Eating Lamb

It was raining out and I didn’t have an umbrella with me, nor a hood to cover my hair, being the sort of girl who never carried a purse and exclusively wore leather jackets. When I entered the record shop, I was soaked, my curls slicked back over my scalp like the plastic of a swimming cap. 

I visited the shop around three times a week, and always on Fridays, which was when new records came in. I could happily browse for hours, just drifting about the store, half-listening to whatever tired classic rock was playing on the tinny shop radio. Today, however, I knew exactly what I was there for: a birthday gift for my sister, who normally loathed anything with an electric guitar. But Alanis Morisette’s Jagged Little Pill had recently won the Grammy for album of the year, and that had piqued her interest. A compromise: I’d spend money on an album that didn’t make me want to vomit, and she’d get a birthday gift she didn’t despise. 

I headed toward the alternative section, though if anything, Alanis was post-grunge. It was the summer of 1996, and all music felt like it was perpetually reaching backward, toward some golden, elusive past. Everything worth listening to was post-something. 

There was a new girl sorting through records in the back, not anyone I’d seen working here before. I’d remember if I had; she had a memorable face, pale and sharp-featured, her eyes strikingly black. She wore no makeup and was pretty enough to get away with it. Tall, way taller than me, probably five-nine or ten, with a slim figure bordering on gaunt. Like a model, except for the oversized jean jacket she wore, covered in shiny laminate buttons. She looked young, likely a student. I’d guess literature, maybe, or philosophy: something that implied sophistication and intelligence, but nothing too threatening. 

She didn’t bother asking if I needed help finding anything, which suited me fine. I didn’t want to be caught looking for something as pedestrian as Jagged Little Pill, anyway. As she flipped through a bin of records across from me, I noticed there were exes drawn in Sharpie across the top of either hand, undoubtedly a souvenir from a straight edge concert. They weren’t yet faded, meaning the concert had been recent, since her last shower. 

I wasn’t surprised the girl was punk – I was rarely attracted to girls who weren’t – but I’d never met anyone straight edge in real life. The exes on her hands were basically an admission that she didn’t do anything fun, like drink or get high or have sex with strangers. Personally, I was on the other side of the punk rock spectrum: anarchy over communism, decadence over discipline. And yet I was drawn to her anyway. 

I asked what concert she’d been to, gesturing to her hands to show I understood what I was talking about, despite the Alanis album I was awkwardly clutching under my arm. 

Earth Crisis, she said. 

Oh, so you’re that kind of straight edge. I laughed a little. Vegetarian. 

Of all the things to give up, meat made the least sense to me. Nothing more than self-punishment. Besides, I’d always justified my meat-eating as a sort of fuck-you to the patriarchy. I wasn’t going to be anyone’s perfect little girl, taking delicate bites of some anemic, low-sugar cupcake. No, I was going to eat steak and eat it rare, letting the blood dribble from my lips. 

I wracked my brain, trying to think of a straight edge band I liked. Inspiration struck. 

 Have you heard that new Propagandhi song, I asked, the one that says meat is still murder, dairy is still rape?  

She rolled her eyes. Probably ever moderately punk girl who walked in here hit on her, quoting lyrics from whatever semi-relevant straight edge band they knew. 

Yes, she said. 

So. Is it? 

Is what? 

Meat still murder, dairy still rape? 

I mean, yeah. Obviously. She didn’t sound at all interested in continuing the conversation, but some strange compulsion made me press on. 

So you really don’t see a difference? Between a woman being raped and a cow being milked? 

What a stupid thing to say, she said. Like when men say it’s better to force sex onto your wife than an unsuspecting stranger. It’s all bad. Ranking forms of oppression is a dangerous path. 

Oh, I said. Right. 

Are you one of those punks who only likes music by men? she asked. I can’t stand people like that.

Now that I was closer to her, I could read some of the buttons on her jacket. All of them were political, the tone overly sincere: “my body my choice,” “stop consuming animals,” “fuck police brutality.” I would probably have disliked her if she weren’t so pretty. 

Not at all, I said. I love feminism. I cringed at my own words. Who says that? I mean, I pressed on, I’m into Riot Grrrl, DIY, zine-making, girls to the front, all that. Got a poster of Kathleen Hanna on my wall and everything. 

Hm. 

Listen, I’m five-foot-nothing here. The pit isn’t friendly to girls like me. I’ve had more than my fair share of bloody noses. Doesn’t mean I don’t wanna fuck shit up, you know? 

Normally, I hated drawing attention to my fragility, tried to cover it up by gelling my curls into harsh spikes, piercing my face in four different places. But something about this girl loosened my tongue, making all my vulnerable parts spill out. 

When she didn’t reply, I tried again. I haven’t seen you around before.

I’m new here this week. So you wouldn’t have. 

Nim. I stuck out my hand, which she didn’t shake, regarding it with distaste. I was struck by the image of myself, hair clinging to my skull, dark eye makeup running down my face, chest and shoulders scaly with tattoos. Holding out my hand like I was a goddamn banker. 

