A Sort of Love Story

by Dina Di Maio

This is a love story that never happened. Well, what I’m about to tell you did happen--all except for the love part.

When I first met Zeke, I was arranging turnips in the produce case. He tied a red apron around his slender waist, covering up part of his Harley-Davidson T-shirt, shook his head, and said, "This job sucks." Then, opening a case of grapefruit, he said, "That manager’s an idiot."

That was his first day.

My first reaction was to defend Harold. He was a good manager. I had been a cashier, but he moved me to produce when I requested it. I got extra money and more flexible hours. But I kept my mouth shut. It seemed to be my best bet if I was going to have to work with this jerk.

Apparently, Zeke wanted to wear a Harley-Davidson T-shirt to work and, obviously, wasn’t supposed to. He had to go in the back and change.

When he came back, he asked me, "How can you stand this?" as he piled grapefruit upon grapefruit. I watched as some rolled onto the floor. "Shit," Zeke said, bending over to pick up the grapefruit. I couldn’t help noticing Zeke had a nice ass in a pair of jeans.

"You get used to it. It’s not so bad," I said, making sure the turnips were straight and neat. Before I began stocking, I’d spent an hour chopping off vegetable leaves. It wasn’t what I planned to do with my life after I graduated from college, but it paid the rent and the phone bill now. No, what I really wanted was to be a veterinarian. I was going to North Carolina State University Veterinary School and planned to open my own practice one day. I had worked here full-time all summer, but ever since the semester started three weeks ago, I worked part-time.

Zeke said, "Man, this shit’s for high school kids, not men like me."

"Then what are you doing here?" I asked, watering the lettuce.

"Long story," he said, shaking his head. "If you got a few hours, I’ll tell ya."

"Well, I’ll just be watering these vegetables here," I said in case he wanted to tell me. He didn't though.

"So, what, are you in high school?" he asked, stopping to look at me. He studied my face. I turned away, fiddling with the cucumbers, feeling his eyes on my ass.

"No, I know you’re older. You’re in college, right? Eighteen, nineteen . . . "

"Twenty-two."

He nodded. "Mm. You’re short--makes you look younger."

He was right, but he didn't need to be so frank. I was short, and most people did think I was in high school. Matter of fact, I’m shorter than my younger brother, and people often think he's older.

I tried to guess Zeke's age. He was older than twenty-five but younger than forty, one of those guys who looks really young but who is probably really old.

"How old are you?" I asked.

"Thirty-eight," he said.

I wasn’t shocked. I knew Zeke was old. Only thing is he had this baby face. His skin was clean and soft-looking like he never had to shave. Yet even with his baby face, he still looked every bit a man. He had little crow’s feet around his eyes.

"So what do you study?" he asked me, opening another case.

"Veterinary science," I said. "I want to be a veterinarian."

"Oh, that’s good. My dog’s been puking. Maybe you know what it is."

"Does he eat grass?" I asked, genuinely interested in the welfare of any animal, especially the poor one that was stuck with this bozo.

Zeke laughed. "I don’t know."

"Well," I said, "if he is vomiting, it could be because of an upset stomach. What do you feed him? Sometimes, dogs will eat grass to help them digest."

"I don’t know, ha," Zeke said, laughing. "I don’t even have a dog."

I smirked. "You’re a liar, then."

"Not a liar. A joker. I guess you can’t take a joke. It’ll be fun working with you."

Ditto.

*

After his first week, Zeke came to work late almost every day and developed a habit I did not like.

"Hey, Viv, you cut the stems already?" he asked, knowing full well I did his job for him.

By the way, the habit I did not like was not doing his work for him, but his use of the nickname "Viv." My name was Vivian, and everyone called me Vivian at work and at school. My grandfather called me Viv and my mother called me "Bibby," which was her play on "Viv" and "Baby." But I wanted everyone else, including Zeke, to call me Vivian. So I didn’t answer him. I ignored him every time he used the nickname, but that didn’t stop him. He was not a perceptive kind of guy.

"Thanks for cutting the stems, Viv. I don’t want to hear that asshole again. ‘Late again, Martin,’ he said. ‘It’s three strikes and you’re out.’ Three strikes and you’re out. What an asshole. What can I do? It’s that shitbox that I drive."

"Leave earlier," I said. After all, if I could get up an hour earlier to commute with a full load of courses, he could with whatever pitiful situation he called his life.

"Shit, and miss my beauty sleep? Hell, no," he said.

"Well," I said. Lose your job, then. It probably wasn't the first.

"Well, what?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just well," I said, putting out the tomatoes. They were on sale this week, and they looked nice, red, ripe, and juicy. I put some pretty ones aside for myself. I never stole anything, but I always picked out the best-Iooking produce to buy for myself, especially if there was a sale.

Zeke asked, "Whatcha doing with those tomatoes?"

"Nothing," I said. "Just putting them out."

He lifted one eyebrow. "That's not what it looks like to me." He smiled. "If someone asked me what I thought, I'd say you were saving those tomatoes for later."

I said, "Well, I am, but I'm not a heathen like you. I plan to pay for them before I leave."

"Hey, hey," he said, stepping back and pointing to his chest. "Who you calling a heathen? Believe me, if I was gonna take something, it wouldn't be tomatoes." He smiled at me and winked slowly. Zeke had intense eyes. When he looked at you, it was like you were stark naked before him--didn't even have time to undress--and he was thoroughly happy inspecting every nook and cranny of your body. Well, at least that’s how I felt when he looked at me.

