3. Molly
This morning,I’m excited to get a better look around the farm in the daylight. I walk out to the bathroom in the pole barn. Once inside, I peel off my eczema gloves, wash off the residue on my hands from the medication using the special hand soap I brought, use the toilet, and wash my hands again. The bathroom is small and probably from the 90s: there’s a solid wall blocking off the shower, which is the kind with a sliding glass door rimmed with faux-gold plating; the lighting fixture above the mirror has those huge frosted globe-style bulbs; and the white tile of the floor has seen better days.
But it’s clean and sure as hell beats using the composting toilet in Vaniel.
After I’m done, I step out to wander the grounds.
Someone’s out in the fields already, a man bending over and inspecting rows of crops. I know the farm is growing strawberries, which is why I’m here. Strawberry season kicks off this weekend, and I’ll be pitching in by…doing something. I’m not sure what yet. Ethel just said that in exchange for parking on her property, I can help with the customers on Saturday and Sunday.
I do, however, need to find actual paying work, so that’s on my to-do list.
Heading back up the driveway, it’s a few minutes before I come around the bend in the road and see the big house. Through open windows, I catch the lingering smell of bacon and coffee, though it’s quiet inside, and I’m guessing breakfast is over.
I continue around the house, and now that it’s daylight, I can see the smaller structure clearly.
Ethel was right when she said they spoil Baabara. That’s not a shed or a barn. In fact, it’s a sheep palace.
There’s an open archway serving as a doorway, and the tenant stands there staring at me while aggressively chewing hay. Paned glass windows flank either side, and in the left corner, there’s a turret, also with paned glass, that extends past the shed’s gabled roof and up into an octagonal structure. I’ve never seen anything like this.
“Good morning,” Ethel’s voice calls from the house. When I glance over, she’s trying to push the screen door open while also holding something that seems to be pretty heavy.
“Here, I can help.” I dart across the lawn to open the door for her. Upon closer inspection, she’s carrying a cardboard box of jars filled with what looks like red jam.
Once we’re both outside, Ethel smiles at me, open and friendly. In the daylight I can see better, and I would guess she’s in her seventies. Her gray hair is pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, and she’s dressed in sensible farm attire: jeans and a cotton button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She smells like dirt and green already, and I wonder if she’s been out in the field too. “How was your first night at Bedd Fellows?”
“Wonderful, thank you.”
“Well, I hate to get right to shop talk, but you should get going. My grandson’s farm stand opens at nine, and the sooner you get over there to interview, the better. And you can take these with you.”
She passes me the flat of jars, and I take them with an oomph. It’s heavier than I thought. Granny’s got some biceps. I hold it while she closes the flaps on the top. It’s a tight fit.
“Remind me, what’s the job again?” All I know is that her grandson is hiring, and it’s nearby, which meets my two most important criteria. I may be helping at Bedd Fellows on the weekends in exchange for keeping my van here, but I need an actual paying job during the week.
“Alex is looking for someone to run the farm shop during the week. Granted, he didn’t tell me himself; I had to hear it through the grapevine.” She clicks her tongue. “That boy never was much of a talker. But the Wallace kid wasn’t working out too well. You know how small towns are; when kids have too much time on their hands and not enough structure, they get into trouble. But Frank Wallace only lasted three months.”
She puts her hands on her hips. “Three months! It’s not a hard job, dear. Udderly Creamy’s milk and eggs sell themselves. You have to learn some of that new-fangled technology, but a smart girl like you will pick it up in no time.”
“I’ve worked retail before too,” I add. “I bet I’ve already used the POS.”
Ethel gives me a sharp look. “Honey, I know what that stands for, and even if we deal with manure all day, I don’t like that kind of language.”
“Oh, no,” I rush to add. “It stands for Point-of-Sale system. Not piece of…well, you know.”
Ethel blinks at me for a minute and then throws back her head, laughing. “See, you’ll be perfect for the job. And I’m sure you can handle my grandson, too. He’s a little rough around the edges, being quiet and all. He seems to like animals better than people. But he is a good egg. And he sells good eggs.” Ethel cackles at her own joke.
He likes animals better than people. I, on the other hand, love pets, but love people more. We used to have a dog named Bozo, but when I was in high school, Dad’s mental health declined. He was struggling, and although he tried to at least look like he had his shit together for me, his inability to take care of the dog gave him away.
Looking back, it was the moment I became an Adult—capital A, Adult. Sixteen years old and deciding to rehome Bozo because my dad couldn’t leave the trailer for his own health, never mind a dog’s.
