Dan's Papers Oct. 8, 2010 by Dan's Papers

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insurance here, don’t you?” The couple walked down a dirt path until they were about 100 yards from the farm stand. It was a strange sensation for the man. There he stood in summer clothes in the middle of a farmer’s field, surrounded by berry pickers. It was a long leap from the Graybar Building, even a long leap from his house on the beach. “Well, come on,” the girl called. “You won’t get any standing there.” She was already on her haunches, in a patch off to his right. “I usually PAY people to do this kind of thing,” the man sniffed. But then he was down on his haunches, and looking at the tops of the umbrella leaves of the strawberry plants. There was a little red strawberry underneath one. He’d have to touch it. Slowly he reached down toward the leaf, determined to touch it with his bare hands. He imagined the chemicals that might transfer to his skin from the plant leaf, chemicals that could cause a rash and keep him out of his office for several days. He imagined the bugs that might be there, some of which might carry dreadful diseases. He might die. But he touched it. And it moved. A pleasant sensation. * * * Ten minutes later, the man named Leonard considered himself the best and fastest strawberry picker on the east coast. He moved the plants around vigorously, searching for the elusive berries, pulling them between index and

middle finger, moving along in a squat-like walk to the next plant. Occasionally a young boy or an older woman would pick their way over toward his row and he would look up and scowl until they picked their way off in another direction. He’d instinctively known what to pick and what not to pick. Red was good, green was bad. That he knew. He watched for abrasions or worm holes and generally tossed those bad ones to one side with a sense of guilt. After all, why should he be selective? What made him so special? It was only 40 cents. But then he’d see other strawberries, picked and unripe, thrown to one side or another, rejected by lesser mortals than he, and he felt better. Until he would accidentally step on one end and go squish. And then he’d feel bad and wasteful again. Eventually his basket was filled. There was no possible way he could add more to it without losing a berry for every one that he put on. It was over. Like a ride on a roller coaster, his little fantasy had come to an end. And he couldn’t get up. He was stuck in the squatting position. “It’s been a long time,” the girl was saying, standing over him with her arm extended. “I’m stuck. I can’t get up. And you have strawberries all over your face.” “It’s a bad bargain if you don’t eat more than you pick.” He took her hand and painfully lifted himself to his feet. It was most comfortable if he

stooped a little. “Maybe they X-ray you,“ he said. “I’ll drive if you want me to,” she said, referring to his stoop. “Never mind.” Warm and sunburned, they walked back down the dirt path toward the farm stand, holding their baskets in front of them like beggars with tin cups. The man took one particular strawberry he’d been saving off the top of his basket and held it up as he walked. “Look at this,” he said. “A perfect strawberry.” The girl ate it. The man scowled. Back at the farm stand Leonard reached into his pocket and handed four quarters over to the young man with the long hair. Then he noticed that the girl had a fistful of daisies in her left hand. “How much for the daisies?” he asked. “The daisies are free. We only charge for strawberries.” They walked back out to the Mercedes, black and shining in the afternoon sun, and the man made some financial calculations. They’d paid 40 cents to pick their own baskets. Yet baskets already picked were for sale for 60 cents. That meant that he had made 20 cents for 10 minutes as a strawberry picker, he figured out what that was for an hour, compared it t what he made at Merrill Lynch, considered a great many variables, and then turned the key in the ignition.

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