Her Juicy Cherry

by S. E. Law

  With that, he turns and lumbers away. Kara stares at me from over the grey cubicle wall.

  “Oh my god, what are you going to do? Are you okay, Courtney?” she whispers.

  I shrug and put on a nonchalant expression.

  “This place is shitty. I’m glad I’m leaving. I’m fine, I’m fine,” I say irritably. The fact is that I’m a little miffed. This doesn’t come at a good time because rent’s due in a week, and I don’t have quite enough money in my bank account. My landlord’s not going to be happy.

  “What are you going to do?” Kara whispers again, her blue eyes wide.

  I shrug, and begin putting my personal effects into a cardboard box.

  “I’ll figure something out. After all, I’m only twenty-five. Everyone gets fired once in their life, right? Well, this is my time. I’ll find another job, don’t worry.”

  Kara nods, her face pale. But then I stop to look at her.

  “Did you know management was watching our computers?” I ask.

  She shakes her head.

  “No, I had no idea,” she says in a whisper. “I thought only we could see what’s on our computers.”

  I mentally roll my eyes again. Of course, Kara would think that. She’s the one who didn’t even realize that companies have internal networks with shared databases. But still, I don’t get it.

  “I mean, I know that employees can share files and access documents in a secure area. But I had no idea that management could actually track which websites we hit. That sounds creepy.”

  The intern is no help. She merely shrugs her slim shoulders.

  “Computers are scary,” is Kara’s unhelpful comment. “Maybe you could ask IT.”

  Obviously, it’s too late for that. I heave the rest of my stuff into the cardboard box and stand up before pulling my coat on.

  “Well, toodle-oo!” I say with fake cheer. “Keep yourself useful, okay? Here’s to recyclable cardboard!”

  Kara has a wan smile on her face and waves.

  “Bye Courtney,” she says in a small voice. “Keep in touch.”

  I whirl around and stalk towards the exit with my back ramrod straight. Of course, I have no intention of keeping up with that nincompoop, and Praxel Puffin can rot in hell for all I care. But has the company been watching me all this time? It’s frightening because it calls to mind Big Brother. What else do they know about me?

  A chill runs down my spine, even as I plunk my box into the trunk of my car. Technology is insidious, and if a company as idiotic as Praxel Puffin is watching me, then who else is? The American government? Russian spies?

  I snort and turn back to the building. Of course not. Why would spies be interested in me? I know nothing top secret, after all. Plus, I still have to go to this exit interview with Human Resources, so I march indoors with my head held high. I’m going to get this over with, and then go home and plunk myself down on the couch for some much-needed me time.

  2

  Courtney

  My fingers clench my Jetta’s steering wheel. The knuckles are white and I want to scream from frustration because the exit interview with HR was horrendous. I’d say that the lady who interviewed me, a Miss Hogshaw, was even more clueless than Kara. She couldn’t find her special pencil. Then she couldn’t find her lucky paperclip. Why she needed a paperclip, much less a lucky one, I have no idea. But I waited patiently until it was over, gamely answering every question, before zooming off in my little hatchback.

  A primal scream lodges in my throat. I want to throttle these people: Kara, Miss Hogshaw, and most of all, Stuart Farmer. Who do they think they are? Granted, I wasn’t exactly a stellar employee, but then again, they were watching my computer, day in and day out. That’s frightening.

  Come to think of it, they have my social security number, a copy of the first page of my passport, and god knows what else. I bet they could do a lot with what they know about me. It feels like I’m living in a surveillance state.

  Chills run down my spine, making me shudder. At that moment, I slow at a stoplight and my cells pings on the passenger seat next to me. I pick up the silver handset and stare at the screen, my foot automatically pressing on the brake. Oh god, it’s a text from Bert, my non-boyfriend.

  Wat u up to? he writes. Your pucker ready for some mad hammer?

  I grimace. Seriously, this guy is so gross. When I told Kara that we were just hooking up, I didn’t add that there is no way in hell that I would ever date Bert. Sure, he’s good looking, but he’s such a dog. Who writes things like “pucker” and “mad hammer”? Where does he even get these terms? Does he browse Urban Dictionary all day?

