Lily Hoang - Unfinished - stories finished by Lily Hoang

When we pulled up to pay, Elgin smiled. He winked at me. I can’t remember anything we said that whole damned trip, but I can remember he winked at me.

When I got the bag of food and held it in my hands, I threw up. On the steering wheel. I couldn’t even open the door.

Some things I never realized: there’s a weight to food, a heaviness that isn’t quantified into pounds and ounces; and there’s a smell.

As quick as it was, I was Pavlov’s dog. The smell of fast food became synonymous with a slaughterhouse: rubber, hot water, bleach, blood. All the extra parts that are washed down the drain. Like before and after shots: life and death. Death for my life. I was holding a cow’s death in my hands. How does it feel? It feels like murder. It feels like I am the reaper, that I may as well have beheaded the thing myself, only that would have been kinder.

It’s not death for my life. My life doesn’t want it. But I’m misleading a little. I wasn’t the only one Elgin took. There was a whole group of us. I guess I should clarify that.

But I was special, don’t get me wrong. Even though he took a whole group of us.

He was with Alice. He told me. He didn’t hide it. But that didn’t stop him from kissing me after I threw up. He said something about how he couldn’t help himself with me. I’m sure he didn’t say it like a cliché though, but now that I think back on it, it’s all kind of like a teenage movie: all the drama, all the heartbreaks, all the passion. Except my people have a cause. We have a purpose. What’s the purpose to a bunch of rich kids on tv? That’s what differentiates us.

I’m not some hippie activist kid though so don’t look at me like that. I’m wearing Prada for fuck’s sake. These shoes are custom-made. Do you know how many non-leather pumps Prada makes? I’ll tell you: only the ones in my closet.

So I want to clarify: I’m here partially by choice. I’m not what you expect. That’s what makes me powerful. That’s what makes my people strong. We blend in. We make money. And at night, we liberate.

All those shops, they made us high. But what can you do with a living room full of fur? The animals were already dead.

It was Alice’s idea, but it was my money. We went to South America, Russia, Africa, China, Eastern Europe. We walked the streets and gave fur coats to the homeless. We gave them bread and wine. We redistributed wealth.

We should have stayed right here. We should have given our own homeless those coats, but we were young and romantic then. We didn’t know any better.

If I had it to do over again, I would’ve walked right into a women’s shelter with arms full of fur. I would’ve told them to wear it or sell it. I’d tell them the going price.

It’s not the money I regret. It’s not the time I spent with Elgin and Alice either.

The shops made us feel powerful. That summer after I got my MBA, we went on our trip around the world, the three of us. When we got back, I smelled of power. I didn’t want to call it charity. That’s what Catholics do. I didn’t want to call it a mission. That’s what Christians do. My people, we belong to a different understanding. I mean, we can subscribe to any religion at face value, but when it comes down to dirt of it, we all bow to the smell. You know what I mean. You’ve been there.

It’s not reverence that makes us bow, it’s sickness and disgust, the rising of vomit inside our chests. We are blown down our knees, and there, we have no choice but to humble ourselves.

And there’s nothing romantic about it. If it were up to me, I’d live my life in peace. I don’t want to do it. I’ve tried to stop, you know. I tell myself that this is all just a phase. To prove it, I eat meat. A lot of it. Nothing but meat. Maybe a little dairy thrown in just for kicks.

Then, the smell creeps into my nose, usually when I’m working out. The smell comes out through my sweat. I’m running — on mile four or five — and I can’t believe people at the gym aren’t staring. It stinks. It’s the smell, and it’s coming from my pores, from my body, and that’s it. I can’t do it. I go crawling back to Elgin. I don’t want to be a cliché, but that’s literally what it feels like: I grovel. I beg Elgin to vanquish the smell, like he’s some priest, some exorcist. What will I do now, now that Elgin’s not here?

Thing is: even when Elgin gets out, it won’t be the same. I saw him in that courtroom. He’s not the same.

Nothing relieves the guilt of being away like the factories. Nothing compounds the guilt of being away like the labs. Sometimes, we’ll do a shop for fun. That doesn’t help me though, not when I’ve been away.

I won’t say anything to incriminate any of my people. I won’t give you names of places or dates. You know Elgin. You know Alice. You know me. That’s all you need to know.

And you can’t really tie me to any of this. I know that. Or rather, you wouldn’t dare attach my name to any of this. I’m not being cocky. But you already know this.

The first factory: it looked so harmless on the outside. Except you could smell it ten miles away. It’s not the stink of manure or the blood that gets to you. Sure, that’s the stuff that churns the stomach, but you can wash that off when you’re done. Some smelling salts, a nice bath, and you’re set.

No, it’s the sterility that blankets the floor and hovers five feet above ground. It’s bleach and disinfectant. Chemicals. A freshly cleaned bathroom.

It doesn’t cover everything though. There’s a zone in the middle: that’s what gets to you. If you can keep your nose above that arbitrary line, you’re good. But me: I’m short enough that I’m caught in the zone. It’s painful in there. Every movement is weighted down in the smell. It’s hard to see. You get this dizzy sensation, but there’s so much to do, but you’re in some stop-animation sequence. Does this make sense to you? You have to become a little robotic or you won’t move. You won’t be able to.

I think of all the animals there: how do they even stand up? How is it possible?

The first factory: chickens. I threw up more than I’d eaten all week. Their beaks were sanded off. They had more than two thighs. I don’t think they could stand up. They didn’t have enough feathers to cover their bodies; they looked more than naked.

The first factory: I opened cages but they wouldn’t move. They weren’t that different from the damned fur coats.

This is something my people should have warned me about. I thought I’d open a cage and they’d all run free. I didn’t know I’d have to pick them up, move them.

I should have though. We brought our own cages. That should’ve been a hint, but it was my first factory. I didn’t think it all through. Until I was already there, cage open, chickens stagnant. What’s worse is that they thought I was going to feed them. Or kill them.

Either way, it already felt like death to me.

It was Alice who came in. She put all my chickens in a cage. She put her bloody, feathered hand on my shoulder. Then, she ran off. There were more chickens and I was frozen. Stuck.

It was Elgin who dragged me back to the van. He told me the next one would be easier. It wasn’t, but I did more than just stand stationary.

The first factory: I couldn’t wash off the smell. I learned to live with it.

I thought others could smell it on me too.

I couldn’t shower it off of me. But the day after the first factory, I got a promotion. I thought it was some kind of a sign.

My new office was bigger than my apartment. It had a great view, but when I looked out the window, all I could see were those chickens, lame and pathetic.

I don’t have to tell you this, but I’ve upgraded both office and apartment since then. I guess you already know that though. I’m also not the same person I was after that first factory. I’m no longer inert when I look at their faces. I don’t need Alice or Elgin to come save me. If I wanted, I could call the shots. But that’s not what you want to hear. You want to hear how Elgin was our leader, how we’re lame, pathetic chickens without him. You want me to tell you I won’t do it again, that I’ve somehow reformed.