Rhubarb (3 page)

Beep beep beeeeeep. Beep beep beeeeeep.

The waffle stuck to the top of the griddle but fell free
with a gentle nudge from the spatula. Martin plucked two gold-foiled pats of
butter out of a bowl and took a pack of Sysco breakfast syrup from the top of a
neat stack. Cheryl crossed the lobby, chewing on a fingernail as she rounded
the wood-paneled front desk, and disappeared into the back office hall that led
to the housekeeping room.

Martin ate at the table with the words “Brixton” and “Sux”
scratched in the laminate—the “Sux” intersecting the name of the town like a
Scrabble play. He forced himself to read yesterday’s Billings Gazette—he didn’t
want Cheryl to catch him looking for her to return—but only the doleful mounted
head of a measly four-point buck looked his way.

The rumor wasn’t true; the doors of the Herbert’s Corner
Convenience Store, Diner, and Trucker’s Lounge had locks. Martin had never
known them to be used, but there they were. They probably had to put them in to
get insured or to keep the Health Department placated.

The diner’s unnaturally brown carpet couldn’t be called
anything but “colorless” in polite company. Beyond the “Please Seat Yourself”
sign, six tables filled the floor between the eight stools at the counter and a
U of ten brown upholstered booths. Sunlight peeked through one small window in
the narrow vestibule near the till, but otherwise the diner’s only lighting was
fluorescent. Was it brunch or midnight? The Pepsi clock behind the till stayed
out of the argument. Not that it mattered—the whole menu was always available.

Five men were seated in the diner, reading newspapers or
filling out paperwork amid their dirty dishes. A pair of ranchers dropped their
check and some cash next to the register and squeezed out past Martin.

“Yo, Screw Man,” called a familiar voice. Jeffrey
Scarborough waved from the far corner booth.

Jeffrey was a candy guy. Those no-brand candy packs that
hang on hooks to the left of the candy bars and gum, and to the right of the
nuts—those were him. Cellophane packs of gummy worms, candy corn, Jordan almonds,
chocolate pretzels, butter mints, wax colas, licorice—all the candies people
sort of like, but not enough to brand. Jeffrey was probably the biggest seller
of carnauba wax in the Northern Rockies. Martin had tried a few varieties after
meeting Jeffrey, shortly after signing on with FastNCo.—what, five years
ago?—but found them a little off-putting. He imagined ungloved, unwashed
workers scooping candies out of bins at the maws of filthy machines. Martin had
seen enough of that Food Network show about snack factories to want to know
where his junk food came from. But everyone stocked Jeffrey’s stuff. Somebody
must buy it.

Jeffrey sported his usual ironed shirt, open collared under
a tailored jacket. FastNCo. insisted that Martin wear khakis and scratchy blue
embroidered polo shirts, which never seemed to fit quite right. He felt like a
gadget salesman without a Best Buy.

“Thought I saw the ol’ Screwmobile parked at The Brick
Mattress this morning,” said Jeffrey. Martin waved to Eileen, who was chatting with
a truck driver at the counter, as he slid into the booth across from Jeffrey.
“Why do you still stay there? It’s only two hours from Billings.”

“Two and a half,” said Martin.

“You could have slept at home and gotten up here by now, no
problem,” said Jeffrey. “Look at you. You look like hell. Like you’re about to
have a heart attack or something.”

Eileen arrived and poured Martin a cup of coffee.

“The number four, and some water, too, please,” said Martin.
“I went for a jog this morning.”

Jeffrey laughed. “A jog? You? You’re kidding.”

“What? What’s wrong with wanting to get in shape? You’re in
shape,” said Martin.

“I’m blessed with a naturally thin physique, and I do
taekwondo.”

“You do not.”

“I do, too,” said Jeffrey. “And let me guess: You were
trying to impress what’s-her-name and told her you’re training for an Ironman.”
Jeffrey stretched his arms across the back of the booth. “Does that mean you
actually talked to her instead of drooling all over yourself?”

“We exchanged a few words,” said Martin. He peeled open a
pack of half-and-half, dribbled it into his coffee, and stirred it in. “And
don’t be a jerk.”

“Just trying to give you a nudge in the right direction,”
said Jeffrey. “If you like this woman, you’ve got to make a move sometime. You
can’t waste your whole life being afraid to talk to her. You might call it
being a jerk, but I’m looking out for you.”

