Project Produce
Project Produce
Kari Lee Harmon
CHAPTER ONE
“Who in the world cares how big a man’s Mr. Winkie is, anyway?” I charged through the front door of Simpson’s Sanctuary, the dive of a motel in Queens where I worked, setting off the rusty bells above my head. Halting, I thought, Oh, Lord, please tell me I didn’t say that out loud. I glanced around and blew out a sigh of relief. The lobby was deserted, except for the front desk attendant, Gloria Martinez. I bit my bottom lip. Maybe she hadn’t heard.
Gloria ceased twirling her long chestnut curls, her bangle bracelets falling silent, and gaped at me with a phone pressed to her ear. “A whaaaaa?”
Oh, yeah, she heard. “A winkie, Gloria. A big ole w-i-n-k-i-e.” I stood there like a blathering, six-foot idiot. No way would I be able to complete this psychology project if I couldn’t even talk about it, but growing up in a small town as an only child of older, Irish Catholic parents left little room for discussion about “that.”
“I heard you, honey, I just can’t believe you call it a ‘winkie.’” She stared at me as though I’d lost a few brain cells between the campus and the motel.
I’d lost something, all right. My nerve. I tucked my shoulder-length hair behind my ears and started to pace. “Actually, it’s a Mr. Winkie, but never mind that. The point is what does size have to do with personality? If you ask me, most men are not very nice.” Since high school, it had taken me twelve years, one heck of a scandal, and several pitchers of Bahama Mamas to figure out that most men couldn’t commit, couldn’t be faithful, couldn’t be trusted in general.
I stopped pacing and looked at her. “I only signed up for this class because people where I come from don’t see shrinks. I thought I’d find my answers about my disastrous love life in a book or a lecture, not through a ridiculous final project.”
Gloria opened her mouth, but no words came out, so she just shrugged. She hadn’t known me all that long, but she was all I had. Poor woman.
“God, I’m a big, old, fat chicken-shit,” I said, making another loop around the lobby, thoroughly freaking out now.
“Calm down, Callie, you’re not old or fat, and you don’t look like a shitting chicken to me.” She waved her hand. “Hang on a sec and we’ll talk about this personality stuff, if they ever take me off hold. Though, why you want your pe--”
“Gloria.” I shot her a pleading look.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” She sighed. “Why you want your winkie to have a personality is beyond me.”
“I don’t want... oh, forget it.” As I circled the room again, clumps of January snow fell off my Snow Flurry boots and melted into the fading red carpet. I halted halfway around my third lap and faced Gloria. “Maybe I should check myself into a loony bin. Being crazy would be a blessing right now.”
“Holy cow, honey, you’ve got issues,” Gloria said.
So I’d been told by every commitment-phobic man I’d ever dated. Except for Bob, the one guy I’d thought had been different. He’d been different, all right. A six month, ruined my life, wish-to-God-I’d-never-met kind of different. In fact, he was the reason I’d had to leave my hometown in northern New York.
Note to self: Never trust a zucchini again.
What could I say? I had run the produce department in my parents’ general store back in Cutesville. Over time, it had become less embarrassing for me to refer to men’s anatomy as vegetables. Crazy, I know, but it had worked for me. Still did, I guess, even though you’d think I would’ve moved beyond that now that I was thirty.
“Issues? You don’t know the half of it,” I muttered. “I mean, at least if I were crazy, I wouldn’t look so silly doing what this teacher is making me do, right?”
“Right... I guess,” Gloria answered, squinting at me.
“I can’t fail again, Gloria, I just can’t. You have to help me!” My voice went up an octave and cracked. I had no idea what I wanted to do in my new life. I just knew I wouldn’t be able to move forward until I resolved the issues of my past. And I was through running. It was time I found my backbone and faced my fears.
Gloria held up a finger and gave me a sympathetic, albeit curious, look then talked into the phone.
I took a calming breath, feeling better. I could do this. I stomped my boots as I hung up my Eskimo parka. My well-intentioned but too-controlling parents had bought me the coat as a Christmas present last year. I never had been able to stand up to them, tell them what I really wanted, so I’d accepted it. Just like I did everything else, even though I couldn’t stand it. After I’d emptied my savings to get here, I couldn’t afford to buy a new one, even if I did look goofy walking around dressed like a musher for an Alaskan sled dog team.