dirty rather than wet. Mason is standing in the rain at the

bus stop, waiting for the bus to come, as he does every day, as he has done every day for the past six

years. He has his collar up against the wind, hands in pockets, no hat: his hair is damp, plastered to his

forehead. He stands somewhat slouched, head slumped forward just the tiniest bit—he is tired, the

muscles in his shoulders are knotted with strain, the back of his neck burns. He is puzzled by the

excessive fatigue of his body; uneasy, he shifts his weight from foot to foot—standing here after a day

spent on his feet is murder, it gets him in the thighs, the calves. He has forgotten his raincoat again. He is

a big man, built thick through the chest and shoulders, huge arms, wide, thick-muscled wrists, heavy-

featured, resigned face. He is showing the first traces of a future potbelly. His feet are beginning to

splay. His personnel dossier (restricted) states that he is an unaggressive underachiever, energizing at

low potential, anally oriented (plodding, painstaking, competent), highly compatible with his fellow

workers, shirks decision-making but can be trusted with minor responsibility, functions best as part of a

team, unlikely to cause trouble: a good worker. He often refers to himself as a slob, though he usually

tempers it with laughter (as in: "Christ, don't ask a poor slob like me about stuff like that," or, "Shit, I'm

only a dumb working slob"). He is beginning to slide into the downhill side of the middle thirties. He

was born here, in an immigrant neighborhood, the only Protestant child in a sea of foreign Catholics—he

had to walk two miles to Sunday school. He grew up in the gray factory city—sloughed through high

school, the Army, drifted from job to job, town to town, dishwashing, waiting tables, working hardhat

(jukeboxes, back-rooms, sawdust, sun, water from a tin pail), work four months, six, a year, take to the

road, drift: back to his hometown again after eight years of this, to his old (pre-Army) job, full circle.

This time when the restlessness comes, after a year, he gets all the way to the bus terminal (sitting in the

station at three o'clock in the morning, colder than hell, the only other person in the huge, empty hall a

drunk asleep on one of the benches) before he realizes that he has no place to go and nothing to do if he

gets there. He does not leave. He stays: two years, three, four, six now, longer than he has ever stayed

anywhere before. Six years, slipping up on him and past before he can realize it, suddenly gone

(company picnics, Christmas, Christ—taxes again already?), time blurring into an oily gray knot,

leaving only discarded calendars for fossils. He will never hit the road again; he is here to stay. His

future has become his past without ever touching the present. He does not understand what has happened

to him, but he is beginning to be afraid.

He gets on the bus for home.

In the cramped, sweaty interior of the bus, he admits for the first time that he may be getting old.

Mason's apartment was on the fringe of the heavily built-up district, in a row of dilapidated six-story

brownstones. Not actually the slums, not like where the colored people lived (Mason doggedly said

colored people, even when the boys at the plant talked of niggers), not like where the kids, the beatniks

lived, but a low-rent district, yes. Laboring people, low salaries. The white poor had been hiding here

since 1920, peering from behind thick faded drapes and cracked Venetian blinds. Some of them had

never come out. The immigrants had disappeared into this neighborhood from the boats, were still here,

were still immigrants after thirty years, but older and diminished, like a faded photograph. All the ones

who had not pulled themselves up by their bootstraps to become crooked politicians or gangsters or

dishonest lawyers—all forgotten: a gritty human residue. The mailboxes alternated names like Goldstein

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A Kingdom by the Sea

and Kowalczyk and Ricciardi. It was a dark, hushed neighborhood, with few big stores, no movies, no

real restaurants. A couple of bowling alleys. The closest civilization approached was a big concrete

housing project for disabled war veterans a block or two away to the east, and a streamlined, chrome-

plated, neon-flashing shopping center about half a mile to the west, on the edge of a major artery. City

lights glowed to the north, high rises marched across the horizon south: H. G. Wells Martians, acres of

windows flashing importantly.

Mason got off the bus. There was a puddle at the curb and he stepped in it. He felt water soak into his

socks. The bus snapped its doors contemptuously shut behind him. It rumbled away, farting exhaust

smoke into his face. Mason splashed toward his apartment, wrapped in rain mist, moisture beading on

his lips and forehead. His shoes squelched. The wet air carried heavy cooking odors, spicy and foreign.

Someone was banging garbage cans together somewhere. Cars hooted mournfully at him as they rushed

by.

Mason ignored this, fumbling automatically for his keys as he came up to the outside door. He was

trying to think up an excuse to stay home tonight. This was Tuesday, his bowling night; Kaplan would

be calling in a while, and he'd have to tell him something. He just didn't feel like bowling; they could

shuffle the league around, put Johnson in instead. He clashed the key against the lock. Go in, damn it.

This would be the first bowling night he'd missed in six years, even last fall when he'd had the flu—

Christ, how Emma had bitched about that, think he'd risen from his deathbed or something. She always

used to worry about him too much. Still, after six years. Well, fuck it, he didn't feel like it, was all; it

wasn't going to hurt anything; it was only a practice session anyway. He could afford to miss a week.

