One Percent: A Thanksgiving Hike.

Since transferring back to the Sedona store, I have to admit I've been grappling with the green monster. Serving people who seem to have unlimited resources while I, at the age of fifty four, still have to fight for every penny has just kind of gotten under my skin a little bit. It's not that I envy their wealth or the trapping of said wealth. I get out of my 15 year old pickup with 190,000 miles (that I'm still making payments on) and stroll by the BMWs, Lexuses, Mercedes and Range Rovers on my way into the store without a second glance. I do, however, resent their causal sense of entitlement. The idea that I have money so I get what I want, when I want it, the way I want it and inconvenience will not be tolerated rubs me the wrong way. Sometimes its like we don't even live in the same reality.

I cannot even comprehend walking into a store, any store, and just buying whatever the hell I feel like without calculating the cost.

Yeah, it's been bugging me. I work my f@%&*ing ass off and I can barely pay my bills while some the privileged housewives I deal with on an day to day basis has never worked a day in their life. It leads to resentment. To miscommunication. To... I don't know, what's the antonym for empathy? I'm sure I'm not alone. Income inequality in this country has never been higher. Upper management looks down the company ladder from their office suites and see nothing but shit. The workers look up and see nothing but assholes.

Welcome to America 2015.

Yeah, since coming back to Sedona, I've been in a position of semi-management, taking over for the meat manager on his days off and vacation, running the cutting room, ordering and taking my share of blame from the new set of zealous supervisors who are pounding on us because we're an “affluent” store and need to be held to a higher standard (but no better pay of course). I took over this job because, well, the company needed me. It's no more money—in fact I haven't even got a cost of living raise in eight years—but hey, thanks for helping out. Anyway, I've been stressed, been working longer hours and well add in the short days and the impending holiday grind and...

So I do what I do when I'm depressed. I walk. We're not talking around the block here. We're talking filling daybag with food for a day, a couple canteens of water and lighting out. I have some favorite spots and on one particular day last week day I chose one close by but still remote enough for some real solitude—Lower Sycamore Canyon. It's a stunning little creek that cuts through some of the most bizarre and unique geography you'll find anywhere and it's just far enough off the grid (Sedona) that its still feels like Arizona to me. Plus there was a storm moving in so the place would really be deserted.

And so I walk. I start out fast. I want to beat the storm, but also I have anger to burn. I stride into the wilderness alone and with testosterone. Some guys lifts weights and scream with rage. I hike. With attitude. Depending upon what kind of funk I am in, the miles start to loosen me up. Sometimes it's a couple. Sometimes it's eight. Or ten. Or twelve. But I've never ever been in a funk deep enough that a walk doesn't loosen it. And sure enough somewhere around the four mile mark, I realize I am having fun. Damn it if I ain't f%^*ing happy.

I keep complaining that my body is breaking down, that I come home from work a mental and physical zombie. So tired I can't hardly feed myself. But it can't be the real truth, it has to be mental, because my body is loving this strain. I am flying over rocks, skipping across the stream crossings with ease, jumping up the boulder steps and skipping off the ledges. The miles are peeling away like paper.

By the time I reach the turn around point at Parson's Spring, I have slowed down a little and am enjoying the scenery. The silence is immense, the canyon is gorgeous and the world is wide open. I no longer know why I was so stressed. This is why I live here. This is why I “threw away” my education. This is why I work a menial job that society judges is next to worthless. It just doesn't matter. I don't own much, but I don't owe much. There is little I want or need. At home, my family waits for me understanding my need for solitude and space. Right now, right here, I'm moving swiftly and gracefully through this heartbreakingly beautiful place and I am the happiest man in the world. I cannot think of one place, one thing I would rather be doing.

And that makes me the real one percent.

Top Ten Ways to Annoy Your Butcher.

1. Get angry at me for things I have no control over. I don't set the prices. I don't select the brands. I can't order brands we don't carry and I don't write the ad. One of my favorite sources of anger is when they put something like a whole pork loin on ad, then show a picture of an expertly roasted rack of pork carved and decorated with little booties and some poor SOB shows up actually expecting to get a cooked crown pork roast for 99 cents a pound. Really? (sigh)
2. Grill minimum wage workers over precise cooking instructions for complicated , expensive meals. Come on. I don't know if you realize this or not, but we can't afford to buy half the shit you do—king crab legs, lobster tails, filet mignon, sea bass, etc--let alone be expert in the preparation of it (most grocery store “training” boils down to “wash your hands and don't steal anything”). A little thing called Google, people. Use that $500 smart phone in your pocket and a little f@$king common sense.
3. Ring the the @^%$# bell and then not know what the @#%$ you want. This isn't the Mercedes showroom, I'm not going to twist your arm to buy some ground chuck. You either want it or you don't. Same with indecisive people (“I don't know what to have for dinner”) and people who can't make a six dollar purchase without consulting with someone on their cellphones.
4. Cellphones.
5. Mosey on up to me when I'm filling the case and ask, “What kinda deals you got today, buddy?” Do you want me to stop what I'm doing and recite you the entire ad, or can I just hand you a circular like everybody else? Or, here's an idea, look at all the pretty colored signs hanging above the case.
6. Try to negotiate the price. What is this #^%$ Abu Dhabi? This isn't a garage sale or a flea market. The price is the price. It's set by suits in Suit Town and there ain't nothing I can do for you. See #1.
7. Call for stupid reasons (especially during rush hours). Hey, I really enjoy stopping what I'm doing, putting down my knife, washing my hands, drying them and then taking your so-so-vital call. It's like taking a little break EVERY TWO MINUTES!And if it's something like, “Um, I bought a roast a couple, um, weeks, ago, and um it doesn't look so good. Is it, um, still safe to eat?” or “I'm going to be in the store in a couple hours and I was wondering what kind of steaks you have?' I'm going to hang up on you. Not really. I can't. But I'm hanging up on you in my mind. Special kudos, though, to the ones who call during the rush to ask “What kinda deals you got today, buddy?”
8. Ring the #&^%^&$%#$ buzzer when I'm standing right there. I may not have noticed you yet but a clearing of the throat or a shuffling of the feet will get my attention. Ringing the buzzer in that situation is like shouting at me. I'm a stressed man with sharp knives. I do not like people yelling at me.
9. Expect preferential treatment because you namedrop. I hate just about every #^^%#ing executive in the company so telling me you're golf buddies with him is just going to get you spit in your hamburger. Not really. Maybe.
10. And the final, sure fire way, to really, royally, piss-off a hard working meat-cutter is to waltz into the meat locker in your suit and tie and clipboard and proceed to tell me how to do my job and why I am not living up to corporate standards. I'm a stressed man with sharp knives; are you really yelling at me?