The Grudge Farmer
He wears a red bandana like an outlaw, against a howling stench? Viscous, spitting gall. Tosses them in the back of his pickup. His snarling pit bull, Flash, keeping them from jumping out.
Sells them at a roadside stand beneath a blue umbrella. Someone always stops.
The bastard! The shit! The no-good-cheat! they grumble out of cars: the man in the crushed fedora with a pocketful of band aids; the woman in the tight capris? the cigarette she flicks; its filter painted Rose Freeze red? Another red she's left behind.
The farmer's goods bubble in their muck? The expletives exciting them. Next year, it's yams, the farmer tells himself, slipping on his gloves.
How much for the big ones? they ask. It's always the big ones.
submitted at 7:08am
18 May 2009