Money Where Your Mouth Is

The steak drips with blood as I pluck it up with finger and thumb, its liquids pooling in the folds of the butcher paper. The curtains are drawn. Nobody can see inside, but I glance over my shoulder anyway before running the lurid beef under cold water, jaw throbbing and stomach churning as the crimson evidence of the animal's pain and suffering washes down the drain. I shudder to think of the kind brown eyes that used to rely on that blood—maybe the neighbours should know my shame. I hate myself for this.

“Pat dry with paper towel,” Tony’s executor, Neil, reads aloud from the dogeared black notebook Tony used to write all his recipes in. “Rub the meat down with salt, pepper, garlic and onion powder.”

He hovers in my periphery, the shadow of a ghost — not so daunting as the dead man himself, but a constant reminder of his influence. Neil seems like a decent enough fellow, sympathetic to my plight, but I can’t help resenting him for enacting Tony’s malicious will.

My lip curls as I massage the cold, pliant meat, stifling the gag crawling its way up my throat. The grains of salt and spices dig into my fingers like sand, rough against my skin and grating on my conscience. They rasp softly against the cutting board with each motion, making the hairs on my neck rise and sending a shiver down my spine.

I had been surprised to learn that I merited an entry in the last will and testament of the Forbes 100 executive. Tony Carfazzi and I only met once — a quick hi-and-bye at a staff barbeque five years before his heart condition became public knowledge. Any potential for conversation died once I brought up the lack of vegan options on offer. Megan from Accounting always warned me not to talk about my health choices, but sometimes it just slips out. I guess I left an impression.

“Is the pan smoking yet?” Neil cranes his neck, checking on the grey whisps worming their way out from the base of the cast iron skillet. “That looks right.” Returning to the book, he fiddles with the page and continues to read, feet tapping against his bar stool and his mouth pressed into a thin line. “Sear the steak, laying it long-ways in the pan. Flip it every minute for even browning.”

Numb ever since he showed up at my door with a pair of brown paper envelopes, I obey, the meat spitting and hissing in the hot oil. Droplets splash and nip at my wrist, but I endure their prickling bite as sharp sizzling gives way to a steady, seething crackle. This mess better not ruin garlic for me. I don’t want to remember this moment with its nauseating, intoxicating smell of cooking cow every time I make a stir fry. I scowl at the pan before a flash of agony radiating from my bad tooth reminds me for the thousandth time not to clench my jaw — and of the reason I’m doing this in the first place.

I had declined the $20,000 at first, doing so loudly and publicly. My whole personality is built on veganism. I am a pillar of the animal-free community. I lead community discussions, rock some of the best ‘Why Vegan?’ bumper stickers, and have been personally responsible for steering at least two of my colleagues away from the hedonistic evils of meat. They stopped at going vegetarian, but it was a step in the right direction.

But then old Bertha started to choke whenever I put her in third, rattling whenever she took tight corners. Between selling some extra bumper stickers and cutting down on the expensive protein powders for a few weeks, I could have weathered that blow, but then the toothache struck.

The dull ache had grown to sharp discomfort before finally transforming into a grinding, eternal, niggling test on my nerves. I got desperate. With $20,000, I could see a dentist. Heck — with $20,000, I could start training to be a dentist and leave the toxic world of corporate marketing behind for good.

I just had to meet that butt-muncher Tony’s one condition.

One steak, cooked to his specification. One piece of meat. One cow. One pair of big brown eyes, long lashes, and a devastatingly cute little moo. Tony wouldn’t have thought of it that way, though. Just a steak to him.

I flip the steak, cursing my traitorous stomach for rumbling. Neil is directing me, holding up a plastic stopwatch as if searing meat were an Olympic sport. He stares intently at the notebook, playing with the elastic placeholder, carefully not looking in my direction or at the ‘Kiss me, I’m vegan’ sign hanging over the kitchen arch.

There's blood on my apron. I don’t remember anything splashing, but there are telling pink circles over the little dancing pig, just missing the words ‘Compassion is found here.’

“It’s done, take it out,” Neil said, looking up from his watch.

The beef bleeds onto my plate as I place it down, swirling in greasy pools of liquid condemnation. How could anyone find this appetizing? Why would Tony want to inflict this horror on a nobody employee he barely paid minimum wage? What did I ever do to him?

Joining Neil at the breakfast bar, I stare at my food with the same enthusiasm as a convict staring down their last supper. I hear a heartbeat, off tempo with mine — probably my imagination, but perhaps Poe was onto something.

“You know you don’t need to do this, Mr. Pouplos,” Neil offers, voice strained. “I understand that your lifestyle is a point of pride for you. It would be a tragedy to compromise such an impressive streak.” He keeps glancing at the other envelope still sitting on the counter. The one closed with glue rather than butcher’s twine and holding my salvation.

