Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

He lifts the lid of the trunk, tosses his bag into it, then lets the lid slap shut. “Ready.”

I blink. “Uh … Alright, then. Let’s go.”

I show him the chickens. He watches and listens, hands in his pockets, eyes dead, hair blowing in the wind. I show him the horse barn and explain how he’ll be responsible for cleaning it. He leans over one of the waist-high gates to see inside the stall, then nods. We go to the sheep where I introduce him to the flock, including our beloved troublemaker Peepers, whom Turtle greets with a grunt and a nod of his head. He’s apparently not much of a talker.

“Ever shorn a sheep before?” I ask, trying to stimulate a little conversation as we head from their enclosure toward the pig pen.

“Nah.”

“They’re ready to shear, but Gary wants to hold off ‘til next week for some reason. Some sheep owners do it just once a year, usually in the spring or early summer, but others do it twice. You want them to have their—” Is he even listening? “—fleece for the winter to keep them warm, even though down here in south Texas, it doesn’t exactly get dangerously cold, but still cold enough to—” He’s always just staring ahead into dead space. “Anyway, I made a small repair to the fence yesterday, but it’s still important to make sure—” It’s like the last two brain cells inside his maybe-stoned-as-balls mind are all he has left to form sentences with. “Y’know, just in case. Always err on the side of safety.”

“Yup,” says Turtle, his magnificent contribution to our chat.

I’m running on less than empty today.

Man, I need a drink.

Even after our day, when all the farmhands and myself are gathered in the bunkhouse for dinner, Turtle just sits in his place and eats quietly. When Fred asks him about something to do with the movie theater, Turtle answers him so succinctly, you’d think he was trying to use as few words as possible. Even Emmalea gives him strange looks, like she’s trying to figure him out, and offering none of her usual warmth.

Then Miguel mentions something to do with the tractor, and a switch must flip on in Turtle’s head, because quite suddenly he’s got a hundred things to say.

Even if those hundred things are said in a dull, listless drone and make little to no sense.

“Well, well,” says Emmalea, lightening up her suspicious gaze. “So you’ve got a knack for machinery. Gary said somethin’ about that. Any other hidden talents we oughta know about?”

Turtle turns to her. “I can play the uke.”

“You … can play the what?”

“Ukulele. I write ditties. I can sing you one if you want.”

Everyone stares at him, dumbfounded.

Myself included.

Sing ...?

And five minutes later, there’s Turtle sitting in an armchair with a ukulele in his lap, singing a humble tune and plucking away with impressive finesse. Baffled, all of us watch and listen as he serenades us. It isn’t exactly impressive more than it is just entirely unexpected, what with his standoffish demeanor and oddness.

But even as I watch and listen to his music from a chair at the table, where the rest of my dinner sits ignored and getting cold, I can’t help but feel something’s missing. After the song’s over and everyone bursts into applause, I just stare on ahead, empty, sullen, and bothered about something I won’t name.

Or rather, someone I won’t name.

Chapter 8

Hoyt

Well, my day was a shit show of fucking fantastic shittiness.

“Are you sure you don’t need another busboy, Mr. Tucker?” I asked after a long, tiresome walk down to Biggie’s Bites.

He sighed, his big dark mustache wiggling. “Sorry, son!”

“Are you sure you couldn’t use maybe someone to greet your customers at the door, Mr. Love?” I asked after a walk to Country Lovin’ under the hot sun, the aroma of crepes intoxicating me.

The man just shook his head. “Shoulda come weeks ago, bud.”

“Maybe you could use someone to sweep your floors? There’s a pile of popcorn by the bathrooms, I’m lookin’ at it right now!” I exclaim after a walk to the movie theater. By this point, my shirt is drenched and my face is red. “You can pay me the minimum wage. Or less! Hell I’ll sign a waiver, whatever you need, let’s do it.”

Mr. Lemon winces. “Sorry, Hoyt, but hours are already thin. I can’t take on another employee.”

I’m kinda tired of being apologized to.

Same response comes from Patsy’s Pastries & Pies. And the antique shop on 4th and Apricot. And Gran’s Home Kitchen, which honestly I thought closed two years ago. Tumbleweeds won’t hire anyone under twenty-one after some stupid alcohol fiasco. Hell, I even begged to get a job at the Spruce Arcade, and I’m pretty sure the owner has a crush on Toby or something, because he just gave me the stink eye and said no. Real professional, there.