by Gina Henning
“That might be the case.” He turns and pauses as if he is trying to come up with the right words. “However, the amount of pecans you need is of no more importance to me than the reversal is to you.” As he’s speaking, he points at me and back at himself. His gaze drops back to his phone. I want to take that finger and bite it.
Not to be a Stephanie Tanner, but how rude. This guy isn’t budging. Where are his southern gentleman manners? Can’t he see I’m a lady in distress? He’s most definitely not a local. Although, I wouldn’t mind seeing him in some chaps and boots. Hmm.
“You must not be from around here,” I say, hoping this will jolt a memory from his childhood days of being advised of good manners and he will politely pass a bag to me. I might not be in a petticoat and waving a fan, but I’m in distress.
“No, I’m not,” he says with his eyes back on the register.
One of the customers is having trouble swiping their card. After three tries, they hand it to the cashier who types in the numbers.
I tap him on the shoulder to gain his attention once more before my chance is gone and he’s purchased all of the pecans. “Would you be willing to sell me one of your bags for twice its value?”
Since my female charm is not working, I decide to try a different route and go for the language that everyone speaks: money.
“Its value?” he asks with his head cocked to the right. He then turns toward me. “Value is in the eye of the beholder.”
A sly grin comes across his face. Is this guy a pecan scalper? Does he show up at pecan farms on Thanksgiving Eve and buy all the pecans so he can price gouge them to helpless people trying to make pies for their families? That’s shocking, but I wouldn’t be surprised. Who knows, he might even post ads on Craigslist selling the pecans at double the price of Tibor’s Farm. I might need to alert the authorities, or at the very least, the storeowners.
“I think you’ve got the saying wrong. It’s beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Value is what something is worth.” My right leg is flexed. I’ll be unwavering, as if I’m Crazy Horse in General Custer’s Last Stand. “I’d be willing to pay you twenty dollars for one of your bags of pecans.”
My chest rises as I take a deep breath. I’m self-assured, remembering moments in my life when I won a battle of wits with co-workers and my siblings. The gauntlet is thrown and a price is named. All that needs to happen now is for this statuesque guy—who does not resemble General Custer—to kindly pass over a bag of his pecans, and then we can move on with our lives like two shoppers, passing in a store with nothing more shared than a few verbal exchanges and a twenty-dollar bill.
“I disagree, and I need all my pecans. Thank you for the offer,” he says with a condescending smile, and turns around. How many bags does he have? Perhaps, if I slide one out of his basket he won’t notice. The sides of my mouth turn downwards. My grandmother would be thoroughly disappointed if I snagged a bag of pecans from another customer to use in our pie. And I’ve never stolen anything in my life, now is definitely not the time to start.
The employee calls, “Next,” and Mr. Business places his basket and its contents in front of the register. He unloads his basket like a professional. I blow the hair from my eyes and resort to tapping my heel. Mr. Business ignores the clicking against the floor and gives his credit card to the cashier. Aargh. Why is he so determined not to be the nice guy? I count his bags as the cashier puts them in a bag. Thirteen bags. Seriously? Thirteen bags? And he can’t spare one? I’m like the poor Little Match Girl sitting in the cold. I twiddle my fingers against my mouth to avoid any tears.
“Um, sir, this card isn’t going through,” the clerk says and delivers the plastic rectangle back to him.
The label is visible. It belongs to one of our competitors. Tsk. Seems that my company isn’t the one creating issues. Well, actually it could be that his credit card company isn’t the one creating the issues either, it could be the computer server of the pecan store. Maybe even the wind from earlier knocked a cable line or something. Or maybe someone isn’t paying attention to the difference between their credit limit and balance. I tsk my tongue maybe a bit too loud.
“Damn credit card companies always causing problems. Here, try this one,” he says and slides the clerk another card from his wallet. He glowers back at me, yes I suppose my tsk was too loud. Oops. He sure is grumpy, maybe the pecans are a late lunch for him and he is super hangry.
“Next, please,” the apron guy calls.
