Just Peachy

I have been told by numerous associates that John Henderson was a green grocer in Nevada. Others are confident he was a farm hand, constantly saving up money so that he could start a farm of his own. Personally, I think John Henderson started all those stories himself to convince his employees he knew something about produce. It was certainly true that he knew how to purchase produce. I don’t know if working as a green grocer or as a farm hand taught him how to use an order form, but the fact that John had an innate ability to order the incorrect amount of produce was inescapable. I can still remember picking the stickers off “fresh” peaches and nectarines. The “California Grown” and “Grown in Mexico” stickers were replaced by John’s impeccably misspelled signs reading “Utah Fresh” and “Local Produce.” John undoubtedly had no qualms about selling his own produce, but why would he go through the trouble if he could sell imported fruit at a fraction of the cost?

John's Fruitstand was a dusty little produce stand along Utah’s Fruit Highway. Beneath a yellow and white striped tent were countless fruits and vegetables. I remember sorting through zucchini, making sure it was crisp and fresh. As the cars raced by on Highway 89, I would break the pliable pieces in half and throw them into a half-bushel basket. I would then carry my basket to the other produce. Into the basket went cantaloupe, tomatoes, peaches, and apples that were no longer fit for anyone but John himself. He would wait for me to help a customer with their selections before he would return the rotting produce to the displays and shelves, hoping that some unsuspecting customer would purchase it by mistake. Despite his efforts I would prevail in my removal of the decaying fruit and throw it into the dumpster across the gravel parking lot.

I worked at John's Fruitstand for about a year after graduating from high school. I can still smell the fermenting peaches and the acidic Roma tomatoes fresh from the fields. Unlike a large amount of the produce we sold, some of the peaches and tomatoes sold in the late summer and early fall were local, homegrown in Box Elder County, Utah. The rest of the season we imported them from the cheapest vendor. Where people thought we were growing fruits like lemons and limes in Brigham City was beyond my comprehension. Some of the customers believed my sincere assurance that the citrus fruits were from Mexico City, Utah, a little known town just south of Corinne. Others felt vague impressions that Mexico City was actually in Mexico, but they didn’t want to argue with an expert. My coworkers stood in amazement as I divulged to our customers from where the produce really came. John found himself somewhere between rage and amusement; he was furious that I would discredit him by discreetly informing customers that our produce was imported, but he found a satiric humor when people failed to take the hint.

John was never satisfied. His undying creed was that employees could always work harder and money would someday grow on his peach trees. My coworkers lived in constant fear of losing their employment, and I could not help but wonder if John Henderson had studied the stockyard employers in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. Employees would be terminated on the spot if the value of their labor fell below that of their counterparts. Many workers came and went at the Stand, as I so endearingly called it. Few made the cut, and no one knew how much longer they would last.

When the skies were clear and the temperatures warm, the fruit stand would bustle with activity. Questions and answers would get jumbled together in the fray as employees and customers held lively discussions about the appropriate peaches for canning and baking, the proper potatoes for chowder, and the best apples for pie. I would always work my shifts with Rhonda Keller. When I was busy answering someone’s questions about Hubbard squash, she would be ringing up the charges on an ancient cash register. Her bleach-blonde hair would shine dully in the strange half-light of the tent. Rhonda was like my grandmother. We would sort peaches together and discuss the bipolar mood swings of our employer, John. We both made eight dollars an hour, but we also knew that if John was in the wrong mood that amount would quickly fall to zero.

At the Stand we sold “homegrown” petunias. Rhonda loved those flowers. On a sunny day, we would talk for hours while picking off the dead heads and pruning the stems. It was messy work. A sugary liquid would come out of the petunia flowers when they were squeezed. After working with the flowers for long increments of time, I would find myself covered in a sweet-smelling liquid attractive to insects of all sorts. I often contemplated how lucky the bees were that visited our petunias. Any bee drinking the sweet nectar of a petunia flower all day must have a happy life. Rhonda would always laugh at my comments about the bees. She once remarked that I would make a good bee because my arms were covered in smashed leaves and crumpled petals while hers had stayed surprisingly clean.

