Foods. It’s stitched right there on my blue apron, in white embroidery thread, stitched by Frank himself. Stitched right above Santa Fe Foods, which is what this place used to be called.
Ideal Foods.
Santa Fe Foods.
As Frank likes to tell the out-of-towners, the name of the store is right-on in both cases, because this is the most ideal place to be. And because if you know where to look, you can still see the wagon-wheel ruts of the Santa Fe Trail.
I think he might be making both parts up. I’ve lived here my whole life and never seen any traces of wagon wheels, though I’ve touched the secret petroglyphs that only the locals know about, mostly because those places are also our party spots. Seems like the earth pulls you to places the same way houses do, and certain spots are just good for hanging out, whether you’re an Indian doing a drawing or a white girl getting drunk.
But if you ask me, this apron just looks insane: Ideal Foods Santa Fe Foods, like somebody couldn’t make up their mind.
Sometimes I think that we’re all so wobbly inside, like none of us can make up our minds about stuff, and we spend all this time waffling back and forth, which just confuses everybody. I imagine a whole room of people rocking back and forth, like they’re physically acting out what their minds do all day, and we all look like a bunch of crazies, bumping into each other all because we can’t seem to line up and walk straight, because there’s these other possibilities that must be considered. It makes me a little sad, actually, because I think we’re doing it for the right reasons and it’s hard when you’re trying to do the right thing but you don’t know what it is. And probably it doesn’t matter. People would come in here no matter what the store was named.
I straighten my Ideal Foods Santa Fe Foods apron and scrape the manure off my shoes before heading out front. I love this job. Mostly because it’s just me and my mind and my daydreams, and time gets filled up, and so does my heart, and even though my life isn’t what I pictured, at least I have this, meaning that if I can’t have the life I want, at least I can have a job where I can daydream about the life I want.
Always, I start with the ice machine in the back room, where I shovel ice cubes into clear plastic bags that say ENJOY POLAR ICE! They have these pictures of white bears on the plastic and I have a long tradition of talking with them, though I do it in my head so that people don’t think I’m crazy. I tell the first bear, I hope Kay is taking good care of my girl, and probably she’s not, and what should I do about that, you cute thing? I say to one, out of the blue, You’re a fucker. I say to another one, You think Derek’s going to leave me or what? Because Tess said he would. I say to another one, There’s no way Tess can make it out there, she’s just a girl, well, she’s eighteen, but she’s a girl. I say to another one, I’m sorry I called your buddy a fucker. I’m sure you’re all nice enough. I tell one, You’ll end up in a cooler with beer at John Martin Dam. And you, I tell another, you’ll be packed around some newly dead fish. I say to the last one, What? You think I’m crazy? Not everyone talks to pictures of goofy-looking bears on plastic bags?
After the ice come the milk jugs, which I pull forward so the rows look full and neat. Eggs and butter, pulled forward. Plastic bags and paper bags, restocked. Floor by the cash register, swept. Then I clean the table up front, which is there for people who want a bite to eat in the store. The poker table, it’s called, since that’s what it gets used for, especially when the sheriff comes in with the volunteer EMT guys after a call and they need a game of cards to get whatever crash or drowning or death out of their system. So there’s the poker table, and then I clean the smudges off the glass door, and then more restocking. Then I clean the meat room, which is where Frank grinds hamburger and slices ham. It’s this part that takes so much time—wiping the chunks of bloody meat from the machines, taking the slicer apart and putting it back together, wiping down countertops and cleaning the huge knives in the sink. The chemicals I mix in the water smell so strong that my eyes cry all by themselves and I’m always worried that anyone looking through the window to the meat room will think I’m drowning in sorrow. All this I’ve got to get done before eight, which is when I need to restock and straighten again so that I can start cleaning and mopping at nine, so that everything’s set to go for the morning by the time the store closes at ten.
Just like I figured, Derek walks in right when I’m in the meat room, right before my break, right when I’m smelling and looking my worst. I wipe my face with the back of my hand and straighten my blue apron as I turn around to see him.
His face is burnt red and a farmer’s tan shows around the neck and sleeves of his turquoise T-shirt, which reads C.A.T.S. COLORADOANS AGAINST TEXAN SKIERS. Who knows why he bought that shirt, since he never skied in his life, but he has a thing against rich people, and a thing about outsiders moving to Colorado, and I guess he thinks Texans are guilty of both, so he harbors a special resentment against them. Although not really, because Derek never gets worked up about anything; wearing a T-shirt is about as far as he’ll go.
I can tell he just got off from work at the oil rig—we joke about that, how a guy named Derek works for a rig—because he’s still got on his torn-up jeans and boots and a haze of oily dirt covers his arm hairs and he smells so bad I have to bite my lip to keep from making a face. He looks too skinny, like he’s still a gangly kid or something, waiting to fill in and grow up.
“Hey, you,” he says, poking his head into the meat room. “Take your break yet?”
“Nope.”
He tilts his head toward the door. “Come outside.”
I look at Frank on my way out, and Frank nods, so I take off my apron and bunch it under my arm as I follow Derek out the glass door. We sit on the sidewalk, our feet on the parking lot. My arms prickle as the air-conditioned cool leaves my skin and the warmth seeps in, and it smells like heat out here, like dust mixed with air that’s burning.
I reach over to scratch Derek’s back. “Tess left. Last night, just drove off with—”
“That guy? I knew it. I knew it—”
“Really? I didn’t know it.”
“Like, left, or left left?”
“I don’t know. She had two suitcases. And I don’t know where she got those, I never saw them before.”
He’s silent for a long time, then he says, “She wasn’t kidding, was she?”
“She’ll come back. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I’m not worried.”
“Wow, she really left you with her baby. Why didn’t you call me?”
“Didn’t want to bug you.”
“You didn’t want to bug me?”
“She just needed a bit of vacation. But I wish she would’ve held Amber more. Like at the hospital. I should have given her the baby to hold more. And I wish she would’ve told me she was leaving. Well, she kept saying she might, but I never took her serious.”
He pokes at his work boots with a stick, jabbing off little bits of dirt from the edges. “He’s dealing drugs. They’re dealing drugs.”
“No way, Derek.”
“Why else would some guy start stopping by the house of a super-pregnant woman every time he got back from some ‘delivery,’ and why would Tess ask you not to mention him to Kay?”
“He delivers stuff, Derek. He’s a truck driver. When he came back from trips, he wanted to see her. Tess is beautiful. He was—I bet they’re—You know, after she feels better–”
“Naw, drugs or wetbacks—”
“You shouldn’t use that word.”
“Drugs or wetbacks, I’m telling you.”
“And you should know better than anyone that it’s best to keep Kay—what’s the word? Uninformed