  I begin typing my reply, which is going to be something along the lines of “Fuck off, my pucker is off-limits to you,” but then the burp of a siren sounds behind me and I automatically glance in my rear-view mirror. Shit, there’s a police car. Heaving a sigh, I toss my cell onto the passenger seat in resignation. When the light turns green, I cross the intersection and then pull over onto the shoulder of the road. The black and white pulls up right behind me.

  The door to the cruiser opens, and a well-built form gets out. Well, well, well. It seems that my officer likes to work out. Not only that, but when he finally reaches my car, I see that he’s quite handsome. He has blue eyes and a firm jaw with a cleft in it. Exactly what I like.

  Except Officer Kimmel, as I see from his badge, is currently glowering at me.

  “Do you know what you did?”

  I look at him innocently.

  “I was stopped at the red light,” I begin. “I obeyed all traffic rules.”

  Officer Kimmel gets a look of disgust on his face and begins pulling out his citation book.

  “No, what did I do?” I whisper in a feeble tone. “Whatever I did, I promise I’ll never do it again. I swear on my grandmother’s grave!”

  The officer won’t even look at me. He merely scribbles in his pad, and then tears out the citation and hands it to me through the window. I stare at the slip of paper.

  “Texting while driving? That’s what I was doing?”

  He tucks his pad back into his belt.

  “I saw you with my own eyes,” he says in a cutting voice.

  “No, but I wasn’t! I mean, I picked up my phone and read a text, and yes, I was going to reply, but I didn’t actually reply because then I saw you behind me.”

  “Oh really,” Officer Kimmel says sarcastically. “So it was only when law enforcement arrived that you decided to shape up?”

  “Yes!” I cry with tears rolling down my face. “I mean no! I haven’t texted anyone. See?” I ask, holding up my phone in case he wants to read my messages.

  But the officer merely turns away, totally unsympathetic.

  “It’s a three hundred dollar fine,” he tosses over his shoulder. “Texting while driving is a crime in California. You’re lucky I’m not hauling you off to jail,” he says while striding back to his car.

  The black and white pulls onto the road, and I stare as it disappears from view. What the hell! Jail? For just glancing at my phone? Everyone does it, so why am I being singled out?

  Silently, I sit behind my steering wheel, frustrated and fuming. This has been the worst day ever. Rage builds, and I can’t fight it anymore. Clutching the steering wheel, I let out the primal scream that’s been building in my gut all day. My car is small, so the scream is really loud and makes my eardrums ring, but it feels good. Agony seems to flow from my veins and I bash the steering wheel with my fists a few times just for good measure. I think some of the drivers in passing cars see my fury, but I don’t care. What the hell? What could possibly go wrong now?

  Still fuming, I pull away from the curb and drive home, careful to obey every traffic law. That would be so perfect if I got another citation. Angrily, I toss the yellow envelope onto the couch before heaving my cardboard box onto the shag rug, where it spills open and breaks. FUCK!

  Why has all this crap happened today? There are many reasons, but I feel th
at technology is betraying me. First, with my stupid computer that the Praxel Puffin higher-ups actually bugged. Okay, maybe it wasn’t bugged in a spying sense, but they were tracking me.

  Then, with my stupid cell phone. Why the hell did it have to let out that high chime, just begging me to pick it up? Why did I have to respond to that idiot Bert Halliwell? Why did the police cruiser pull up at exactly the wrong time?

  I let out another primal scream in the privacy of my apartment, and ruthlessly kick at a chair. Ouch, that hurt! A ragged jag of pain goes through my toe and I grab it while hopping around like a lame kangaroo. I need to get the fuck out of here. I need a change of scenery. I need to go somewhere where I can get away from it all, hopefully for good. But where would that be?

  3

  Courtney

  Calmer now, I take a sip of tea while staring at my laptop screen. I’m sick to death of Silicon Valley. Sure, it’s where Facebook, Google, and all those other high-tech companies are, but much good that does me. I work, ahem, worked, at a company that manufactures cardboard boxes, so we weren’t exactly taking over the world. Plus, I’m so sick of the congestion all the time, not to mention the high housing costs. I’m so frustrated with everything in this overly-expensive valley.