When I started my trip with Vaniel, I considered getting a dog, but it would live a lot longer than my road trip, and I wasn’t sure what life was going to be like when I got back home. I’d already failed to take care of my dad and a dog once; it wasn’t right to commit to an animal I couldn’t keep.
Farm animals, though, I have no experience with, and my encounters with wild animals have been at a safe distance (with the exception of a copperhead snake that got into Vaniel in Texas. My scream was epic.)
I push the little niggling doubts away. If the job description includes too many animal responsibilities, or the boss is a rotten egg instead of a good one, I’ll find something else.
* * *
It’s a seven-point-two-mile bike ride to Udderly Creamy, which is a big plus for me. I have a bike that I mount on the back of Vaniel to use for quick trips, so I don’t have to pick up my home any time I need to run errands. It’s pleasant out today, and the weather’s good, so it’s enjoyable, even if I end up sweaty.
It’s a farm. Surely, no one will care.
The dairy farm sprawls out over a hillside, pastures lined with wooden fences rolling out in front of me. I’ve stopped at the driveway, which leads to the barn and facilities up on the hilltop, but right in front of me, at the corner of the main road and the driveway, is the farm shop.
I almost prop my bike up on the fence but then decide that while the cows are way on the other side of the field right now, they won’t stay there, so I change my mind and prop it up against the farm shop.
It promptly falls over because the jam jars on the back rack are too heavy. Thank god the jars are tight in their box. I take the jam box off and set it on the ground, then carefully balance the bike until it’s somewhat stable against the wall.
When I walk in, the bell rings, and a man looks up from the computer at the counter. He’s a few years older than me, maybe, with unruly brown hair and a wide smile. “Ah, my first customer,” he says. “You’ve interrupted my game of solitaire.” He winks.
“Actually, Ethel sent me about a job.”
“Oooooh, and how is Ms. Ethel doing?”
“Um. Good? I don’t know her very well.”
The man stands up and comes around the counter. “Well, tell her Kit promises to come by soon and say hello. Now let’s see if I can find Alex.”
I follow Kit outside. He walks over to the nearby fence and puts his fists on his hips. He scans the pasture, which still has the cows in the far corner but no humans in sight. He puts two fingers to his mouth and whistles.
There’s an answering bark from far away.
“Well, that should do it. Alex isn’t very good about keeping his phone with him, so you gotta call Trixie.”
“Trixie?”
Kit grins. “You’ll see.” He leans on the fence. “How do you know Ethel?”
I explain about Vaniel and my living situation. Kit grows more and more amazed, which is not uncommon when people learn I live in a van. But then he glances up and then lifts his chin toward something behind me.
There’s a man striding down the driveway. He’s wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, a seriously grim look on his face. He’s got a full, dark beard, and beside him trots a dog, a miniature Australian shepherd without a docked tail.
When he gets close enough, he sends an inquiring glance to Kit, who puts a hand on my shoulder. “Alex. This is…what was your name?”
“Molly Perkins.”
“Molly Perkins,” he repeats. “She’s here about the job. As much as I would prefer to stay inside and play solitaire all day, I figure you might be happier if I do some of the more fun stuff with you, like shoveling shit.”
Now that Alex is close, I can see that he’s a big guy. He has long legs and broad shoulders from tossing around hay bales all day. Do dairy farmers toss around hay bales? Probably not, but it’s my fantasy, so I roll with it. He’s also got that kind of rough-and-tumble cowboy vibe. They probably also don’t have horses here, but this is just another improbable extension of the fantasy.
Um, I like it. The man who is going to interview me for the job is a stone-cold hottie. Just my luck.
Alex nods politely, opens the door with precise movements, and steps inside, holding it open for me. The dog follows him in.
I bend down, picking up the jam jars and hoisting them against my chest. Kit is still leaning on the fence, his attention on his phone now that he has handed me over to Alex. Stepping inside, I take a better look around this time.
It’s kinda...disappointing. I was hoping for something like Rose Apothecary but it’s more 1990s closet with white-coated wire racks and a few stand-up fridges. Alex strides over to the counter, his boots leaving behind faint prints on the sealed cement floor. His dog settles into a dog bed in the corner. Alex stands at the computer, back ramrod straight, twines his hands together on the counter, and asks, “Do you have a resume?”
I almost respond, “Sir, yes, sir.” He has the posture of someone who was in the military and doesn’t know he’s gotten out. Instead, I heft the box of jam on the counter. “First, these are for you.”
“Thank you, but we aren’t in the habit of trading or selling products manufactured by strangers.”
