The Old Weird South

by Tim Westover

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  The holes have always been here, as far as I know. Our company has never figured out what they come from or what they mean to the world. Scientists have studied the groves. There are conspiracy theories on the Internet, angry politicians, concerned experts. I think it’s all bullshit. If the groves were powerful, wouldn’t powerful people work there? Wouldn’t they have Harvard graduates and decaying aristocrats idling around with prostitutes and cocaine and senators? If the groves are so great, then why are people like me there? We’re all ex-cons and immigrants; I’ve killed eight people, and it wasn’t until I accidentally beat a Californian in a bar fight that no other place would hire me. I had no choice other than Florida’s Own. This makes no difference to the Californians. Orange juice runs the world, and the masters of California’s oranges are no different from my own. A silent war rages for your favor every time you stroll past the dairy aisles, and while most of the casualties are abstract to you, they are very real to me. I am well on my way to becoming one. I must pretend to believe in God, I decide, and pray.

  But knowing my luck, God is a Californian.