  I need to go somewhere different. Somewhere where I can get my head together, and let my heart heal. A snort escapes my lips. Heal? Hardly. I’m a fighter, and I’m not giving up the fight just yet. I merely need a respite from the modern world. So where to?

  Idly, my finger clicks on different links. A few pictures pop up on screen, showing an ascetically clean white building that looks vaguely temple-like. Hmm, it’s an ashram in India. Isn’t that what the woman in Eat, Pray, Love went? But then I see that you have to meditate for three hours every day, with the first meditation at sunrise. Nope. That’s impossible. I can hardly drag myself out of bed by 8 a.m., much less at daybreak. Plus, meditating for that long would give me a headache. It’s supposed to calm you down, but it would just make my thoughts go around in circles.

  Then, I click on what looks like a fairy tale castle. Oh wow, very cool! There’s a castle in Germany that looks like Cinderella’s castle from Disneyland. Its blue spires jut into creamy clouds, and the stone-work is solid yet enchanting too. Evidently, it’s a Catholic convent that offers select women a three-week program of “peace, reflection, and repose.” My nose scrunches. What does that mean?

  Then, as I click through the pictures, my heart drops. Every woman in the pictures appears to be wearing yoga tights and fancy, two hundred dollar fleece pullovers. Their skin glows, and more than a few have expensive blonde highlights in their ponytailed hair. Clearly, this is where the yuppie mom group goes to relax and recharge, away from their kids. I can’t come here. I’d have nothing in common with them.

  Losing hope, I take another sip of my tea. What else should I try? A hippie commune? A kibbutz in Israel? Neither idea really appeals to me, and with reluctance, I click on a picture of a farm called Cherrywood. It’s not that far from where I am. It’s located in Lodi, which is in central California. It’s known for its grape production, which isn’t all that weird seeing that the Central Valley is very fertile.

  But why is this place called Cherrywood Farms? Shouldn’t it be called Grapewood if grapes are their specialty? I click on the logo, and the search engine takes me to their homepage. Immediately, my breath seizes because the two men smiling at me from the center photo are gorgeous. So hot that I feel my temperature begin to go up. Who are these dudes? My eyes scan the accompanying text.

  Evidently, Hank True and Huck More are two cherry farmers who began farming cherries in Lodi about ten years ago. They, too, were sick of the big city, and wanted to escape to a simpler life. They left high-powered tech jobs in San Francisco, and went back to basics by buying Cherrywood at auction and turning into a working farm. It’s been a long slog, but now, Cherrywood produces a respectable haul of Bings each year, and their produce is sold at farmer’s markets all over the West Coast.

  Currently, Cherrywood is looking for seasonal workers to help with harvesting cherries. My eyes open wide. This could work, especially if I work with Huck and Hank every day. After all, it’s going to be back breaking labor, so I need hunky, muscular men like Huck and Hank at my side. Plus, I’m a libertine like that. If this job was about helping old ladies in the library, I probably wouldn’t be too interested.

  My eyes quickly scan the requirements. I need to be available for the next three months, and the pay is fifteen dollars an hour. Wow, that’s a lot considering that I made about thirty thousand a year at Praxel Puffin. In fact, the hourly wages work out to the same as my annual salary at Praxel Puffin. What a coincidence! Maybe I won’t be in dire financial straits after all.

  Even better, I’ll be able to give up my apartment in expensive Silicon Valley because Cherrywood provides temporary housing for all seasonal workers. Granted, it’ll probably be dorm-like accommodations, but I can handle that. It’s only going to be for three months after all.

  Staring at the picture of Huck and Hank, I quickly type an email expressing my interest, attach my resume, and then send it off. I can’t imagine what they’ll do with my CV, but you never know. Besides, my resume is filled with chirpy business-speak like “detail-oriented” and “self-starter.” Cherrywood would want someone like that, right?

