|
Monica drives down route 441, back home from the third-quarter sales meeting in Atlanta. Monica sells software. Urban kind of software, engineering, government, copper, high tech flexible stuff, too, stuff that isn't supposed to pop from viruses. Atlanta's cold. Winter in Orlando, though, it never gets cold enough. Right now it's a rainy drive, off and on, but warm. Oleanders still in bloom. Palm trees in patches next to the orange stands and souvenir shops. Everybody's got something to sell. A little personality goes a long way. Forget scamming people; you're selling yourself more than a floppy disk.
: : : : : : : :
In Atlanta, the sales people went over the figures, how close each is to quota--"making your nut," as the sales manager says. After you make your nut, everything else is gravy, to the tune of five percent. You don't make your nut, you're gone. Monica hasn't made her nut, yet.
: : : : : : : :
Farther down 441 toward the Alachua County border, Monica passes some people picking pecans. There's a sign: "pick you're own. a basket." Monica pulls over. Beside the sign are a little old white guy in a red, vinyl recliner, and a stack of bushel baskets. The guy looks lonely. He's got no shirt, no shoes, and no hat. The kind of guy who shows some butt crack when he bends. He wipes sweat from his forehead with a clean, white rag. He smiles. Monica nods to the old guy, then points at the sign, shakes her head, pulls away slowly. Pecans on the ground are probably rotten by now. Too rainy. Besides, Monica is late for a lonely dinner. Late for telling her husband, Zhou, about the job Monica may not have anymore. She'll call him from home. Anyway, Monica can't pick pecans when she can buy them at the store. Girl's got to balance her time; time's money. You've got to put your time where the money is. But pecans are so expensive at the store, and mother likes pecans, likes to make pies and crisps. One time she made four pecan pies for Thanksgiving.
: : : : : : : :
She tried to explain sales to Zhou, over pecan waffles, the morning she left for Atlanta. Zhou works at a restaurant in Orlando--The Golden Moon. Monica wants him to be interested in sales, too. She wants Zhou to do something other than cook in a restaurant. You can't support a family, she says. Zhou doesn't care, says a salesperson is a hunger artist, opposite of a chef. Besides, the food's good there--waffles are better than grits and red-eye gravy.
: : : : : : : :
Nothing's better than pecan pie, but pecans are so expensive and Thanksgiving's only a month away. Monica could really impress Mama if she brought home a whole basketful for five dollars. They could have a nut-cracking party next weekend. Maybe even invite Zhou's mom. So Monica makes a U-turn and parks next to the guy in the recliner. Monica pays him five dollars and the guy gives her a nice, new basket. "Any tree?" Monica asks. "Sure, pick one. Just don't get in my workers' way," the guy says. "How can I tell which ones are the workers?" "They're the ones with the tree shakers." The old guy gets a belly laugh going. Monica feels stupid. Hadn't noticed she'd need a tree shaker. Impetuous. Monica looks down at her good, grey suit. Ill-prepared. No old clothes in the trunk. It's close to ninety-two in the shade. Monica looks back at the old guy. He's gotten up to piss on one of his trees. Monica looks up at the sun--squinting, yellow big ball of squint. This is just like her, Zhou would say. Acting before thinking. This is why Monica might not make her nut. Typical. Monica is too proud to ask for her money back, and five dollars for a bushel of pecans still seems cheap to her. Monica walks off to look for a tree.
: : : : : : : :
One thing Zhou says he hates above anything else is food all mixed up on the plate. Monica's dad does that when dinner's served--immediately mixes all the food together. Zhou's mom tries to make every bite separate yet balanced so that every bite has its partner on another side of the plate. Peas, potatoes, and pork, each smashed together or eaten apart evenly depending on the parent. Zhou tries to control the plate as a field of battle, each portion aligned behind protective garnish so that not only is each safe from fraternizing with the enemy but also safe in its own boundaries, shielded from the sight of the others so that if one is finished first then the other portions won't know. This strategy confirms Zhou as an obsessive to Monica and her dad, and a field marshall of cuisine to Zhou's mom.