Then he knelt down to open another case of fruit. I started walking towards the back room.

"By the way, Viv," he called after me, "you don’t need to take those tomatoes. You already got perfect ones."

I walked to the back room without looking at him. I was afraid I'd turn into salt.

In the back, I was getting ready to leave, putting my apron away. Donnie, the Indian guy who worked part-time stocking shelves, was in the back starting his shift. I had known him for two months, since he started work, but I didn't talk to him much. Donnie was a quiet guy. He was only sixteen, and you could tell because he was skinny and had lots of big, red pimples. His hair always hung in his face too.

Zeke walked in to get more cases of fruit. He winked at me, looked over at Donnie, who looked down to the floor, and said, "Those tomatoes are really ripe too."

Standing behind me, he said, "Juicy. I'd like to bite into them." Then he burst into school-boyish laughter.

I thought he was a jerk, a buffoon was a better word, and yet, he was funny. Something about his eyes when he said it, squinting, made him look cute. What I would have seen as rude from another man was a joke coming from him.

*

Zeke had two Harley-Davidson T-shirts that he’d wear to work, alternating each day between two. One said "Born To Ride" and the other didn’t. He’d change into his work clothes in the back room.

One day, while I was arranging the broccoli, he came back from changing and startled me by saying, "Life’s a bitch." He was talking to himself but then addressed me. "What do you think, Viv?"

I should’ve ignored him, but instead I said, "It depends."

"On what?" he asked. He paused, then said, "On how much you got in your pocket."

"No," I said. "It depends on how you look at things. Ya know, is the glass half-empty or half-full?"

"In my house, the glass is always empty," Zeke said, laughing.

"Maybe that's it then," I said. "You don't seem to take anything seriously."

"Look at me, Viv," he said, picking up a butternut squash. He was arranging squashes and Indian corn for Thanksgiving, which was coming up in a couple of weeks. "Can you take this seriously?"

I laughed. "No," I said. He did look ridiculous, a thirty-eight year old guy wearing an apron and holding a squash--not even a zucchini--but a butternut squash with its long, irregular shape.

"I guess life is hard sometimes and maybe, unfair," I said, shrugging.

"Maybe unfair," he repeated, under his breath.

Zeke got quiet, then, and continued working. I didn’t say anything either.

"So is what you do hard?" he asked five minutes later.

"School?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, it’s hard. It’s a lot of studying and memorizing. It’s different from being a regular doctor. Regular doctors know just the human body, but veterinarians need to know all kinds of animals. It’s a lot to remember," I said.

Zeke nodded, not looking at me. "Yeah, that is a lot. You can do it, though. You’re smart," he said.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"I can tell by the way you talk. Someday you're gonna come back here in a Mercedes and say hello to me and Donnie over there." Zeke pointed to Donnie, who was stocking mayonnaise jars at a special display for this week’s sale.

I smiled.

Zeke said, "Nah, you’ll never come here again. We’ll never see you again. You’ll be like ‘Zeke? Zeke who?’ Then you’ll go to Hawaii with your Wall Street husband."

I laughed. "That’s not true."

"No, what’s not true? The Wall Street husband?"

I laughed again. "I never forget my friends," I said.

Zeke looked at me a second, then looked away, sort of frowning. He sat down on a box. "Man, I’m tired. Ya know, this job . . ."

"Sucks," I finished.

"Yeah," he said and smiled.

He was silent for a second, then said, "Ya know, we should go out for a drink sometime."

I smiled. "I don’t drink with men. I only drink with my sister or my cousins," I said, which was not a total lie. I did drink with men friends I knew well. Then I added, "But maybe we could get coffee."

Zeke didn’t look at me and just nodded. He said in a low and serious tone, "Well, see, I only get coffee with my brother and my cousins."

*

The Saturday after Thanksgiving I went shopping with my friend Kate. Although the stores were too crowded, we went to Kmart and Wal-Mart like we did every weekend. In one of those stores, I saw Harley-Davidson T-shirts. It made me think of Zeke, so I picked one up, a different one from his. Kate asked me why I wanted it, and I said it was for a friend at work. She said ooooh, but I said it’s not like that.

When I got home, I put the shirt in a box and sprayed it with my favorite perfume. Then I wrapped it with shiny lavender paper.

On Friday, I gave him the shirt so I’d have the weekend before I faced him again.

"I got something for you," I said.

He looked over. "It’s about time," he said, smiling.

"Nah, it’s just a little something." I handed him the box with the shirt.

Zeke looked me in the eye, smiled, tilted his head, and said, "Aw. What’s this for?"

I shrugged and didn’t look at him.

He opened it up, took it out, and said, "I don't have this one."

"I know," I said, smiling.

He smiled at me and shook his head as if to say no. "Thanks," he said. "It’s nice."

*

I went into work on Monday, and Zeke didn’t show up. For a while, I thought he’d just be late, but he never came. Then Harold walked by, so I asked him what happened to Zeke.

"Oh, him? He quit Friday," Harold said, walking by without looking at me.

I wrapped the leftover tomatoes to put on the reduced shelf. The next few weeks were quiet. I came in, did my work, and went home. I never saw Zeke again.

One day when I was putting out corn, I looked at my hands, then at the green husks, and then above and beyond, until I saw Donnie shelving cans of vegetables down aisle two.

Leaving the corn, I walked over to him. He turned to look at me, his face blank like asking what did I want. I said, "Ya know, Donnie, if you weren’t under aged, I’d say let’s go get a drink sometime."