Jimmy Crack was the only name he ever used. It was tossed after him by the woman who dropped him out of the bus window into the arms of the apple peddler. Otis was more than an apple peddler. His roadside stand sold all sorts of fruit and vegetables and in a few short years Jimmy was old enough to help set-up the stand each morning and to take it down at night.
He enjoyed the challenge of placing the short-lived items in their proper places. Vegetables were complacent. Cucumbers, snap peas and butter beans were content to lie in a row, squash and corn longed to be together. Fruit needed deeper study. An apple is offended by a fig’s soft insides, while grapes are happiest draping the peaches. Pears remained inscrutable.
The stand was beside a busy state road and late one September afternoon an interstate bus pulled onto the gravel byway. For several minutes Jimmy filled sturdy brown bags for the travelers. Peaches and, oddly, carrots moved the fastest. The rush was winding down before he noticed the girl, about his age, watching him through an open window. He wandered over, leaving Otis to finish serving the last customers.
The girl knelt on her seat. â€œThere’s always a future in food,â€ she said.
â€œYou have to rotate the stock each day.â€
â€œThat’s my mother over there, smoking the Chesterfield. She likes to blow smoke rings.â€
Then the girl said, â€œCome inside.â€
The rubber treads on the three bus steps were worn gray. She directed him into the window seat. â€œI bet this bus has been plenty of places,â€ he said.
â€œMostly back and forth from Mobile to Wheeling.â€
â€œYou look like a boy who has found himself a good place to be,â€ she said.
â€œI’m still figuring out the fruit.â€
She was looking over his shoulder. Jimmy noticed her mother’s cigarette was bright red on both ends.
â€œIt’s lipstick,â€ the girl said. â€œShe wears too much of it.â€
Jimmy began to think more deeply about the bus. Its mystery grew. It’d be like two worlds. The one outside speeding by, the one inside holding still.
â€œThe bus can’t leave until minds are made up,â€ she said, and pointed toward the passengers milling around the stand. A few of the men peeled peaches with pocketknives. â€œMother has stopped making decisions. She wants me to make them for her.â€
â€œProbably for the best.â€
They sat silently. The bottom of Jimmy’s feet began to itch. He watched the mother blow the smoke rings. When the circles broke, the smoke hung still for moment.
Finally, the girl stood up. â€œWhat’s your favorite?â€
â€œI’ll remember that,â€ she said and headed up the aisle. When her little hand gripped the exit’s silver pole she looked back and smiled for the first time. â€œYou can call me Roxanne.â€
Jimmy watched her skip over to Otis. She reached up and tugged his sleeve. The old man’s face broke into a broad smile. He put his hand gently on her back and began pointing out the displayed items. Then he showed her the empty baskets stored beneath the tables. At the end of the day they’d load the unsold produce in his old pick-up and take it home for the night.
The strangers began to climb back on the bus. The mother was the last one to board. She sat down beside Jimmy, let out a deep breath, pulled a copy of Photoplay from a bag beneath her seat, and said â€œI don’t think we’ll ever get there.â€
She had blond eyebrows and a bridge of fine hair across her upper lip. It’s like a light fur, Jimmy thought, put there to gather sunlight.
The big engine started and the driver, wearing his blue uniform and black billed hat, released the air brakes. The bus slowly pulled away. Outside, Roxanne bit into a shiny yellow pear.