The Influence(9)

He didn’t love working with chickens, but he got used to it, and it gave him something to do, even though, at odd times throughout the day, he would have flashbacks to his former life, what he thought of as his real life, thinking: I should be in a staff meeting right now or I should be on break, heading to Starbuck’s with Alex or I should be mapping out specs for a new flight control system. It was ridiculous, the 180 his life had undergone, but he did not allow himself to dwell on it for fear of becoming mired in self-pity.

Following the completion of his “chores,” as he jokingly called them, Ross would have lunch, sometimes by himself in the shack, sometimes with Lita and Dave, and in the afternoon, he’d go online, make phone calls, send out resumes and look for work. Evenings were spent watching TV, playing online games or emailing friends, though he took dinner with his hosts, both because he felt obligated and because Lita was a far better cook than he was.

On Thursday, they went to the farmer’s market to sell. He set his alarm for five, but Lita and Dave were already up, Lita gluing labels onto the last jars of honey, Dave carefully packing the egg cartons and honey jars into larger boxes along with protective layers of bubble wrap. The market didn’t open until nine, but they were ready to go by six-thirty, and they ate a leisurely breakfast together before counting out money to put in the change box, loading a table and chairs into the back of the pickup, and heading off to town, three abreast in the truck’s small cab.

After a bumpy uncomfortable ride on obviously shot shocks, they arrived in Magdalena, where the last section of street in front of the church was blocked off with two sawhorses, though that was probably unnecessary since Ross doubted there was much traffic here even on a busy day. Leaning out the window, Dave motioned to a cowboy-hatted septuagenarian standing next to the sawhorse on the right, and the old man pulled it aside to let the pickup through. Dave parked at the far end of the farmer’s market next to a Native American family setting up displays of jewelry and leatherware on a sheet-covered folding table, and the three of them got out of the cab.

Looking up at the adobe church at the end of the street and at the adobe building behind the pickup truck, Ross felt as though he was no longer in Arizona. He’d been born and raised in the state, but unlike California or New Mexico, which both had heavy Spanish influences, Arizona had always seemed to him very anglo, more cowboy-and-Indian than the rest of the Southwest, less Mexican. Magdalena, however, felt like it belonged south of the border. Even its name stood out from those of its more American neighbors: Willcox, Benson, Bisbee, Douglas, Tombstone… Magdalena.

He had never felt farther from home.

Ross helped Dave unload and set up the table and chairs in front of the down tailgate, while Lita carefully unpacked the cartons of eggs and jars of honey and began arranging them for display. Dave pulled out a large wooden sign with the words “L BAR-D RANCH ORGANIC EGGS AND HONEY” written on it, using bricks and two-by-fours to prop it next to the table.

According to Lita and Dave, the farmer’s market accounted for a significant portion of their admittedly small income, but Ross could not see how. Even if every family in town bought from them today, they couldn’t make more than a hundred dollars or so. How could they survive on that?

He helped separate the various types of honey, as well as the brown eggs from the white eggs. Additional sellers had arrived while they were setting up, and Lita said, “There’s still another ten minutes before we officially open. Want to take a look around?”

“Sure.”

Dave stayed at the table while Ross and Lita walked down the street, looking at the various stalls. Before this, if he’d ever bothered to think about this area of the state, he would have assumed it to be barren, godforsaken desert. So it was something of a surprise to see such a large variety of locally grown produce being sold, not to mention baked goods, jerky, tamales and cheese. He actually bought some turkey jerky and a quart of unfiltered apple juice, while Lita stocked up on onions and garlic. Looking back, he saw that several other sellers were buying honey or eggs from Dave.

The last stall they visited—the first stall, really, since it was closest to the sawhorses blocking off the street—resembled a larger version of Lucy’s psychiatric booth in the Peanuts comics. A sign above the booth announced “MUSHROOMS!” in bright rainbow letters. There was a cute little girl in front of the stand who couldn’t have been more than five. Dressed in a long granny skirt and looking like a baby hippie, she was chanting: “Farm fresh mushrooms, Piccadilly pie! Farm fresh mushrooms, Piccadilly pie!”