53. Farmer’s Market Massacre

Being of good country stock on my Mother’s potato-loving Irish side of the family, I have always had an interest in the agrarian sect: it’s ways and morays and just how they loved their Loretta Lynn 8-tracks and Hank Williams, Jr. sleeveless t-shirts won at the State Fair. And these salts of the earth were never on better display that at our local Farmer’s Market.

Held weekly, local farmers from the surrounding countryside would come into town, bringing their most freshly picked bushels and pecks of all manner of vegetables and fruits, and random country junk the needed to sell to buy pills or booze or meth or whatever got them through living out in the country. These fine folk would lay their wares out on folding tables covered in plastic gingham tablecloths under tailgating tents in the parking lot of the country fairgrounds for the city folk to rummage through and make comments like, “Well, it’s from the country-so it’s got to be good.”

On this one somewhat bearable Saturday morning in July, before the temperatures were to hit a high of 102, Thad and I curtailed our garage sailing to head to the Farmer’s Market. We were in search of a good cantaloupe, as the ones at the stores had just been bland as all get out lately.

I was fine cutting our garage sailing short, as Thad had done pissed me off at the last one by screaming, “Mike! They got silver! It’s cheap! Come here! Come here!” So by the time I had stomped over to him, to see the well-priced silver pieces, the proprietress had also walked over, and decided she now wanted twice for them what she had marked. I could have strangled him, except he was completely oblivious of his sin, having no conception how to follow the Four Cardinal Rules of Garage Sailing at all. Suffice to say, I did not get any silver this morning.  

           “Are these juicy?” Thad asked, holding up a big fat cantaloupe to a wrinkled little grandpa farmer in Big John overalls.

“Yup. They’re up from Texas. Oklahoma hasn’t produced a good cantaloupe yet this year. Not enough rain. Makes ‘em tough. Texas got some good rain that just missed us. So them be good.”

“Good, good.” Thad smelled it, squeezed it softly, and said, “Well, okay. I’ll take one. How are your tomatoes?”

As the oldster began a diatribe on the effect of rain on tomatoes, I wondered over to look at a booth of potted plants. They had all sorts of flowers, much bigger and healthier than you could find at any chain store or garden center. The heat had already killed some of my front porch potted petunias, so I bought a half tray of big pink ones. The granny sales lady handed me my change and smiled, “God be with you.” Ah, country folk.

Looking back around, I didn’t see Thad. With petunias in hand, I began to walk the rows of booths, smiling at people as they passed. Junk booths were interspersed with the other booths, allowing people to drag out grandmas’ old quilts or granddad’s antique tin cars to sell along with the fruits of the land; it all made for an interestingly bucolic shopping experience.

Since Thad’s birthday last week, a huge weight had lifted from my shoulders: the danger had passed. He had seemed a little down since, but nothing too much.  He mainly had been at his house playing with his new game, which had given me ample time to freak out over my upcoming trip: three weeks and counting. 

Turning a corner around a display of wind chimes made of shredded coke cans, I spotted Thad at a junk table talking to a short lady with odd blonde ponytails. Thad was animated, laughing and waving his arms. The lady stood with hands on hips…and then it hit me: I recognized her. I knew her. Those pony tails. Those crazy eyes! And then she turned to me at that exact moment and I swear mouthed something looking right at me: it was the Garden Rapist!  

I gasped and almost dropped my petunias.  How dare her show her face after stealing my terra cotta chicken planter full of clover! What was she even doing here? I stepped behind the coke can wind chime display and peered back out like a spy. She was manning a table of crap: it must be her booth! How heinous! How despicable! To ruin something as charming as the Farmer’s Market with her vile thieving self!

And what was Thad doing? He was just chatting her up? Did he even know it was her- The embodiment of porch-stealing evil? I watched his body movements: he was perfectly at ease-he had no idea the monster he was blathering too! And there she was, just drinking it in, probably laughing at his innocence, thinking how she would go home and rub her dirty feet all over our purloined terra cotta chicken planter full of clover, and maybe even plan to come back in the cover of night and steal even more. Maybe even my new petunias, before they could even take root! She looked up, and I swear she looked directly at me again, and I double dog swear I saw laugher in her eyes! Laughter at our expense!

Without another thought I stomped over to Thad.

“What you doing?” I snapped, red-faced, not acknowledging the witch.    

“Hey,” he said snidely. “Just talking about bird feeders. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I spat. “We should go.”

“What’s your deal?” he said, clearly not understanding the moral terror of the situation he was in. 

“I would just like to go now.” I said as sternly as possible.

“Well, hey there Michael. I thought that was you…” the Garden Rapist said as stickily sweet as possible.

Without turning I said, “Hey. We were just going.”

With a confused look on his face, Thad mouthed, ‘What?’ to me.

And I mouthed back, “Garden Rapist.”

And he mouthed back, “What?” screwing up his face.

And I mouthed back, ‘GAR-DEN RAPE-IST.’

And his eyes got really wide like he had just seen death or accidently weighed himself.

“So how is you guy’s garden?” the Garden Rapist said, apparently having watched or entire pantomimed exchanged and thought nothing of it. “I could still use some of those big ol’ irises of yours, if you want to do another exchange.” 

And then, without thought, I apparently just frickin’ lost it. I’m not exactly sure what I said, but I turned and exploded on her with something like, “How dare you! After you stole my terra cotta chicken planter full of clover! Really! Why don’t you just return it and we can call this good, as I have already called the  Police and now that I know you have a booth here, maybe I should just tell them where they can find you! Huh! How would you like that! Huh! Huh? Just return it- YOU THIEF!” gesticulating like a crazed Italian.

And then there was silence.

With blood coursing through my head I could hear very little else besides the throbbing in my brain, but what I could certainly hear was the complete silence of everyone around me. The Garden Rapist stood transfixed, silent, mouth open. As if in slow motion, her husband, who I had not noticed before, stood up from behind her and walked over, looking mad. Thad took my arm, and pushed me, but I would not move. I couldn’t. I was stuck.

And then everything came back to present as Thad whispered, “We need to go.”

I looked down to see that I had dropped my petunias all over the ground: It looked like a CSI floral crime scene with splattered dirt, exposed rootballs, leaves bend unnaturally back, and flower heads decapitated. 

“But, my flowers…” I muttered, unmoving as he tugged on me.

I looked back up and the Garden Rapist looked so scared, like she was about to cry. And her hippy-dippy husband looked like he was about to jump over that table of handmade birdhouses and kill me right then and there. And that’s when I knew I had overstayed my welcome.

“Come on!” Thad barked, pulling on me, and I moved one step, treading on my poor little dropped flowers, and then another to let him lead me away.

And all of those good God-loving country people around us watched as we left in shame, Thad hiding his face like Sean Penn from the 80’s. I was numb and suddenly afraid I might be arrested for assault.

Once at the truck, I stopped, “You know that was the Garden Rapist?”

“No, I didn’t know it was her! But, good God, did you have to yell at her like that!” He said, whipping his keys out.

“But she stole my terra cotta chicken full of clover…” I said.

“I know! Just get in the car,” he snapped. “It looked like you were going to kill her. I thought she would pee her pants. You ought to be glad they didn’t call security.”

Getting in the car, suddenly shame-faced, I mopped the sweat off my brow. I had no idea I hated her that much. 

“Was it that bad?” I asked like a child.

Throwing it in reverse Thad snapped, “Well, we won’t ever be coming back here again. Does that answer your question, Mr. Psycho?”

As he sped us off, I decided that the cantaloupes from the store were just fine enough for my taste. Those country people could just keep their moist, rain-soaked ones.