The thing about meat, he said, about flesh, about eating, maybe, is this. The thing about it is that it’s disconnected, it’s plastic, it’s red, white, without hair, without vein or blood or bleat or anything. Have you ever killed anything besides time?

You don’t need to respect it, he told me. You don’t need to raise your hands to God or the goddamn circle of life. You’ve just got to watch it die, to watch it struggle for the life you’re taking from it.

I could hear the papery sound of the deep fry from where we sat. He reached into his knapsack for something. It was a knife. It wasn’t big or small or vicious. It was a knife. It was long and thin, even, steady. Its blade was honed and sharp. There was something heavy and permanent about the blade. It balanced the whole of the knife. It balanced the light. The handle was white plastic, rubberized to minimize slippage.

Of course you always slip eventually, he said. It’s part of the bargain. You cut something that lived, even if it’s dead, it’ll cut back. Look at my father’s hands if you want. You’ll see. His hands are as terrible as art. They’re inspired. Look at his hands and then try to eat that sorry looking burger you’ve got going in your mouth.

I didn’t know what he meant. I looked at my sandwich. It looked fine to me. There was the bun, the burger, the slow seepage of yellow mustard, red ketchup, the viscous, white mayonnaise, the limp, shredded bits of lettuce. There was the crush of waxy paper, translucent with grease. The burger was cheap, and when I received it on the plastic tray it had warmth and scent. It smelled familiar. It smelled like comfort and hunger and satiety. I liked the paper wrapper, colorful, inviting. I thought of the people in the commercials. Happy and good-looking. Musical jingles and fun times. I took another bite. Acidic, pungent, rapidly dissipating.

He picked up the knife and held it in his hand. He held the knife in such a way that it did not seem as though he were holding it at all. The knife was an appendage, a natural extension. There aren’t many butchers left in this country, man, he said. My father’s part of a dying breed. There’s no time for butchers anymore. Now it’s all about speed and efficiency. Factories chock to the ceiling with animals. It’s like making cars or stereos or something. One person makes one cut. One person makes another. They never get to know the animal. There’s nothing intimate about it.

He went on: We should know the animal. We should know its conditions, its life, its desires and its fears. Whether it went willingly or with a fight. Whether it was sick or robust. All these things matter when you bite into it. We should be able to feel its breath on our hands, should be able to run our hands over its neck and feel the strength that’s inside of it. You should see how the eyes glaze over with trepidation and understanding.

First you hit it between the eyes with a pole ax. He described this as an act of kindness. You stun the creature. If you hit right, if you hit smoothly, the tip lands between the eyes and the animal goes down like a heavyweight in the twelfth.

This is where the knife comes in. You keep the knife sharp. You sharpen it throughout the day. The knife goes in the throat, into the carotid artery. It’s a neat cut. A simple, elegant cut. The knife goes in at either side of the neck, not across the whole of the neck. It’s a small movement. The animal is still alive, remember. You’ve knocked it out but the heart still pumps blood. The blood comes out black and furious as it seeps into the drains. We keep the blood in pans. Blood is good, it’s pure. It tastes like metal, like iron.

You open the animal like a bag of chips, a long cut down the abdomen. Take off the skin. Do it gently. Slow, slow, so’s not to hurt the meat. Keep the knife sharp. He paused. I was aware of the loud humming of the soda fountain. He went on, describing the entrails, the fetid smell of intestines and feces and bile. Nothing is wasted. Nothing. All the organs, the ears, the tongue, the nose, the feet, the tendons, the eyeballs, the brain and the testicles. Everything. And then the meat. Finally the meat.

There is no such thing as a bad cut of meat, he said. Then he handed me the knife. I looked at it. It was just a knife. A handle and a blade. Where the blade met the handle was stained a dull pink. I thought of all the blood. I stuck the blade into the remains of my burger. It came apart like dough. I hacked at the sandwich until it was a mushy, ugly thing. I licked the blade carefully and the taste was acrid, old, already stagnant. I wiped the blade with a paper napkin and handed the knife back to Sam. He opened his knapsack again and put the knife back in.

My dad taught me how to cut meat, he said. I’ve done it for years now. Every Sunday morning I help him break down the animals that come in. The work takes all day. It’s hard. It’s monotonous, the work. I like breaking down the head. You can make a steak out of a cheek. You start with something like a head and you learn it. You learn the head. You know where the skull is weak so you can get into it without hurting the brains inside. You ever held a brain? Ever tasted it? It’s like custard. He smiled. It’s just like custard.

I pictured him in his father’s shop, brain in his hands. I wanted what he had, a smock hanging on the wall, stained pink. I wanted to hold a knife, to keep it sharp and honed and balanced. I wanted to cut along the bone, cleaving muscle from fat. I wanted arm and hand and blade working in unison. The body and its parts. Meat and blood and bone.