“Oh, no, these are from Ethel.”
The man looks down at the jams. Back up at me. Back down at the jams.
“These jams? My gran made them?”
“Yes. You didn’t know she made jams?”
“No.”
I cast about for anything else to say and come up with a big fat zero, which is unusual for me.
“What am I supposed to do with all these jams?”
“Sell them, I think? This is a farm stand, right? Or eat them?”
“Hm,” is all he says.
“And, uh, the job?”
“Yes.” Alex ducks down, shuffling under the counter, and pulls out some papers. “The job is managing this farm stand. You have to be good with customers, our point of sales system, and basic arithmetic.”
“Check, check, and check.” I grin at him.
“Do you have a resume?” he asks again.
This time, I pull it out of my backpack, and he reads it over before asking me a few very brief yes or no questions. Then he asks, “Have you ever worked on a farm before?”
“Not a real one.”
Alex stares at me for a moment. “What do you mean ‘a real one’?” His eyebrow moves a hair north, which I take as a sign that he’s intrigued.
“I play Stardew Valley. Have you heard of it?”
He blinks.
“It’s this retro computer game where you inherit a farm, grow crops, raise animals, and basically dominate the small town until you amass enormous wealth. You can raise cows, goats, sheep, and pigs, but you’ve got to feed, pet, and milk them every day.”
“You milk…digital cows?” The eyebrow has crept up farther, which fills me with a perverse sense of excitement.
“Yeah, I mean, just like real life, they have to be milked, or they get angry.”
“Angry,” he echoes. It doesn’t sound like a question.
“Yeah, they get these little angry clouds over their heads. So I could be a Stardew Valley farmer for real here, with the cows, I guess. You don’t have any sheep, goats, or pigs, do you? Oh wait, I’ve already met Baabara, so I’ve got the sheep covered.”
“We have goats,” he corrects me. “You realize you won’t actually be milking any cows, right?”
“Don’t take away my dreams,” I joke. I have never once dreamed about milking cows, vastly preferring to take care of virtual ones.
Alex’s eyebrow goes down. Ah, well.
He gives me a brief tutorial on the POS system, which isn’t one I’ve used before, but they all typically translate pretty well. I ring him up on a fake order and show off my chops by trying to upsell him butter and cheese.
“We don’t sell butter and cheese,” he grumbles.
Looking around, it’s pretty slim pickings. There’s milk—the bright colored labels differentiating between types like whole and skim—eggs, and some farm merch, like sweatshirts and T-shirts.
“Who are your customers?” I ask.
“We run a CSA program that covers the region from Poughkeepsie to Albany. We do some bulk orders for local restaurants and shops, and we have a few city folks who pass by on their drives upstate and stop in to buy local products. A bit of local traffic. Some homesteaders that haven’t made the jump to large animals yet. But most of our milk goes to a dairy cooperative.”
I hum, and Alex asks if I have any other questions.
No, no, I don’t. It’s not exactly the bustling gift shop, small bookstore, or artsy stationery store that I’ve worked for in the past—all of which were seasonal tourist-dependent jobs—but they need someone. I need a job, and Ethel seems pretty set on me working here.
“I’ll call you,” Alex says without a smile, offering me his hand for a shake. “Pleasure meeting you.”
I respond with my own niceties and turn to walk out. Just before I get out the door, I pause and glance back over my shoulder. Alex’s eyes quickly dart up from a part of my anatomy decidedly lower than my head, and I swear for a minute his cheeks pinken. I think he was just checking out my ass. I tamp down inappropriate belly flutters for my boss. “Can I say hi to your puppy?”
He looks at his dog. “Trixie, say hello.”
Trixie gets up off the floor, tail wagging the dog at fifty miles per hour, but she keeps a respectful distance and then sits. She offers a paw like a prim and proper lady, despite the floor behind her ass getting a good sweeping. “Hello, Trixie.” I say, shaking her hand and glancing back at Alex.
“Good girl,” he says, and I know he’s talking to the dog, but damn. That’s hot. “Okay.”
“Okay” must be her version of “go wild.” Trixie gets up again, butt wagging everywhere, and gives me a good and proper sniff when I offer the back of my hand. She does not jump, though she’s clearly thought about it and then thought the better of it.
“That’s enough. Goodbye, Molly.”
And I’m dismissed. Ethel wasn’t kidding about Alex not being a talker.
I need the money, though, and I’ll be working by myself in the farm stand. No animal encounters necessary, and minimal contact with my boss, who says he has an office in the barn up the hill.
It’ll be totally worth it to get Vaniel back up and running again.