I secretly wish the man’s second card doesn’t go through, thus giving me the perfect opportunity to buy both bags of pecans that I need. From the corner of my eye I see Mr. Business signing the credit card slip.
Oh well. And honestly, I’m not sure how happy I’d be gaining from his misfortune. I’m not a big fan of schadenfreude. But then again, if he’s maxing out his credit cards, maybe he can’t actually afford the pecans. Ah, Lauren, you’re on vacation. Drop the credit counseling mantra.
Disappointed, I give the clerk my minuscule, not-enough-pecans-for-my-grandmother’s-recipe bag to the clerk. On the back wall is a sign “Tibor Pecan Pie Festival Winners” and underneath rows and rows of black plastic framed photos of the winners with their pies. On the third row, my grandmother is holding her pecan pie and wearing the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on her face. I blink my eyes. My chest tightens. I wiggle my card out of my faded brown leather wallet.
The possibility of me being able to bake the same prized pecan pie as my grandmother is fading away. The clerk hands me back my card. I pick up the pen from the counter and try to sign my name. My hand is damp. I wipe it on my skirt and pick up the pen again.
“Are you alright, miss?” the clerk asks.
“Yes, thank you.” I snatch the pecans off the counter and rush out of the store. Except I’m not alright. I’m stressed and depressed. I’m all things essed. I’m a mess. Outside, I kick the gravel as I walk to my car. My toe brushes some of the dirt. I bend down to wipe it off. Dirty feet, yuck. I try to walk more carefully and avoid kicking up any more dust as I make it to my mother’s car. This day is not going well. Letting my grandmother down is not an option. I’ll think of something. I blow the hair from my eyes as I unlock the door.
I slide into the car seat and switch on the ignition. Immediately, I’m bounced back to my current situation. My head makes contact with the car’s roof. Ouch! I rub my frizzy, larger than Texas hair, pushing it down to find the source of the pain, which isn’t only coming from the injured spot, but also my ears.
Chanting and odd, silverware-sounding instruments are blaring through the speakers. I roll the windows down and pull out of the parking lot as fast as I can. Dust kicks up in my rearview mirror as my mom’s car makes contact with the paved road. I wish the puffy smoke in the parking lot was a visual of success and not a reminder of my failure. Dammit. Not enough pecans. My phone reroutes my trip. The directions flash on the screen. But that’s not important. I’m shocked to see the thin line next to the battery icon. Two percent left? What?
I stare at the empty adapter plug. Obviously, there’s no phone charger. Deep breaths. I inhale and slowly exhale. I bet all the unanswered text messages from Megan were draining on my phone’s battery. Who knows what degree of power is used to keep the little red circle with the white number in the upper hand corner of my text app. Arg.
My memory typically serves me well. I’ll try to memorize the directions. This is going to be a fun adventure. To conserve the battery, I darken the screen. I’ll only look at the map when I truly need it. A plan is created. I’m almost like MacGyver.
I’m halfway home when the car begins to drift over to the side of the road. The thumping from beneath the car doesn’t sound good. Even over the chanting from the stereo, I can clearly hear it. I’m doing my best to align the wheel back to center but it’s not giving. The car is tugging to the right accompanied by offbeat vibrations from the road and that sound…that unforgettable sound. This equates to one thing. Something I do
not want to deal with right now. Well, to be honest, I don’t ever want to deal with this—who would? I’m sure it’s a flat tire.
As I pull the car over, there’s a tiny part of me deep down that hopes I’m incorrect. I don’t like being wrong, even in a situation like this. I step out of the car with optimism. It pays off, as both right tires are A-OK. I take a deep breath. I’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of being wrong and maybe, maybe I’d be okay with that this one time. Of course I’m okay with it. In fact, I’m ready and willing to be wrong.
Unfortunately, this is not one of those times in my life where I’m wrong. The back right tire is not A-OK. There’s no hope in this matter. It’s completely shredded. Did I do something wrong to the universe?