“You know it’s not that easy,” said Martin. Eileen arrived
with a tall, sweating glass of ice water and Jeffrey’s meal. “Eileen,” said
Martin, “did you know Herbert Stamper?”

“Before my time,” she said. “You must have heard BI last
night. Everyone was talkin’ about it this morning.”

“Any truth to it?” asked Martin.

“Strange stuff happens around here every day, but I don’t
need flying saucers to explain any of it. Just a restaurant full of boys like
you comin’ in off the road,” said Eileen.

“BI? You still listening to that crap?” Jeffrey asked.

“Are you about to give me more advice?” Martin asked, then
turned to Eileen. “The guy on the radio said he interviewed a woman who used to
work here.”

Eileen laughed. “Probably Doris Solberg. She lives out on
McMasters Road now. Used to have a thing with Herbert, and that woman can talk.
Yours’ll be up in a minute.” Eileen reloaded her tray with dishes from another
table on her way back to the counter.

“Danvers talked about Brixton?” asked Jeffrey.

“And Herbert’s Corner. Apparently this very diner used to be
the aliens’ favorite truck stop,” said Martin.

“And of course you believed it, hook, line, and sinker,” said
Jeffrey.

“Wouldn’t it be cool, though?” said Martin and scanned the
diner. The last of the other customers was settling up with Eileen at the till.
“Eating lunch with extraterrestrials.”

Jeffrey rolled his eyes and plucked the frilled toothpick
out of his toasted club sandwich. “Audiobooks,” he said. “That’s what I listen
to.”

“Gotta keep awake somehow,” said Martin.

“You working the co-op this afternoon?” Jeffrey asked
through a half-swallowed bite. Martin nodded. “Then I suggest you take the
opportunity to ask her out.”

“We’re still talking about this? What about your adventures?
Still seeing the assistant manager at the McDonald’s in—where was it?
Columbus?”

Jeffrey shook his head and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
“Focus. It’s a big day for you.”

“I can’t just ask her out. I don’t want to end up like Frank
Odessa. Remember him? The paint and stain guy? He asked her out and Lester
practically had him arrested.”

“Odessa didn’t ask her out, he grabbed her ass,” Jeffrey
pointed out.

“Plus, I heard she punched the homecoming king in the balls
for doing something similar, and that he pretty much had to leave town after
that,” said Martin.

“I doubt that happened,” said Jeffrey. “Look, she’s the town
daughter. How many other women stick around a place like Brixton after high
school? Of course people are going to look out for her. But if your intentions
are noble, no one’s going to stop you.”

“I’m at least five years older than she is,” said Martin.

“You’re talking yourself out of this before you’ve given
yourself a chance,” said Jeffrey. “Who cares about age? You’re what thirty-three,
thirty-four? So what? Besides, she probably likes older men.”

“I’m twenty-nine,” said Martin. His food arrived, and he
thanked Eileen.

“You’re not going to do it,” said Jeffrey, sliding the
bottle of Heinz ketchup across the table without being asked.

“It’s more complicated than that,” said Martin.

“Whatever,” said Jeffrey. “Maybe I’ll ask her out.”

Martin shook his head and poured ketchup on his hash browns
as Jeffrey laughed.

~ * * * ~

Out in the parking lot, Martin put on his sunglasses and
watched Jeffrey turn out onto Highway 360 on his way to sell more lame candy to
every store in Montana. Jeffrey liked to go on at length about how his Lincoln
Town Car was the only car for the traveling salesman. Roomy, powerful, floated
like a cloud. “It’s like flying a leather sofa,” Jeffrey always said. “You
oughta get yourself one.”

That was easy for him to say. He didn’t have to carry
inventory. He had one of those cushy jobs where he just went from store to
store writing up orders. He didn’t use paper, or even a PDA with a UPC wand and
a docking station. Jeffrey had an iPad app. Martin had seen him work. Jeffrey
spent about two minutes checking the inventory levels of no more than twenty products,
then spent the next fifteen minutes glad-handing owners, shooting the breeze
with assistant managers, or chatting up cute cashiers. He’d upload the order on
the stroll back out to his flying couch, via some kind of always-on 3 or 4 or
5G wireless. The order was probably boxed up and loaded on a UPS truck before
he even got to his next account.