And what the fuck was wrong with the lock? Mason sneered in the dark. How many years is it going to

take to learn to use the right key for the front door, asshole? He found the proper key (the one with the

deep groove) with his thumb and clicked the door open.

Course, he'd have to tell Kaplan something. Kaplan'd want to know why he couldn't come, try to argue

him into it. (Up the stairwell, around and around.) Give him some line of shit. At least he didn't have to

make up excuses for Emma anymore—she would've wanted to know why he wasn't going, if he felt

good, if he was sick, and she'd be trying to feel his forehead for fever. A relief to have her off his back.

She'd been gone almost a month. Now all he had to worry about was what to tell fucking Kaplan. (Old

wood creaked under his shoes. It was stuffy. Muffled voices leaked from under doorways as he passed,

pencil beams of light escaped from cracks. Dust motes danced in the fugitive light.)

Fuck Kaplan anyway; he didn't have to justify his actions to Kaplan. Just tell him he didn't want to, and

the hell with him. The hell with all of them.

Into the apartment: one large room, partially divided by a low counter into kitchen and living room—

sink, refrigerator, stove and small table in the kitchen; easy chair, coffee table and portable television in

the living room; a small bedroom off the living room, and a bath. Shit, he'd have to tell Kaplan

something after all, wouldn't he? Don't want the guys to start talking. And it is weird to miss a bowling

night. Mason took off his wet clothes, threw them onto the easy chair for Emma to hang up and dry.

Then he remembered that Emma was gone. Finally left him—he couldn't blame her much, he supposed.

He was a bum, it was true. He supposed. Mason shrugged uneasily. Fredricks promoted over him,

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A Kingdom by the Sea

suppose he didn't have much of a future—he didn't worry about it, but women were different, they

fretted about stuff like that, it was important to them. And he wouldn't marry her. Too much of a drifter.

But family stuff, that was important to a woman. Christ, he couldn't really blame her, the dumb cunt—

she just couldn't understand. He folded his clothes himself, clumsily, getting the seam wrong in the

pants. You miss people for the little things. Not that he really cared whether his pants were folded right

or not. And, God knows, she probably missed him more than he did her; he was more independent—

sure, he didn't really need anybody but him. Dumb cunt. Maybe he'd tell Kaplan that he had a woman up

here, that he was getting laid tonight. Kaplan was dumb enough to believe it. He paused, hanger in hand,

surprised at his sudden vehemence. Kaplan was no dumber than anybody else. And why couldn't he be

getting laid up here? Was that so hard to believe, so surprising? Shit, was he supposed to curl up and

fucking die because his girl'd left, even a longtime (three years) girl? Was that what Kaplan and the rest

of those bastards were thinking? Well, then, call Kaplan and tell him you're sorry you can't make it, and

then describe what a nice juicy piece of ass you're getting, make the fucker eat his liver with envy

because he's stuck in that damn dingy bowling alley with those damn dingy people while you're out

getting laid. Maybe it'll even get back to Emma. Kaplan will believe it. He's dumb enough.

Mason took a frozen pizza out of the refrigerator and put it into the oven for his supper. He rarely ate

meat, didn't care for it. None of his family had. His father had worked in a meat-packing plant too—the

same one, in fact. He had been one of the men who cut up the cow s carcass with knives and cleavers.

"Down to the plant," he would say, pushing himself up from the table and away from his third cup of

breakfast coffee, while Mason was standing near the open door of the gas oven for warmth and being

wrapped in his furry hat for school, "I've got to go down to the plant."

Mason always referred to the place as a meat-packing plant. (Henderson had called it a slaughterhouse,

but Henderson had quit.)

The package said fifteen minutes at 450, preheated. Maybe he shouldn't tell Kaplan that he was getting

laid, after all. Then everybody'd be asking him questions tomorrow, wanting to know who the girl was,

how she was in the sack, where he'd picked her up, and he'd have to spend the rest of the day making up

imaginary details of the affair. And suppose they found out somehow that he hadn't had a woman up

here after all? Then they'd think he was crazy, making up something like that. Lying. Maybe he should

just tell Kaplan that he was coming down with the flu. Or a bad cold. He was tired tonight. Maybe he

actually was getting the flu. From overwork, or standing around in the rain too long, or something.

Maybe that was why he was so fucking tired—Christ, exhausted—why he didn't feel like going bowling.

Sure, that was it. And he didn't have to be ashamed of being sick: he had a fine work record, only a

couple of days missed in six years. Everybody gets sick sometime, that's the way it is. They'd

understand.

Fuck them if they didn't.

Mason burned the pizza slightly. By the time he pulled it out with a washcloth, singeing himself in the

process, it had begun to turn black around the edges, the crust and cheese charring. But not too bad.

Salvageable. He cut it into slices with a roller. As usual, he forgot to eat it quickly enough, and the last

pieces had cooled off when he got around to them—tasting now like cardboard with unheated spaghetti

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