“The tip of my finger came off—whhhsht! I was slicing and I didn’t use the little guard that goes down on the machine—I was just using my hand. I turned around to look at somebody and whhhsht! I felt a little tug and it was gone. I looked at it and it didn’t even start bleeding yet— I saw the raw flesh there. The machine was set on a thick number, too.”
There are burns across her inner arm today: trapezoidal, brown, like the discoloration on an ironing-board cover. Her thighs, naturally, are bruised. “They bump into you. Well, you can see what it’s like behind the counter. These two guys’re killing me. Peter, he’s got feet on him this big. I’m pretty strong, but I’ve already threatened to come in with my brother’s football equipment on.”
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