That was not the life of a FastNCo. area account
representative. No cushy Town Car for him. Instead, Martin drove a Ford E-250
Super Duty Cutaway, a pickup truck cab and chassis with a custom payload box on
the back. Every FastNCo. truck in the country was identical, thanks to some
company bean counter. When fully loaded, the four hundred different cabinets,
drawers, and compartments contained more than a ton of nails, screws, nuts,
bolts, washers, and staples. The fleet-style cab had been stripped of anything
that might make a Ford truck a pleasure to drive. That bean counter—who
probably commuted a half-hour to and from work in an Acura with heated seats
somewhere in Ohio—never conceived of the distances and conditions that the reps
out West had to cope with.

Martin had outfitted the gray-on-gray interior with a
steering wheel cover, a back-supporting seat cushion, a cup holder stuck in
place with double-sided foam tape, and a Garmin GPS unit he’d bought with his
own money. Martin had tried to get a couple of different places to replace the
AM/FM radio, but no one would touch it because he wasn’t the official owner of
the vehicle, not even when he offered the guy at Radio Shack forty bucks.
Instead, Martin had mounted a SiriusXM radio and speakers in a homemade plywood
box, held together with various FastNCo. fasteners, that sat on the passenger
seat. Martin had had to do a little tinkering with the truck’s electrical
system to make it work, but he could disconnect it in four minutes flat if his
district manager ever showed up.

Martin rolled into the parking lot of the Brixton Co-op
shortly after one o’clock and stopped along the side of the building where
Lester liked vendors to park, under the Purina and Monsanto signs. Martin
loaded his folding cart with a couple of boxes each of 425s and 10478s.
Ranchers chewed through those by the pound to repair fences, and Lester always
needed more.

The doorbell jangled as Martin wheeled the cart through the
door. Cheryl glanced up from her paperback behind an enormous mechanical
register. She still wore her red hoodie, but she’d changed into jeans. Lester
didn’t make her wear a nametag. “Hey there,” she said. “How was your run this
morning?”

“Pretty good,” said Martin. He would have liked to go into
detail, but he doubted that the mile or so of sweat, panting, and fending off
an unfenced blue heeler would impress. She picked up the phone on the pole and
pressed a number. Across the store, on the second floor, Lester turned around
at his desk, peered down, and waved through the window.

“Martin Wells from FastNCo. is here,” Cheryl said when he
answered his phone.

On a rack next to the register, near a spinner of
cowboy-themed greeting cards, hung a dozen varieties of Jeffrey’s candy. Martin
imagined Jeffrey smarming over the counter, showing off his whitened teeth and
bragging about his prowess at taekwondo. Martin exchanged another polite smile
with Cheryl. Jeffrey probably would have had her agreeing to an evening down in
Billings, maybe Red Lobster, a 3-D movie at the new Shiloh 14. He’d arrange a
room for her at the Crowne Plaza. Martin told himself to stop it. She’d never
agree to that. Not with someone like Jeffrey. Not with anyone. If she could be
wined and dined, someone would have done it by now.

Cheryl went back to her book, but Martin couldn’t see the
cover. He hoped he hadn’t left anything weird in the room for her to
find—yesterday’s underwear, an unflushed toilet, kinky hairs in the shower. He
could never be sure whether Cheryl, Pam, or Vonnie would clean his room, so he
always rinsed out the tub, double-checked for belongings, hung his towels, and
took his food trash out to the can in the lobby. He didn’t want Cheryl finding
out how many Pop-Tarts or Pringles he ate in the middle of the night. But he
also worried that she’d find him too neat, oddly fastidious, or
serial-killerish. So he always made sure to leave the bed a mess, and to toss
the TV remote casually on the nightstand.

Lester, so bowlegged he walked with a cane, had been running
the store longer than Martin had been alive. He liked to think he was one of a
kind, that he ran the tightest ship around, but to Martin, he was one of a
score of rural old-timer retailers still running ahead of the actuarial odds as
if too busy for a funeral. Lester had bigger fish to fry. “I got a few
returns,” he said, leading Martin away from Cheryl. “Ronnie’s boy Mike came in
here last week with a couple bolts, heads broke clean off. Says there weren’t
no torque on ’em at all.”

“I’ll take a look,” said Martin. “I’m sure we can get you a
credit.”

“I’d appreciate it,” said Lester.

The FastNCo. setup took up more than a third of one aisle
with its array of little drawers, each with a picture and a list of specs on a
card on the front. A few bins near the floor contained high-volume products and
a scoop on a chain. A set of shelves held the boxed items. Lester tapped a few
drawers. “I ain’t moved none of these in a few months. Maybe you got something
else we can put in there instead?”