A cow is grazing in a fenced off field somewhere between Salinas and Chualar, California.
Somewhere between Chualar and Salinas a 30 year old man is patching together the salvaged remains of a
Styrofoam remote controlled airplane that he built and has been trying to fly. He is at work at a gas station. The
flying has been OK, the landing has been hard. The plane is now glued together with weird thick epoxy and strange
shipping tape. Is doesn’t look possibly aerodynamic at all. It has a Cox fuel powered motor with a propeller strapped
to the top where a human pilot would normally be. It flies, not too good, the fuel mixture seems to make it cut out.
The other gas station attendants have been laughing at him all day because of the sad shape of his plane. But it
does fly cursing its own sad shape.
Most of the other workers at the gas station are illegal emigrates from Mexico and speak little English. I like these
guys and they have given me a new nickname, “Milo” pronounced, “Me Low”. I think this is very nice, I drive by and I
hear them say, “Que Bueno Milo or some other greeting and I yell back “Que Paso?” How cool is that, I have a new
Mexican nick name?
Anyways, the plane builder called me after work and was a little upset about how his coworkers were laughing at his
glued together Styrofoam plane. So he picked me up and took me to this big lettuce field directly behind the gas
station. He started the Cox motor on his little airplane by pushing the propeller with his index finger. The combustion
started the stuttering motor. He raised it above his head and threw it like a quarterback would. It sputtered but was
airborne. The engine sounded like a smoker who had Emphysema but refuses to quit smoking. It was airborne.
With toggle switches on his antennae attached black box he aimed that damn thing right over the gas station.
Gasping for it’s last breath and Cox fuel, he turned it around and headed it right for the front of the gas station. It
dive bombed the Mexican cowboy employees who had laughed earlier but who now were running for cover under
attack.
As this was happening the same cow between Salinas and Chular had a quarter inch steel sphere forced through its
skull by an explosion at the other end of the barrel. Her hind legs were tied together and she was hoisted upside
down when this steel marble shattered her brains. A cut was made from her neck to her vagina and surprisingly
unbloody gray intestine fell onto the concrete floor just a couple of feet from the drain.
I eat cows, chickens, pigs, turkeys, fish, and other living things that other people kill for me to eat. I do not think I am
smarter than any of these animals, and I respect the way they live. I only feel weird about other people killing them
for me. Anyways…
Part of this cow ended up being ground up into hamburger meat and was sold at a grocery food chain. The mother of
three boys and one girl bought this meat from the market and took it home. At home she took some hard stale
bread, some onions and whatever spices were in the cabinets and mixed them together. She them cracked an egg
into the mix. Another chicken egg (that had been hard boiled earlier that morning, along with 5 others) was then
covered with the hamburger mix adding layer after layer until the it was the size of a chimney brick with the hardboiled
egg at the center almost like peach pit.
The oven was pre heated to 300 and the mixture of ingredients was put in a bread pan on the middle shelf of the
oven. This was this mother’s meatloaf.
About 40 years ago there was a little overweight young boy. He liked singing in the choir at school and had a lot of
energy. A group of boys who didn’t sing (I never sang) thought this was a little too girly and didn’t like this boy.
Because of his weight they thought he looked like a meatloaf so he became known as “Meatloaf”. This didn’t seem to
bother him.
Meatloaf continued singing and joined the drama department of his high school and after continued acting with the
local junior college. A Broadway scout liked the appeal of an unattractive male with a lot of energy and gave
Meatloaf his first real theater gig. This took off and he was in movies and made rock n roll records and before long
Meatloaf was a famous and well-known man.
Back to the illegal aliens who work at the gas station and have nicknamed me Milo. I’m 35 and I haven’t had a haircut
since I was 16, maybe a little bit of a beer belly. I finally realized that the Mexicans who were calling me Milo just didn’
t know how to pronounce Meatloaf, they thought that I looked like the famous Movie Star and Rock Star. I embraced
the nickname even more. One night I stayed up all night drinking with Samuel, a real Mexican cowboy, who spoke as
much English as I spoke Spanish. We were listening to the local Spanish station it was about 5 in the morning and I
came back from taking a piss and when I returned I heard the Mexican DJ send out a request “BLAH, BLAH, BLAH
Milo y Samuel!!!”. (This goes out to Samuel and Milo) Samuel had the DJ dedicate a song to me and him.
Samuel is dead now that was about 10 years ago.
I somehow ended up in white bread part of the California coast. Half of the population here is Mexicans but they don’
t seem to mix with the white people, with me maybe a little, but not too much.
All the clubs here where the white people hang out are soulless tourist traps on the coast. There was a Halloween
party last night and my gal got dressed up and everybody else was in costume, me and my buddy didn’t have
costumes. I always feel a little uneasy around too many white people even though I am white. These were really
white people dressed up in costumes. This is more of a scene were I might come to fight than to strike up a
conversation. The place was packed and everybody was drunk and this one asshole notices me and points at me
and says to his friends “Look it’s Meatloaf”. It’s one thing if Mexican cowboys call me Milo but it’s another thing if
some soulless white asshole calls me Meatloaf, not to my face but laughing to his friends. I did think of Samuel and
kind of grinned remembering his radio dedication.
About 15 minutes later the asshole that called me Meatloaf earlier was standing in front of me with his back towards
me. He was wearing these big, fake, plastic ears as part of his costume, I have no idea what or who he was
supposed to be. At this point my buddy noticed my head cock and he felt something violent might happen. I reached
out and took one of the assholes fake, plastic, ears off his head. He turned around and looked at me confused. He
had some fashionable cocktail in his hand, I stared him straight in the eyes and shoved his fake plastic ear into his
drink and said, "Don't call me me Meatloaf". Out of terror he took off and threatened to send somebody back to take
care of me.
I didn’t remember this event this until the next day when my buddy reminded me of the incident.
Anyways, that’s how a cow minding his own business turns into a fake, plastic ear in a mixed drink.
P.S.
Shit we got it easy, think of that chicken baby who was boiled until she was solid and then stuffed inside that ground
up cow. I did have bacon and eggs today before I was reminded about the plastic ear thing.
-Charlie McGovern
November 2, 2003 2:20am
El Granada, California