However, deadheading petunias wasn’t possible when it rained. Few customers purchased fruit on stormy days. Without a steady stream of customers to haggle, John’s engagements at the Stand were limited. He rarely supervised his business when the weather was poor. Although the fruit stand was entirely covered by the big circus tent, the dumpster was not. I’m sure John smirked with amusement as I looked from my basket of rotting fruit to the dumpster across the muddy pond that was once the parking lot. I would sit behind the counter and watch customers drive up in the mud, their tires spraying the big wooden crates that surrounded the stand. The mud-flecked crates were overflowing with the vibrant petunias, their shades ranging from deep purple to silvery white. Flowers would grow through the small cracks between joists and trail down the sides of the crates, adding an element of beauty to many a murky afternoon.

It would get cold in the Stand as the cold air got trapped beneath the circus tent during a rainstorm. Pools of water would collect at the edges of tent, making deep depressions that looked fit to burst in the artificial ceiling. To remedy the situation, I would bundle myself up in rainproof clothing and grab an industrial broom I used for just such occasions. I would take the butt-end of the broom and hit it against the underside of the tent. The water would pour down around my feet in a great splash. Specks of mud and debris would dot my worn jeans as I moved toward the next yellow and white depression. When the rain was even heavier, I could run circles around the tent for hours, constantly emptying the bulges of rainwater.

The Stand would also flood as the rain from the mountain began to run down the slope. By the end of an eight hour work day my tennis shoes were soaking wet and my feet were numb. I used the other end of my broom to sweep the water from behind the counter where I stood. The stream of water that gushed into the stand would bring dirt and decayed fruit from the fields above. As I attempted to sweep the water away, I also had to sweep the muddy sludge that came along with it. One customer offered to help, but upon seeing the state of my broom remembered a pressing appointment for which she was late. Instead of selling fruit at these times, I would listen to the pitter-patter of the rain hitting against the tent. The clouds would swirl overhead as the lightning flashed and the thunder roared. Cars rushed by on the busy highway, spraying water onto the gravel and mud into the gutter.

Rhonda and I cleaned when it rained. Since I had few customers to help I could spend time doing the odd jobs that always needed to be done. I sorted through signs and marking utensils, correcting John’s spelling mistakes when I could. I sanitized the counters and scales. Everything smelled of sweet fruits, vegetables, and rainwater, but it seemed that as soon as I got the Patch to a tolerable state of cleanliness, something momentous would happen to throw it back into disarray. One such occasion was Peach Days, a regional holiday celebrated in Brigham City. At John's Fruitstand the event was received with a certain foreboding. The weekend event marked the busiest time of the year for the fruit stand. Hordes of people would flock to the small town from across the country to experience the delectability of fresh peach cobbler a la mode. During Peach Days it is impossible to sort fruit or manage rainwater. The only task expected to be performed is the sale of peaches, and that is exactly what we did.

Well, that is what Rhonda did anyway; I had the flu. The smell of fermenting peaches was particularly nauseating when I was suffering from influenza. A haze of my coworkers’ productivity was my only perception of Peach Days. Customers asked my assistance only to turn around in disgust when they recognized the unpleasant implications of my pale disposition. Although I had the flu, I was still expected at work. I figured the best way to accommodate this unfortunate predicament was to make my presence undesirable to customers, thereby creating a pretense for my early departure. By emphasizing a certain over-attention to my stomach indicative of only one thing, people quickly understood that my assistance was unnecessary. By scaring away potential customers, I correctly assumed the astute exploitation of my illness could not go unnoticed. When John discovered people leaving without having made any purchases, he immediately began searching for the issue. It was unacceptable to allow people to leave without usurping their wallets. When he discovered that I was the culprit, a peculiar look crossed his face. He promised me with great antics that, after I recovered, I would work until I could work no more. His overly pleased expression suggested that he was quite thrilled at the thought of causing me additional pain. The surrounding customers glanced at me pityingly as they made their way to the counter, quarter-bushel baskets of peaches in tow.

As I left the establishment, Rhonda glanced at me with a mischievous smile. Although I was truly afflicted with influenza, John had offered me two guarantees that no employee of John's Fruitstand had succeeded in securing. I was promised a job for the rest of the season, and I was ensured a work schedule that would return a substantial profit. When I spoke to Rhonda next, it was with the assurance that I would be paid for the rest of the season to wield my broom in my fight against rainwater. Rhonda smiled as we sat down to sort through the peaches, our hands and arms covered in baby powder in hopes that the peach fuzz wouldn’t stick. I smiled back as I threw a rotten peach over my shoulder and into the highway, listening for the moment when an unsuspecting car would squash it and spread peach juice across the road.