Right, I said. So who are you?

Onyx. 

Onyx, I repeated. Cool name. 

I wondered if it was the name her parents had given her, and decided it wasn’t. She had the austere look of a Catholic girl about her, and I’d guess her name used to be something much plainer, like Mary or Elizabeth. Which were hot names, too, but I liked Onyx. All that silky black stone, dark and liquid like her eyes. 

*

I forced myself to wait until the following week to come back to the shop. I worried Onyx wouldn’t be working, and when I saw she was, my relief was enormous. She wore the same button-covered jean jacket as before. The same bored expression, too. 

She didn’t look up as I approached. I supposed she was the kind of girl who liked to make her suitors feel worthless, like scum beneath her feet. I didn’t mind. It was all part of the game, and besides, she was just that beautiful. 

I coughed to get her attention. Oh, she said. You again. 

Me again. 

What are you looking for? 

Hole? I smirked, but she didn’t take the bait. 

Sure. 

Chastened, I asked her if they had a copy of Live Through This, Hole’s most recent album. In truth, I wasn’t a fan, but I wanted to prove that I, too, liked punk music by women. That I was team Courtney, not Kurt. 

I followed her as she looked for the record, asking questions about her life, her family, her studies. She ignored me, but that didn’t dampen my enthusiasm. Growing up, I’d always admired charming, persistent men: Danny in Grease or Judd Nelson in The Breakfast Club. Boys who were determined, who pursued women with brio. I wanted to be like the men in the movies. To see something I wanted and take it.

I tried again as Onyx was ringing me up. Bet you’re impressed I listen to this kind of stuff, huh? I said, leaning against the checkout counter. It was warm today, and I was wearing a Dead Kennedys’ shirt with the phrase “Nazi Punks Fuck Off” across the back, the sleeves rolled up to my shoulders. I attempted to flex my bicep, but she wasn’t looking.  

Not really, she said. Just think you’re a suck-up. As soon as I’d paid, she walked away to help another customer. I went home with a Hole album I didn’t want and a growing determination to make Onyx go out with me.  

*

Two days later, I was back. It was Friday, so I flipped through the new records pile at the front. The Descendents had just come out with an album called Everything Sucks. I’d noticed a direct correlation between an artist’s disdain for the current state of music and the quality of their own songwriting, so I was hopeful. Plus, I’d loved their last album, Milo Goes to College. The song “Suburban Home” taught me music could mean something and still be funny. That you didn’t need to have a stick up your ass to believe in something. 

I glanced over at Onyx, who clearly hadn’t gotten the memo. She appeared to be lecturing a teenager holding a lit cigarette. I sauntered over, in part to rescue the poor teen, but mostly for an excuse to talk to her. 

Onyx, I called. You guys have any NOFX? 

She didn’t miss a beat. Sure, she said, turning away from the teen, who shot me a grateful look. Punk in Drublic? 

It was the band’s biggest album, but also least likely to get a rise out of her. More than anything, I wanted to keep her talking. 

Nah, I said. Liberal Animation. 

I watched her nose wrinkle in distaste. Even the album’s name was a mockery of the animal liberation movement. 

Let me check, she said. A few minutes later she came back. Sorry it took so long, she said. We don’t have the one you wanted, but we did have something else by NOFX. Eating Lamb. Thought it might be to your taste. 

She held the record out. On the front was an illustration of a man performing oral sex on a sheep. I let out a laugh. 

Funny, huh? 

Not really. She looked like she wanted to punch me. Have you ever read Derrida? 

Ah, you’re a philosophy major, I said. I knew it was something like that. 

So, have you? 

Obviously not. I don’t hate myself. 

Well, he has this long essay, she said, called The Animal that Therefore I Am. It starts off with this scene, where Derrida is naked, full-frontal, and his cat walks into the room. He feels this deep sense of shame at being seen naked by his cat, who he’s projected all these human qualities onto. Judgement, modesty. 

Okay, I said. So? 

So, she said, why does Derrida feel shame exposing himself to a cat, but not when eating the flesh of another animal? Why are you okay with eating lamb, literally, but not with eating lamb? She wagged the record in her hand meaningfully. 

It took a moment for me to register her argument. Wow, I said. That’s incredible. Really clever. 

She shrugged, unfazed by my compliment. 

Listen, I said. Would you get a drink with me? 

She looked directly at me then. Her expression was undisguised disgust. 

Nim, right? 

I nodded, surprised she remembered my name.

You’re a killer, Nim. A fucking murderer. 

Oh, I said. 

No, I do not want to get a drink with you. Jesus Christ. You come into the shop, what, three times, and think you and I have some kind of connection? You’re just as bad as they are. 

I didn’t have to ask to know that by they, she meant men. 

But you remembered my name, I said. That’s got to count for something. 

You made an impression on me, she said. That’s not necessarily a good thing. Her eyes shone in the incandescent shop lights like two polished stones. She handed me the album, the animation appearing suddenly garish, rude. I couldn’t imagine walking home carrying something so vulgar. 

So, she said. How would you like to pay?