M iXi M            

It is rainy and warm today, which means a bunch of things. It means my black hair gets fuzzy and sticks up so as to attack customers; it means my shoes are still damp from this morning’s harvest and thus extremely uncomfortable; it means I’m itchy all over and Linden has to keep reminding me not to scratch my crotch in public.

Even though she is a girl, Linden’s arms are probably twice the size of mine, which means that I am skinny not that she is fat. In fact, Linden is quite strong but in a feminine way that complements her very—

"How much is the corn?" asks the Florida guy.

"Three dollars a dozen" I reply, slightly irked because the sign is right in front of him. I spent a long time making those little plastic signs. For some reason they don’t seem to work, and I still haven’t been reimbursed for the cost of the materials. So it goes in the summer job realm, I suppose.

A shot from the other direction: "What is this stuff? It this lettuce?" bothers an elderly woman.

"No ma’am, it’s mustard greens. The mesculum mix is over here."

"I think I’m ready to check out," says the man who obviously must be from Florida. "This is so great that you guys are here. This produce is so much better than what you find in the grocery store." As if you have to convince me. I work here. Then, "Wow, I love weather like this. This is how it is in Florida in the…" Last time I saw him he was dressed up like a biker, no I mean a cyclist, you know, spandex shorts on tight thighs and those fluorescent shirts. He always wears sunglasses too, even when it is cloudy like today. A habit he picked up on the peninsula?

"…winter, all balmy and gray. Well, have a good day!" finishes the man whose eyes I’ve never seen.

I smile back with a bright "you too!" but it may have been more of a grimace. Whatever it was, it brings chastisement from Linden.

"Henry, stop trying so hard," she says, lips an inch from my ear and hand on my belt near my hip. In order to stop the erection I think about dogs. For some reason that always works. "Just be yourself."

That is definitely not a good idea. If I was myself I would ask the blond woman why she and her baby are so pale and could she please keep her other kid from pulling the petals off the flower bouquets? And I would tell the woman with the round dark glasses and tight curly hair that before her I had never seen anyone approach middle age like a steam engine. I am asking Linden if she thinks the old man in golfing trousers would be offended if I asked him why his hands shake when he holds them out for change when I am silenced by a look that shames.

"But I am an artist," I emit in defense. "The details of people are interesting to me."

I don’t think she will buy this. Linden finishes restocking the tomatoes and walks out from under the tent. It is sagging under the weight of collected rain. There is a lull in business, and I guess she figures she can take a break.

Ah, the bonding qualities of domesticity. My arm raises in greeting as Ben and Sandy approach. They hold hands and are young and energetic. In contrast, it seems that a lot of our customers have a sort of feebleness in them. It is in the way most of them prod the produce with the tips of their fingers, instead of grabbing it with their hands and squeezing. It is the morning light reflecting off their glassy eyeballs, and the fact that no one seems to blink enough. Perhaps the table artificially gives me an authority that I am not used to. All I know is that my favorite regular is this elderly fellow with sharp features and a cane who comes everyone Saturday at noon, sneers and looks around at all the vegetables, and then yells at us for the prices being too high. He will buy something only if I bargain with him, and even then it is with a condescending grudge. What a mean old man. Linden hates him. I hope to be just like him when I grow up.

"Are you guys engaged yet?" I ask the couple. Sandy smiles while Ben remarks, "one of these days." Ben is the local mechanic, and though Sandy has her own productive garden she comes here for what she hasn’t grown herself.

I like the couples who come and shop together. Going to the market must be a nice, after-sex Saturday morning activity.

"Just because you carefully and cruelly observe people doesn’t mean you know them," says Linden, returning with a couple of cookies from a few stands down.

It takes me a second to remember what we were talking about. Oh yeah. I need to defend my propensity toward making unfair, sweeping assumptions that serve my interests. "You have to admit that there is something awfully telling about certain details, though," I reply.

"Maybe. But you can’t just pick out a whole bunch of characteristics and blow them out of proportion, saying that those things encompass a person. That isn’t character. Don’t forget about people’s actions, about what they actually do to you."

"And for you and with you," I add lamely. But Linden is busy helping the blind woman and her husband. A pang of jealousy resounds in either my heart or groin as I watch how tenderly she interacts with them. While conniving a scheme to get her into my arms one of these days, I study the blind woman, whose name I think is Clara. She and her husband walk arm in arm, and he is always whispering in her ear. Sweet everythings, I think, and shudder at my own joke.

"Excuse me, dear," says a plaintive voice. I turn. "Oh, hello, Henry." The voice belongs to the short, round woman with a pretty face pushing forty. I think she might be my next door neighbor, at least I’ve seen her about before. Usually wearing the same tight pink T-shirt that she is wearing now. I don’t know how she knows my name, and I certainly don’t remember hers.

We chat a little while I give her a guided tour of the greens. "This is French sorrel, good mixed in with a salad."

"Really, fascinating. I had no idea." The dark red lipstick starts to take on a life of its own as she talks, moving up and down not quite in synch with her words. This, and the way I feel her looking at my build, makes me wonder if she is single.

"That’ll be $12. Need a bag?"

"No thanks. I’m excited about all this basil. I think I will make some pesto tonight. Do you like pesto?"

"Love it. One of my former girlfriends has the best recipe." Man, why did I mention former girlfriend? "With this fresh basil it’ll be really good. Anyway, have a good—"

"Since we live so close to each other, you should stop by and try some. Anytime after seven. I’m on the corner, blue house. Um, see you later." She smiles and takes off, and I stand there and wonder where I went wrong.

"I hear someone has a date tonight…" teases Linden. It is a small stand and news of harassment travels quickly.

"Oh man, gross, what did I get myself into! I was just trying to be friendly! What was she thinking?" I nervously fidget with my short hair, tucking any stray strands behind my ears, and adjust my T-shirt, trying to curtail anything flirty in my appearance. "How come no middle-aged men hit on you when you smile at them?"

"Henry, I don’t look at their mouths and tell them about my ex-boyfriends. Besides, I do get hit on, but usually only by our boss, unfortunately."

Now I am confused. Our boss, Saul, is big and smiley and married. He wears suspenders for Pete’s sake. I can’t imagine him doing anything like that, but I am still reeling from my proposition from the lip-sticked flamingo.

It rains harder, and the stand becomes cramped as people crowd underneath the tent. I end up close to Linden. The top of her head is right under my chin; I want to embrace her but I do nothing.

"Is everything ok?" I ask, knowing that she won’t tell me anything.

"I’m fine. Just never mind, all right?" she answers fatally.

The smell of the onions rotting in the wet threatens us. I don’t know what to do. No one is buying anything; everyone is just standing silently, enduring the searing, uncomfortable air.

I am nothing but words.