2. Jake
TWO
JAKE
I need this job.
I dust off my shirt before I get out of my truck, checking to make sure there’s no mustard stain from my stop at the hot dog stand. At least I had the good sense to not get onions. I don’t need onion breath on top of reeking of desperation. This isn’t a date, but it’s probably more important.
A date might be nice, though.
I’m running out of options. I can’t graduate without testing my robot, and I can’t test my robot without some fruit to pick. I chose to not take or teach any classes this summer so I could focus on building my robot. Then, I can test it at a farm and be well on my way to graduating in December.
But not teaching puts me in a position where I don’t have a ton of cash, so my best case scenario is to double dip: work on a farm where I can test my robot. Ideally, I’d even triple dip by finding a farm I can live on for the summer.
Could I go home and test it on my family’s farm? Yes, but there are reasons why I’m here and not there, and I don’t want to deal with going home if I don’t have to.
I palm my cowboy hat sitting on the dash, the black felt one that was my dad’s. I’m not sure if I want to wear it to this farmers market. I peek behind me to see what the farmers are wearing, and it’s unanimously ball caps. It’s too hot for black felt anyway. I’d look like some city boy cosplaying as a cowboy. Still, I touch the cowboy hat for good luck, choose the snapback trucker cap on my dash, and lift my arms to make sure I don’t have pit stains in the late May heat. Sweat’s a given, but I’d rather not show it.
I get out and swing my truck’s creaky door shut, an aging F-150 that I fight tooth and nail to keep alive. They don’t make them like this anymore, and I’d rather scrounge for ancient parts than deal with a car payment. Even as a graduate teaching assistant with a full tuition ride, I’m scraping my way through grad school.
I have a target at this market, and a backup if need be. The Paint County Farmers Market is twice a week, but I chose to come on a Wednesday, assuming it would be quieter.
I stroll through the stalls, declining offers of mustard samples (you won’t get my shirt this time, Mustard Satan), pepper jellies, and banana bread. I lay eyes on the vendor I’m after: Rossetti’s Peach Farm.
Based on my research, it’s a multi-generational family farm with a three-acre orchard, not so different from what my family has in Virginia. When I did a driveby to scope the place out, it looked like there was a decent-sized cabin and a main house. I’m hoping one of those buildings is for seasonal workers. My current lease is up next week, and it’d be nice to not have to beg one of my few friends here for a spot on their couch until I figure out something else.
I stride up to the peach stall, taking in the hand-painted sign and baked peach goods on the table. Makes sense since peaches aren’t in season yet.
“You Mr. Rossetti?”
“Please, that’s my father. I’m Bill,” the gray-mustachioed man says, extending his hand. “Can’t claim to be number one. What can I do ya for?”
I both cringe and grin at the old-timey phrase as we wrap up our handshake. “I’m Jake. I’m hoping you’re looking for some summer help.”
His bushy eyebrows rise and he cocks his head to the side. “Matter of fact, I am. I’ve got two people, but might could use one or two more. You got farming experience?”
I nod. Oh, do I ever. “Grew up on a berry and apple farm. That count?”
He chuckles. “I suppose so. Whereabouts? You related to the Johnsons?”
“No, sir. I’m from Western Virginia, around Floyd.”
He narrows his eyes. “Experience with horses?”
My gut twists. Yes, I have ample experience with horses, but it’s almost been a decade since I’ve cared for one. Still, I did enough time that I could do it in my sleep. I sometimes still dream about riding.
“Horses. A few steer,” I say with a nod.
Bill plants his fists on the table, looking me over like I’m livestock on auction. “How soon could you start? Got any other obligations?”
“I coach Little League one night a week and every Saturday, and I’ll have to do some lab work for my degree at Marshall. And actually, about that?—”
Bill wrinkles his brow.
“I’m in a robotics engineering program, and I need somewhere to test my fruit picker so I can graduate.”
Bill bobs his head, considering that. “Would you be able to live on the farm? I really need somebody to help with the horses.”
“Yes,” I say, then rush to add, “In theory. If you want me.”
Why am I nervous around this old man? I’m acting like a middle schooler on a date. A fresh wave of perspiration erupts in every possible sweaty spot on my body. Thank god I put on the hat so the brim will keep it from rolling down my face.
He rolls his lips and puts his tongue in his cheek. “Tell you what. I’ve got the other two starting next Friday.” His “Friday” sounds like fry-dee. “Show up and do the work, and you’ve got the job. Why don’t I take down your number and we’ll get it all worked out?”
“Sounds great, sir.” We exchange information, and I walk out of the market feeling pretty damn lucky.
I will make this work. I have to.