Under normal circumstances, Neil works as one of Tony’s corporate lawyers — defending the company against suits from competitors and customers alike. His reputation remains sterling: one of the few good lawyers who always puts a cause above a payday and works for charity on weekends. That he's judging me for selling out my 25 years of animal-free living sits like a burden across my already-sagging shoulders. Why couldn’t they have sent one of the scumbag lawyers? At least they’d be cheering me on.

But Neil doesn’t know about the toothache. He couldn’t know that the pain keeps me from sleeping, eating, and taking any kind of joy out of life. He doesn’t know about Bertha, that if she goes tires-up, I'll need to take three different buses to reach the office. Three buses, and I still wouldn't be able to afford a dentist.

“Thanks, Neil, but I do,” I say, taking up my fork in one limp hand. To the man’s credit, he takes no joy in watching me abandon everything I stand for, visibly deflating as I stab the meat and take up the steak knife Neil brought with the meat.

The serrated blade glides through the muscle with two smooth strokes, severing the tender cut with ease. A drop of grease slides down the curve of my fork as I lift the first small bite, glistening and grotesque, threatening to slip onto my fingers.

Can I really sell a part of me for this? For cold, dead money? I open my mouth, squeezing my eyes closed like when I was a kid and Brussel sprouts were forced upon me. Is $20,000 my price for a life? Not just the animal itself, but my stand against the cruel industry it stands for?

As my mouth closes around the morsel, the flavours burst across my tongue. Juicy, tender, and seductive, they burrow their way into my taste buds. The texture mimics over cooked jackfruit: giving and stringy and moist. One muscle at a time, I try to relax into the rhythm of chewing, keeping the bite as far from my complaining tooth as possible. Sorry, little one, but I need to do this.

Neil is finally making eye contact with me, lips pursed in disappointment as he watches me grind this poor animal to mush. I clench my eyes shut against the visual, but that only makes the image of a blood-soaked calf stand out more starkly in my mind. What remains of the meat squirms against my tongue, alive and angry. It kicks at my tooth with a vengeance.

Without thinking, I spit out the disgusting lump of half-chewed, greasy, flesh, hitting the counter with a wet slap as it misses the plate. It stays resolutely still — very much dead. When I look at Neil, joy and relief light up his face.

“I can’t do it. It’s not right,” I say, pushing the plate away. The certainty growing in my chest, combined with Neil’s obvious delight at my decision, reaffirms three things to me: no CEO can buy my values. No toothache is worth a life. I am a vegan.

Neil slaps me on the back as he stands, face rosy and eyes creasing with an ear-to-ear smile. “I knew you would make the right choice!” he laughs.

“Yeah. Yeah! I will not be bought,” I say, a laugh bubbling up from my chest. I gesture at the discarded plate. “You can take that and Tony's money and shove them where the sun don't shine!” Thwarting a CEO’s decision, denying a villain his final request, and suddenly feeling more myself than I have in the month since learning of the challenge — for once, I am the most powerful person in the room.

“Excellent! That’s the spirit! Stick to your guns. Tony’s will is full of these cruel little games, and you’re the first person not to let the money manipulate you. I wish I had your determination,” Neil says. He makes a quick mark in the book before sliding his coat from the back of his chair and shrugging it on. He pats his pockets as he does, tucking the envelope into his jacket, eyes twinkling. “But we can’t all be that strong.”

We grin at one another as I walk him to the door, shaking hands and waving like the oldest of friends. I’m not an idiot. I know what that envelope holds, but it represents a reward for sin, for giving up my values to serve some petty idiot’s whims. My heart rises to see it leave my home.

I slam the door behind Neil a little harder than intended, wiping my hands against my apron and murmuring “good riddance” to the room. The smile is still on my face when I see the notebook, forgotten on the breakfast counter.

“Let’s see if old Tony had any half-decent recipes before we burn you, eh?” I say to the book, plucking it from the counter with a flourish. It’s one of those cotton Moleskin numbers — the sturdy little things you can pick up in most bookstores by the dozen— and it looks like it’s been through Hell’s kitchen.

My giddy high falters when I see the first page and plummets as I flip to the next. Each page contains two challenges, bisected by a thin black line. Above the line is written a sum of money, and on page after page, one of the challengers is always crossed out.

Harriet Miller. Always wears a rosary. Participate in pro-choice rally. / $20,000 / Neil Killarney convinces a widow not to take money her kids could use.

Nick Carfazzi. Nephew. Thinks he’s a communist. Star in Big Corp commercial. / $100,000 / Neil Killarney convinces him not to cop to ‘the man’ and suffer the burden of his student debt.

Alberto Gonzales. Visa expiring May. Donate $10,000 to ‘Keep Work Local’ council. / $30,000 / Neil Killarney keeps him from the money that could bring his family to America.

My tooth throbs when I see my name:

Frank Pouplos. Vegan. Eat a good steak. / $20,000 / Neil Killarney convinces him to stick with minimum wage.

What a butt-muncher.