It was noon, Saturday, when I'd first talked to her. I had come upon her in the orchard. She was sitting in the tall grass, rock in hand, cracking open hazel nuts.
"Ah," I said, stepping off the gravel path, "foraging some lunch, eh?"
She looked up, smiled. "Every one has little bugs inside."
Her clean voice sounded familiar. "There you have it," I said, "bugs and nuts; a total protein if there ever was one."
She lost her smile. "I don't eat bugs."
"But the birds eat bugs. They seem to like 'em."
"I don't eat bugs."
"Sure you do." I raised a gloved hand. "Bugs are always crawling in your food, but you just don't know it." I moved my leather fingers then--moved them like insect legs.
She didn't say anything.
And I couldn't say anything. I'd set out to get a laugh. What I was getting--the glare a bad dog gets--was making me sick.
"You're sick," she said, getting back to her filbert.
I walked away, my eyes on my workboots scuffing the gravel, my gloved hands tapping my pockets like a gunslinger taps his six-shooters. No, I had no guns in my pockets. What I tapped was a greater weapon; my pad and pen.
Where the orchard ended, the stepping stones began. Going in, this line of stones always looked inviting. Of course, the effeminate scissor-step required to negotiate the stones always left me cursing them out.
"Bastards," I said, throwing my gloves down, "I'll teach you." I quick-drew my pad and pen, wrote, "Remove stones first thing in the morning."
For good measure, I added, "Refuse to give orchard woman time of day for rest of eternity." I turned, looked into the orchard. But, no, I couldn't see the orchard woman for the overgrowth. Pop, pop, crack, went the sound of her rock.
Every one has little bugs inside.
I bent over, grabbed my gloves, cursed the stones again for making me walk like that. "I mean it; come morning, you're history--history and then some!"
Fanning my face with my gloves, I stomped up the walk towards the gallery. No, nothing like a stretch of asphalt to put the butch back in a man's gate.
I was adding bow to my gunslinger legs, when I felt a buzzing on the back of my head. Was it a bug caught in my hair, or was it a pair of orchard eyes--at the edge of the orchard now--checking out the lay of the land of the six feet of toned groundskeeper?
Imagining the latter, I relaxed my gait, walked like leading men walk off the Big Screen.
Off screen, of course, I raised my gloves, slapsticked the back of my head for good measure.
I liked being part of the nonprofit team; one of the few David's left in a field of Goliath's. I liked the interplay of perspectives; how the corporate Goliath's looked inside our college crib, saw bright-eyed children playing with stuffed animals. How we looked outside at the field of greed, saw dull-eyed adults stuffing ribcages with straw.
I liked my role at ACCW. As sole groundskeeper I worked on what I wanted when I wanted. And though the ten acres was more ground than I could keep, I loved the rolling campus with it's curved walkways cut into hillsides, old growth trees and artfully landscaped shrub beds. Even the architecture was tasteful, separate buildings for every craft, all homey, with lots of windows and cedar siding. No, they didn't pay me much, but what groundskeeper's going to piss and moan when it's a neck of Eden he'd been called upon to keep?
Of course, ACCW was not without its faults. Take this stretch of asphalt leading up to the gallery. Because it was rotten, one had to mind ones step. One didn't want to catch a toe in a crack, trip, make a fool of oneself within eyeshot of the one one was out to impress.
I imagined the orchard woman running out of the orchard now--running out to tell me she didn't really think I was sick. But, no, she wasn't the one I was out to impress. Up above, on the gallery patio, sat another. Though all I could see was the back of a head, I knew it was Apolena--only Apolena had pumpkin hair.
Oh, Apolena.
Apolena appeared to be picnicking. I walked taller to see if anyone was picnicking with her. But then I tripped, so I got back to minding my steps.
There was a patch of tall grass I had to cross to get to Apolena. Before stepping off the rotten asphalt, I saw Hayward coming down the walk. Taking a stand on rot, I shoved my hands in my gloves, waited.
But first some token civilities. "Hayward," I said, punching one gloved hand into the other, "word has it you wanted a word with me."
"Nothing untoward," Hayward said, smoothing his tie under his sweater, "just wondering why the grass isn't getting cut."
I stared at the gleam coming off Hayward's shoe; waited for the line he was always laying on me.
Instead of that line, Hayward tipped his bald spot towards the orchard. "Eyesores can be condoned in nether regions. But this," he stirred his elbow patch over the tall grass, "this is the gallery area--the civilized area. We really need it quaffed."
My turn to speak. But first I had to pull out my pad and pen, score a couple of words. No, as much as Hayward rubbed me the wrong way, the guy sure contributed to my arsenal. Why, just last week I'd scored 'ode.' As in, "But, Anton, we didn't hire you to compose odes to that which is Mother Nature. We hired you to subjugate her."
"Anton," Hayward said, pulling me from my scoring, "I asked you a question."
Apolena turned to hear my answer. Wanting to impress her, I said, "The grass isn't getting cut because a meadow makes for a richer ecosystem over the sterile monoculture of that which is the lawn."
Apolena threw me her smile, got back to picnicking. Hayward threw me his high brow, stomped the asphalt with his oxford. "Anton, it's imperative we appear professional."
And, there it was; the line Hayward was always laying on me. Poor guy, he'd been courting corporate America for so long--for their big bucks--he'd gotten it in his head that we, a nonprofit, should re-create ourselves in their image.
I opened my mouth to deliver my come-back line: 'What's imperative, Hayward, is that we not allow Big Brother to cut the heart out of us.' But I didn't say it. Couldn't say it because I was afraid. So afraid I was feeling nauseous. No, I wasn't afraid of getting fired. I was afraid of what my firing spelled: The end to picnicking with the likes of Apolena.
"Anton," Hayward said, "you appear wan. Have you taken ill?"
It was then that a light went out. I looked down. Oh, a yellowjacket had landed on Hayward's oxford.
Every one has little bugs inside.
"Not ill," I said, swallowing, "but that bug I swallowed sure ain't sitting right."
"Well, hop to--get on that grass."
"I'll get right on that." Like a bunny I hopped across the uncut grass. "Apolena, hi."
****
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