CHAPTER THREE

AS THE OLD man opened the shop’s door, a toxic blend of cheap perfume, stale tobacco smoke, and rotting produce punched him square in the nose. He could taste the garbage in the air. Stomach acid burned his throat as it decided whether to come up all the way. On the radio, Jim Croce sang “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown.” The old man looked around at shelves half-stocked with canned goods and other nonperishables and spotted compost bins overflowing with brown oranges, potatoes with barnacles growing on them, and sickly string beans. A sign above the onions read, 10 cents a pound. The sign over the potatoes read, 99 cents a pound.

Highway robbery. He took a step toward the register, but his back foot stuck to the floor, and his hand hesitated on the doorknob.

The old woman working behind the counter peered over the register. She stood five-feet-nothing and would have been taller if it weren’t for the hump on her back. She had a bulldog face and washed-out hair that hadn’t seen a rinse in a while. She was reading National Enquirer and spilling cigarette ashes on the counter, blowing them onto the floor. The magazine cover story showed a picture of Richard Nixon with the caption Nixon blames space aliens for the Watergate break-in. The only other person in the store was a balding man with muttonchops and a white apron sweeping the floor. The old lady’s lips parted enough to spit a few words.

“What do ya need, old-timer?” she said with enough effort to hack up half a lung. The old man thought she sounded like a dog choking on a bone.

“Excuse me, madam. Are you the owner?” the old man said.

“Ha, ya hear that, Kenny? He called me madam.” She grinned, revealing as many gaps as teeth in her mouth. When she smiled, the mole on her upper lip moved sideways on her leathered skin. Even humor brought little light to her coffee bean eyes.

Kenny laughed.

“You must be sellin’ somethin’, old-timer,” she said.

“Not really, ma’am. I wanted to talk with the owner. Are you the owner?”

“Hear that, Kenny? Ma’am. Somebody that polite wants somethin’ from ya.” She stared piercingly at the old man. Kenny swept and grinned. The old man stood ramrod straight and returned the eye contact. He smiled through his beard like he knew something she didn’t know.

“I’m one of ’em. Who wants to know?” she said.

“My name is Hoffen, and I wanted to inquire about some Christmas employment.”

“See, I knew ya wanted somethin’,” she said. “So, you want a job?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hoffen said.

“Again with the ma’am. You must be desperate. You’re as old as Christmas. What can you do around here?”

Hoffen stared at the old lady with his steel-gray eyes. He was one of those people who concealed his mileage well. With a full head of white hair and a barrel chest, he had the look of someone who had worked with his body for decades.

“I can help you sell those Christmas trees I saw out on your back lot.”

“Heck, any yutz can sell trees. Even this dimwit can do that. Ain’t that right, Kenny?” She brought up more lung laughing at her own joke.

“That’s right, Ed. Dez says so,” Kenny said. “That’s why I got a job.”

“Who’s Dez? The other owner?” Hoffen asked.

“My ol’ man. We own the place. Been owning it for ten years. Bought it when the ol’ dago died, and his family needed some quick cash to bury him and pay the bills. Got it cheap.” She smiled with pride.

“Congratulations,” Hoffen said. He didn’t mean it, but he wanted the job.

“If you wanna job, go out back and talk to Dez. He makes decisions about the help. But I’ll tell ya, we don’t hire nobody on Mondays. Bad luck. Only desperate people lookin’ for work on Mondays. Means they ain’t got a job. Ain’t that right, Kenny?”

“That’s right, Ed. Got my job on a Friday. Waited all week to come in on Friday.”

“Thank you, ma’am, and your name’s Ed?” Hoffen asked.

“Edna, but everyone calls me Ed, like Ed Sullivan.” She laughed, and it brought up more lung sap. “Your name is Huffin?”

“Hoffen.”

“First or last?”

“Just Hoffen,” he said.

“What kind of name is that? Are you a Kraut?” She scowled.

“Something like that,” Hoffen said.

“We don’t like krauts much around here. Kenny, take this ol’ Kraut out to Dez.”

“Okey, Ed,” Kenny said.

“Told ya. Jus’ like Ed Sullivan,” she said.

“Thanks again,” Hoffen said.

“Right, get outta here. You’re interfering with my readin’.” She went back to the Enquirer.

“You know those things will kill you,” he said.

“What, the Enquirer?” She laughed at her own joke. Kenny grunted.

“No, the cigarettes,” Hoffen said.

“Now you’re a doctor. Get outta here. I wanna finish readin’ about the aliens.” She dropped more ashes on the counter.

As Hoffen left the store with Kenny, he heard Edna go into a coughing spell that lasted a good twenty paces. The crisp air slapped the old man in the face, and he liked it. He stood there for a few moments sucking it in, trying to cleanse his lungs of the rancid air he breathed in the shop.

“Is she always like that?” Hoffen asked Kenny.

“Nah, most of the time she’s pretty nasty. You caught her on a good day.”

“Good day?” Hoffen asked, surprised.

“Yeah, she’s real bitchy to everyone, except Dez. She’s scared of him. He can be a real mean bastard, but I don’t care ’cause he leaves me be. I’ll take ya to him. C’mon this way.”

As they walked to the tree lot behind the confectionary, Hoffen extended his hand to Kenny and said, “I’m Hoffen.”

Kenny grabbed it with his fingerless derby glove and said, “Heard. I’m Kenny.”

“Nice to meet you, Kenny.”

“Yeah, you too.” Kenny nodded. “That’s why I smoke these things.”

“Pardon me?” Hoffen said.