I kick what remains of the back tire. Ouch! Another stupid move on my part. Lesson learned: don’t kick a hard surface in high heel, open-toed shoes. I rub my toes, and then walk back to the front of the car. I lean in and turn off the ignition. At least I don’t have to listen to that garbage.
I hit the home button on my phone. The map flashes on the screen, and then goes black. Pushing the buttons a kajillion times does not change it. The fluttering of wings from the panic attack fairy is swirling around me. “The Flight of the Bumblebee” begins to play. Beads of sweat are popping up all over my face as if I forgot to take my daily dose of Proactive.
Now I’m going to have a panic attack. Here it comes. I don’t even take deep breaths. I’m going to let this one happen. At this point, I don’t have anything else to lose.
I lean up against my mom’s torture-on-wheels. The hard metal is not comfortable. My body is plastered over the door, as though I’m trying to form a new type of art car. One that would be called “broken woman melded into car.” I lie there and wait for the panic attack fairy to make her delivery. I’m stranded on a lonely highway, my cell phone is dead, my back tire is shredded, and I’m not wearing comfortable walking shoes. Oh, and yeah, the whole point of my trip was to get pecans, and I didn’t get the right amount. So come on fairy, bring it on.
I’m spent. I toss my head back and make contact with the window of the car. My Texas-size ball of frizzy hair saves me from further injury. I wait. Where is the little fairy? Where is my full-fledged panic attack?
It doesn’t happen. I move my fingers—no tingling. My breathing is steady and my heart is beating a normal, thump thump thump. No, my survival mode kicks in. I push myself away from the car and walk around to the back. I pop open the trunk and move nothing because the trunk is empty. Completely empty—there is no spare tire. This isn’t entirely surprising. Ha. No ho-hum situation can keep this gal from using a solid pun.
Most likely good ol’ Mr. Fix-it Brian took it out when installing my mom’s new CD changer and didn’t put it back. This is status quo.
I lean in the car and grab my purse and pecans. The windows are rolled up and the car is locked. I resist the urge to kick anything else. I take one last glance at the car—my only means of transportation on this lonely road. My chest heaves up and down. I pick up my feet and begin to hoof it.
There’s nothing like a Thanksgiving Eve stroll. I’m going to make the most of this. Overeating is on my itinerary for tomorrow. Because of this walk, I’ll be able to eat as much as I want sans guilt. I might even make this an annual pre-Thanksgiving hike tradition. Luke can have his registered races, but I’ll make unplanned walks my pre-Thanksgiving tradition.
The other thing I’m super happy about is my outfit. Probably the most ideal walking attire. One could only hope to aspire to this level of fashion and weather correspondence. My flared skirt and short-sleeved top, along with my strappy sandals, are providing the much needed comfort that I desire. Not only isn’t it as hot as it’s supposed to be, but I think it’s safe to say, sandals are underrated when it comes to long hikes. Oh wait, maybe that’s for romantic strolls on the beach, not on a vacant Texas highway.
The wind starts to pick up as I stride. I assume it’s because of the flat plains and has nothing to do with the tepid air and moisture I’m beginning to feel.
No, this is not a cold front coming in. The wind is blowing my skirt all around. The gusts are even blowing around my previously unmovable hair. I wrap my arms around my body, trying to warm myself up. That’s when the ice pellets start to hit. Like little chunks from a Sonic 44 drink, they’re coming down in handfuls, but that quickly changes to what feels like a large bucket of ice being dumped directly onto my head.
I alternate between covering my head from the barrage of ice and wrapping my arms around my waist in an attempt to keep warm. My shirt is soaked and my skirt is damp. Please tell me this is a nightmare and that someone has intercepted my dreams. That is the only answer.
The chunks have expanded into golf ball-sized pellets and are coming down at an alarming rate. Mother Nature is stoning me. The autopsy report will list cause of death: ice. This is unbelievable. I pick up my pace and force myself to glide along the road. At least I feel like I’m gliding at first until the glide turns into a slide. I lose my balance and fall. I’m like Bambi, spread-eagled on the hard, wet asphalt. This is the worst day ever.