: : : : : : : :
Some of the trees are heavy with nuts and nuts lie all around their trunks. Some trees have already been picked over. Monica chooses a tree next to one where a worker has propped a tree shaker. This worker's resting next to the tree, curled her legs under her blue skirt, one arm inside her blue t-shirt. Scratching, having a drink from a paper sack. She's got these funny grey eyes when she opens them, blinks. "Little late to start picking," she says and fingers the red bandana wrapped around her head. "It's an impulse," Monica says. She looks at the dark sweat marks around the worker's bosoms, around her hips. The worker looks Monica in the face, then, down at her suit and black pumps then grimaces. "I work all day," Monica says. "This is the only time I can pick." "You could buy them. He'll sell 'em to you." "But this is so cheap." "This is hard damn work." She takes another swig from her paper sack, offers it to Monica. "I have to drive." She shrugs. "It's only OJ." "How do you pick pecans without a tree shaker?" Monica asks. "Climb." "Why can't I borrow your tree shaker?" "I'm paid to pick. You paid to pick." "So? You're taking a break." "You buy what he sells," she says. "How do I know you won't sell your leftovers?" "Does it matter?" "If you sell for less, it does." "Why?" Monica asks. "Look, if every soul that got a basket, picked then sold the nuts, that's competition." She points at the old guy. "I'm out of a job if he can't make money selling my pecans." "Whose trees are they, anyway?" "Trees are trees. Nuts are nuts," she says. Monica is already looking for a low branch. She's also looking at her good grey suit. "Unless you get 'em off the trees," the worker says. "The both of them are worthless and nobody cares whose trees they are." "I paid for a basket." "But you didn't pay for a tree shaker." Monica notices there are lots of small pecan trees sprouting up around their two trees. Some are quite big, quite full and leafy. "How much are they?" Monica asks. The worker goes over to her tree shaker. "How much do you have?" "How much would a tree cost, I mean, a seedling." "Less than my tree shaker." She takes another swig from the sack.
: : : : : : : :
Now Monica has got an idea, so she walks back over to the old guy. He's asleep, feet suspended. He snores loudly and rubs his balls. "Hey." "Hey, yourself," the guy says. "Can I get my five dollars?" "Sure, pick a tree." He points over his shoulder. "No, I mean, can I get my money back." "You don't like these pecans? I thought you liked pecans. You liked pecans when you made that U-turn, didn't you? You liked pecans by the basketful. Now all of a sudden you want your money back. How do I know you didn't load your car trunk while I was asleep?" "Ask her," Monica says. The worker is back on her tree shaker, back picking pecans. She picks quickly. Moves up and down with the tree shaker. Nuts snap off the tree. She's fast and efficient. No wasted motion. "She'd lie." He rubs his gut, runs his fingers through his greasy white hair. "No joke, I want my money. I can't pick without a tree shaker." "Why didn't you say so. They're tree shakers in town--Home Depot." "I don't have time for that or this." "Why'd you stop then?" The guy sticks a thumb up his nose. "You've got a good price on that sign, but it doesn't say anything about tree shakers." "Well, any fool can see you need a tree shaker to pick pecans from a tree." He pulls a booger out and wipes it on his armrest. "I wasn't thinking." "Oh hell, you look like a nice girl, dressed-up, businesslike, and probably a fine future customer. I'll tell you what. You come back tomorrow morning with a tree shaker." He eyes Monica's suit. "And some work clothes and I won't charge you another five dollars." "I have a job tomorrow." "Me, too," he says. "World's funny that way."
: : : : : : : :
"Time to knock off." The worker's come down off her tree shaker and has dragged several baskets full of nuts behind Monica. "Why don't you sell her some of these?" "Hell, I'm gonna sell 'em to SunLand Produce in the morning," he says. "I've got a quota to meet--you know that. I can't miss or they'll find another supplier." "What's five dollars worth?" Monica asks. "Pretty near a quarter of a fourth of a basket," he says and laughs. Monica looks at the both of them. "You just want to see me climb a tree." "Sweetie, I don't care if you climb shit," he says. "You think I don't work for a living," Monica says. "I sell computer software. It's hard work. Some people don't want my stuff. Everybody wants your pecans. Some people want my stuff, want it for less, but I've got a quota, too. Just like you. I have to make my nut or I'm out of a job. Understand?" "Sell her some nuts." The worker's resting against the recliner and rubbing the white man's back. "Can't. Told you that." "She works hard," she says. "I can tell, see it in her eyes." "Please," Monica says. "Or a tree, sell me a seedling for five dollars. Just the tree." "Hell, go pick you out one and stick it in your basket, and we'll call it quits." "Thanks," Monica says.
: : : : : : : :
The worker and Monica go back to their two trees, scout around, and, grinning, Monica fills her basket with dirt and a nice pecan seedling. They carry the basket back to Monica's car and load the tree into the backseat. They shake hands, and the worker says, "Now you're in business." How is that, Monica thinks. How is that, that like an omen? Business. Well, she is in sales, afterall. Monica puts her car in drive, blasts off. THE END
|
 Pirates Magazine Thoughts on Spook Country by William Gibson
Thoughts on Pattern Recognition by William GibsonOneTwo Three Four Five Six Seven
sites
Cantos
|