“Parodis.” He showed Hoffen the stub he was chewing on. “Cigarettes is bad for ya. These ain’t that bad. I don’t swallow the smoke. I keep it in my mouth and blow it out. These things last longer than a cig. I only smoke five of ’em a day. If I smoked cigs, I’d go through a pack or two a day. I heard what ya said to Ed. She smokes a couple of packs a day. Might as well—don’t cost her nothin’. She owns the place. She can smoke as much as she wants. It ain’t like she’s stealin’ them or nothin’.”

“Um-hmm.” Hoffen shook his head, trying to make sense of Kenny’s comment.

They walked through the lot, which looked like the aftermath of a natural disaster. Some trees were stacked like cordwood while others looked like scattered piles of wood and needles. The leaners rested against each other, and a few lucky trees found their way to wooden tree stands.

“Hey, Dez, Ed told me to bring ya this fella. Name’s Huffin’. Don’t know nothin’ ’bout him,” Kenney said.

“It’s Hoffen.” He extended his calloused hand to Dez.

“You gotta a pretty good grip for a creaker,” Dez said. Hoffen smiled.

They stared at each other for a few pregnant moments, the way old acquaintances who haven’t seen each other in a while size each other up. Hoffen had about four inches on Dez. Dez closed one of his hawkish, brown eyes and cocked his head.

“Hoffen? What kind of name is that—Kraut? You a Kraut? We don’t like Krauts much around here. Fought ’em in the war.”

“Me too,” Hoffen said.

“How’d you fight the Krauts? You look too old to been in the war,” Dez said.

“I’m talking about the first war. You know, the one to end all wars,” Hoffen said.

“Yeah, well that didn’t work out too good, did it? If ya kicked their butts good, we wouldn’t have had to fight ’em again in the ’40s. We licked ’em good that time,” said Dez.

Hoffen nodded. Kenny flashed his yellowed grill.

“What do ya want? You sellin’ somethin’?” Dez asked.

“I’d like a job.”

“A job! Doin’ what? Pushin’ up daisies?” Dez said.

Kenny cracked up at the insult. “That’s a good one, Dez.”

“Selling Christmas trees,” Hoffen said.

“Any putz can sell a Christmas tree, even this one here.” Dez pointed to Kenny.

Kenny nodded.

“There ain’t much to sellin’ Christmas trees. The suckers come in here and do all the buying. We take their money and load the trees up on their cars. Ain’t that right, Kenny?”

“Yup,” Kenny said.

“You’ve got a lot of trees here. It looks to me you could use some help selling them,” Hoffen said.

“Yeah, we got a lot of trees. Too many, maybe. Kenny, go get me a Nehi.”

Kenny nodded and left.

“What do you know about selling trees?” Dez asked.

“I know you won’t sell all of your trees with your lot looking like this.”

“What are ya talkin’ about? What’s wrong with my lot?”

“First things first. That pile of trees is a mess. People come out here and want to have an experience for the holidays,” Hoffen said.

“I don’t care what they come out here for as long as the suckers leave with some pine tied to the roof of their cars,” Dez said.

“Dez, people want to remember the experience. They want this to be a tradition. It’s special for people. That’s repeat business,” Hoffen said.

“Keep chewing those words, ol’ man.”

“You’ve got three types of trees over there.” Hoffen pointed to a stack of pine. “You’ve got Scotch pines, firs, and spruces. They’re mixed together like vegetable soup. It’s too much work for the customer to find what they want. You have to make it easy for them to buy.”

“Keep chirping, ol’ man. I like the sound of it,” Dez said.

“Once you group them by needle, arrange them by size. Start with the small ones up front and the bigger ones in the back. People can walk down the path and see how the bigger trees compare. Make it easy to choose and buy. Isn’t that the point?”

Dez nodded. “What other ideas you got?”

“Play Christmas music. I can see the speakers on the light pole,” Hoffen said.

“Yeah, I use the PA system to yell at the mole head when I need him in the shop.”

“Use it for Christmas music. Create a holiday atmosphere. Give the children candy canes. It’s like the pine smell and smoke from the fire barrel. It reminds people of what Christmas tastes, sounds, and smells like. Make it a holiday experience.”

“Yeah, that stuff is pretty cheap. Give it to the kids and the parents feel like they owe ya. Guilt them into buying.” Dez nodded like a barnyard chicken. “You got a pretty good head on you, ol’ man, and you’re dressed for the work You done this before?”

“Yes, a few times,” Hoffen said. “I told you I could help. Everyone coming in here wants a Christmas story to go with the tree. What do you say? Do I get the job?”

“Well, you ain’t bashful about asking. That can’t hurt. And you talk a pretty good story, but you’re kinda old to be schlepping around Christmas trees, especially the eight-footers.”

“I can handle the trees.”

“Well, why not? I got a gimped-up college kid and a retard working for me. Might as well throw an ager into the mix. Maybe the three of you combined add up to one good employee. I pay two bucks an hour cash money and you get paid daily.”

“Sounds fine to me. When do I start?” Hoffen said.

“Be back here Thursday morning at nine. And if you can’t carry your load, you’ll be home early for Thanksgiving dinner,” said Dez.

“Fair enough. See you then.”

“Hold on a minute, old man.” Dez stopped Hoffen before he left. “Have we met before? You look familiar. Seems like I know ya.”

“Maybe. I’ve been around here for a while. Brentwood’s a small town. I have kind of a common face.”

“Yeah, maybe. All you whitebeards look alike anyway.”

“Okay. See you Thursday.”

“Hey, on your way out, go in the shop and tell that nitwit to bring me my Nehi.”

“Will do.”