I roll over onto my back and lie on the side of the road, letting the ice hit me. It hurts, but I don’t care anymore. I’m wet, cold, and my leg and arms are scraped. My hair is a mess. It’s a big ice ball. No, it’s a frizzicle. There’s no point of me getting up. I’m all alone. This is how I will die—of hypothermia and ice bludgeoning.
Nature is pulling out all the stops in this battle. The ice is burning my skin. I didn’t even think it was possible for ice to burn, but it is. I’m no longer inclined to remain frozen to the asphalt.
I pry myself up off the ground and begin walking. I am a survivor. I begin humming the song in my head as I carefully put one foot in front of the other, not gliding along the road. Through the pelting ice I scan the road for something other than empty fields… Surely, I’ll encounter a house or shelter.
I turn around. There’s nothing behind me. The road is desolate. My car is no longer in sight, so my best chance of rescue is to keep going. I make a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn and keep my eyes set on the horizon, knowing at some point I will reach my destination. Or die.
The ice and rain are loud. Over the patter against the road, I hear the noise of something else. Something with a motor. The sound is an engine accompanied by the crunching of something heavy rolling along. A car is to my left and it’s slowing down. It pulls up next to me.
I stop. Could this be a rescue or something else?
The window unrolls. “Do you need a ride?” the driver asks.
This is not the type of situation one would ever want to be in. I’m stranded in the middle of an ice storm with a dead cell phone. Do I get out of the storm, risking my safety, or stay in the storm, risking my safety? These are not the kind of options I would wish on an enemy. Without wasting any time, I vote for risking my safety in the warmth and shelter of a vehicle. I’m freezing and my open wounds are stinging.
Chapter Three
Sometimes life pelts you with ice, and instead of being defeated you keep on moving in hopes that the road gets better ahead. Maybe today is one of those days for me. Maybe my luck is changing and this driver will be a nice, southern gentleman.
I stick my head in the window to get a better look before accepting the offer to get out of this icy nightmare. At first glance, I’m surprised. This guy is hot and doesn’t seem like the type of man who would appear on a “Wanted” poster at the post office. My brain isn’t working at its normal speed today. I realize that the driver is none other than Mr. Business from the pecan farm. The guy who wouldn’t share his pecans with me.
Aargh. Now I’m in a real crux, because after the pecan store, I don’t want to accept anything from this guy. I really don’t. Well, maybe I would still accept his pecans. Maybe this is my opportunity to get another two ounces. I can’t be two ounces short in the pecan pie. I cannot mess up the pie and I know measurements i
n baking are crucial. The window is warm. The arid heat from the car is drawing me in. It’s full of promises. Promises of being dry and toasty. Who could resist something so charming?
I pause for a second. “Um, please.”
I grasp onto the car’s wet handle and unlatch the door, opening myself up to who knows what. I fall into the seat and shut out the cold. I’m shivering. My legs squish along the leather. I wipe off the water droplets that have fallen from my body and onto the dashboard.
Our pinkies brush as Mr. Business presses the red arrow buttons up on the console, and warm air blasts my face. I retract my hand and drop it in my lap. A whiff of woodsy scented cologne blows in my direction, with notes of mint, sandalwood, and…what is that, apples? It’s so crisp and clean. I inhale, but the smell is gone. Somewhat disappointed, I exhale.
“You can adjust the heat on your seat with these buttons.” He points to the buttons on the dashboard.
“Thank you.”
I move the buttons to their highest level and hope to thaw my body. I can’t remember ever being this cold. I try and smooth out my skirt from its wrinkled, scrunched-up state but it’s frozen fabric.
An iceberg sitting on a charcoal grill best describes my predicament. Except I’m not melting, which is what an iceberg would most likely do on a grill. I hope I don’t have frostbite by the time this day is through. The seat is burning against my skin. I reach forward and turn the heat down a little bit. There, that’s better. Icicles are no longer hanging from lashes. It’s time to break a different type of ice and remedy the awkward silence.
“I must say, I’m surprised to see you again.” I peek over at him.