  Feeling happy for the first time all day, I get up and stretch. My neck creaks and my shoulders crack a bit, but my spirit feels lighter. Somehow, I’ll figure this out because if all goes well, I’m headed to Cherrywood Farms, and straight into the arms of the two muscular cherry farmers.

  4

  Huck

  The ancient bus pulls up to dusty road and rattles to a halt in front of the barn. Oh shit, they’re here.

  I call out to my business partner.

  “Yo Hank. New recruits just arrived. Time to start orientation.”

  Hank appears in the doorway with a scowl on his face. He doesn’t look too happy and I don’t blame him because we don’t really want to hire temporary workers. More often than not, these folks often have problematic backgrounds: drug records, warrants for their arrest, or even a couple runaways sometimes.

  But what can we do? The cherry season just is what it is, and we need all the help we can get right now. As a result, everyone who sent in an expression of interest got hired. They were asked to meet at a Walmart parking lot in Sacramento, and then driven by bus down to Cherrywood. We didn’t want twenty cars parked haphazardly all over our farm. It’s too precious for that.

  The recruits stumble off the bus, tired from the long drive. Hank lets out a disgusted grunt, and I agree. They’re travel-stained and raggedy, but that’s okay. So long as everyone has two arms, two legs, and an eye for cherries, then we’ll be good.

  Suddenly, my eyes light on one of the new recruits because she’s different from the rest. There’s a sassy air about this girl, from the way her curly brown hair springs around her head, to the swing of her generous hips. She pulls her striped t-shirt down to hide a bit of pooch, and I see that she’s got huge, curvy tits and a big ass encased in tight jeans too. Hmm, very interesting.

  “Do you see what I see?” Hank growls from over by the office window. Of course, he’s staring at the same girl.

  “I sure do, buddy,” I reply. “Who the hell is that?”

  He shrugs.

  “Damned if I know. I didn’t read those resumes. Did you?”

  I quickly think back. I did, but no one really stood out. There were a couple people who were professional dog-walkers, a couple food service guys, and a girl who had an office job but was unceremoniously fired from the sound of it. It must be her.

  I lean over my computer and scroll through my inbox before clicking on the email. Courtney Harlow. Graduated from Sonoma State, and then worked as an admin assistant at Praxel Puffin doing paperwork. That’s all well and good, but here at Cherrywood, it’s going to be manual labor.

  I look ou
t the window once more and see that Courtney is brushing her hair out of her face while looking suspiciously at one of the other temps. He looks about fifty, with stringy brown hair hanging in his eyes and missing teeth. He weasels up to her and then whispers something to her. She smiles wanly back while slightly edging away. But Rat-tail leans closer once more, and she subtly tries to get away again by slinging her bag over her elbow like a barrier. I’ve had enough.

  Hank and I stride outside to greet the group. Immediately, a hush comes over the straggly crowd as they turn to us with wide eyes.

  “Hi and welcome,” says Hank in his baritone. “I’m Hank True, and this is Huck More. We’re the founders of Cherrywood Farms. Welcome.”

  I smile at the crowd, nodding pleasantly.

  “We’re not really the founders of Cherrywood because as you can guess, this farm has been around ever since California belonged to Mexico. It was once run by rancheros, and even back then, they grew cherries. But the United States barreled in, ownership changed several times, and the farm fell on hard times. Hank and I wanted to do the right thing, so we stepped away from our day jobs and swooped in to buy this place out of bankruptcy. The farm that you see now is ten years of hard work,” I say, gesturing to the cherry trees planted in neat rows to the left.

  The crowd nods and lets out a gasp of awe because the sight is magnificent. The cherry trees are in full form, and heavy with fruit. Verdant greenery waves in the wind, the boughs literally bent over to near-breaking with ripe cherries. I grimace a bit.

  “As you can see, we need help. A lot of it. We have full-time staff on the farm, but during the harvest, we hire temporary help to make sure that everything that needs to get done, gets done. That includes a number of different tasks, but the most important one is of course, the harvest itself. We need to pluck cherries when they hit their peak, and then prepare and package them for sale. That can’t be done without you,” I say meaningfully.