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| Continued from Page 7
| cog said to another.
“I heard that, too. I heard that
[ Chuck said that Joe asked him and
I ^
/I E SACRE DU PRINTEMPS
Beatrlz Rodriguez as the Chosen One,
Photographer: Herbert Migdoli
The Joffrey Ballet
accompanied by the Lincoln
Symphony Orchestra.
Students and youth (18 yrs. and
under) — half price tickets.
Experience the B
power, passion and 1
grace of The Joffrey 1
Ballet. Only at the J
Lied Center for 1
Performing Arts.
Friday, March 9,8:00 pm
Saturday, March 10, 8:00 pm J
“Italian Suite”
“Lacrymosa” (Premiere) JR
“Le Sacre du Printemps” M
Ticket Prices $24, $20, $14
Saturday, March 10,2:00 pm M
Sunday, March 11, 2:00 pm JJ
“Billy the Kid” A
“Monotones I and II”
“Suite Saint-Saens” g
Ticket Prices $22, $18, $12 JR
Call 472-4747 or toll free fl|
1 800-432-3231 RBSB1
IjV HieJottrev
Wm BoBet.,
^ An Amarican Classic
■f Hobart Joftrcy and Qarald Arpino,
v» a Foundara ^
H AVAAA C arald Arpino,
« f “ 7 ' Artistic Diractor JEL
A Mid-America Arts Alliance Program with the Nebraska Arts Council.
he said he was. It must be the air.”
“Yeah,” replies the cog and they
go on making their own, separate
mechanical motions. . .
“Erik!” the lead-man yelled to
the boy. He responded with weary
but ready eyes. “I’ve got an easy
job for you. We’re sending out 50
totes of 10-20s, and we need you
and a few others to shave the fins
off. Grab a couple buddies horn
the fish house and meet me at the
glaze line.”
He pulled Doug andChi’angoff
the glazing tanks. Glazing the fish
too big to run through the glaze
line was an easy job, but you Froze
quickly because you weren’t mov
ing at all.
The only way to survive work in
the freezer was to keep moving.
But this was a new, warm job,
and it would be pleasant to thaw
out. The three of them walked out
into the cold storage area and met
the lead.
“What you want to do is shave
the fins clean on either side with
out cutting into the meat. We don’t
normally do it this way,” he said,
“but the Japanese are paying us
extra so we’re gonna do it anyway.
Now, you take the fish and you
want to set the crotch of the head
on the bar and put the fin in your
gut and shave it right above the
meat line,” and he shaved the fin
off, flipped it, and shaved the other
side.
The boy and the others joined in
and soon moved along at a produc
tive pace. It wasn’t painful, at first.
But when he came back the next
day and continued shaving, the
bruises started showing up They
were subtle bruises simply derived
from making one motion or series
of motions using the same parts of
your body over ana over and over
again.
No, it wasn ttoo bad, at first. Hut
the halibut kept coming, small ones
weighing no more than 20 pounds,
and soon he developed two fine
bruises: one in the crotch of his
thumb and the other near the crotch
proper. The pain grew to a point so
that when the fin even touched his
bruised thumb and bladder, he
winced. But he had to keep mov
ing.
Uff-da.
“I’m puttin’ on my horns, men,"
the lead said. “We’re not moving
through them fast enough, and
we’re gonna stay lii we get them
done. Now, let’s go!"
The lead grabbed a knife and
went to work like all the fish on the
planet were going to show up for a
last meal and special processing,
the tension increased because the
radio was turned off, and we shaved
as fast as the knife could cut.
Fatigue ruled, and the boy de
murred. His hands worked only
from memory because he couldn’t
focus on the fish. Everything was
gray. The fish moved along so fast
that the whole process blurred and
he drifted off into the Land of the
Delirious Cannery Cogs. A curi
ously frightening colton-ball-jagged
world where things, nothing at all,
are rational or proportionate. Your
fears of Self are the most frighten
ing because you can’t run off and
talk to somdone if your Id is run
ning off at the mouth. You can't
stop to straighten yourself back
out.
And in the la-la land of red fish,
blue fish, gray fish, new fish, the
boy thought of a story to tell his
grandkids, were he to live long
enough to bear children himself.
He thought:
“I was a fish barber, once.”
Like a cyborg barber with one
finely-hdned tool and one, only
one, style to my program, I shaved
the fins of halibuts like sad, young
men lost and off to war, drafted
beyond the sunny beach of Free
Choice to fight the war against
starvation,consuming millions of
humans, halibuts and every other
edible type of fish in the vast salt
water fisning hole known as the
Pacific Ocean.
Consumes all fish, yes; but I was
shaving halibut. They didn’t like it
very much. Well, some didn’t.
Halibuts, like humans dead or alive,
maintain distinctly different looks
and characters.
Some wore short, kept fins look
ing as clean as a salmon before the
spawn. Some fins were scraggly
and uncared for - worn by halibuts
who thought about more than the
condition of the fins. A few fish
resisted locking the crotch where
theirheadused tobetotheironbar
so I could shave them. These were
often young, strong and idealistic
fish who, though not vain about
the color and size of their fins, did
find them aesthetically pleasing.
One halibut sported a fine, long,
red mohawk fin full of grace and
color for swimming and sunning,
respectively.
He was quite an intellect, too.
“Why do you have to shave
them?” it said to me. “They are so
long and colorful. I could swim
strong for miles and fathoms. Throw
me back,and I’ll warn the oceans of
this hell-out-of-watcr!” he pleaded
with more passion than a thirsty
man begging water from a growl
ing dog.
He was quite a persuasive hali
but.
“You’re dead,” said my cold,
gray brain. “You can’t swim any
more because your head and guts
and gills are gone and stewed to
fish meal. You are a smart, young
fish, and I know you’ll be a tasty
soldier in the famine war. I hope
you are eaten by the emperor!” I
finished and, before he could re
ply, shaved him fuzz-cut-clean and
sent him on to get his uniform
glaze and dog tags identifying him
as a 1-20 pound halibut form plant
45, from the phantom skies of the
Pacific Ocean, American side.
I would never see him again.
With shave and glaze and tag,hali
buts look like dominoes with no
indentations, marching endlessly
out of the water with no other
home, now, save for millions of
empty Japanese stomachs.
My halibut bedded dow n in front
of a man who was not the emperor,
Crobably. The man might even have
een American. I would never know
The day ended when we shaved
all the fish. The boy was exhausted
and he took to his lent in the
woods like a babe to a womb to
rest up for another day in the deep
sea battle against starvation here
on the planet Earth. His fingers
were knotted and his brain was
dysfunctional, but he could work
and work and continue working’til
even the gray haze of fish sank to
obscurity. fTl
Uff-da LU
C owan In a senior sociology and English
major and a Diversions columnist.
