I'm in Newark, of all places, for a fertilizer conference. Which means I spend the weekend kissing ass in hopes of scoring five-percent discounts. You don't manage two thousand acres these days without sucking up to someone, be it suppliers or lobbyists or government lackeys. Fucking politics, man. This is what American farming has become.

I wind up doing six or eight of these things a year, from Sacramento to Bangor, and after the first day of the conference I like to get out and roam the host city. This being my first time in Jersey, and me being a green thumb and all, I was excited about the prospects. But as I walk the downtown streets it becomes clear that whoever named this place the Garden State didn't have Newark in mind.

The cell chirps, it's my brother and business partner, Al, complaining about a shipment of rotten seed. Al is reasonably adept at running the day-to-day although he gets agitated easily, which is another way to say he's a social retard, and because of this I handle the marketing end. The one time I let Al attend a conference he went toe to toe with a vice president from John Deere in the crowded lobby of a civic center. Took me six months to smooth that one over. What I told Al, "You can't grease a palm if you have the other hand around the guy's neck."

"Damn it, Seth, we're talking about the whole west field."

"Relax, partner," I tell him, and glance around at the two jokers who have been following me the past fifty yards.

"Relax my ass," says Al. "I don't get that field planted in a week, we're sunk. And what the hell are you doing out there anyway, smelling the fucking lilacs?"

I smile and turn down an alley, the two jokers right behind me, one black, one white, both crack skinny.

"Listen, Al, I'm going to make a couple calls and have the seed to you the day after tomorrow, no sweat."

As Al questions the feasibility of this pledge, one of the jokers says, "Hey, Hayseed," and the other one laughs a sporadic-toothed laugh.

I hold up a wait-a-minute finger. They glance at each other quizzically.

"Al, chill. We're gonna make this happen. "

"I'll tell you what, we'd better..."

The black joker, apparently the leader, moves forward with a look that says he means me harm. I tell Al to hold on and palm the mouthpiece. "Let me wrap this up, hey fella? You'll get your chance." He stops and adopts a wide-eyed expression like he just caught me fingering his schnauzer.

"Day after tomorrow," I repeat. "Listen, man, let me call you back in an hour. I have to take care of something here."

Al grunts off and I tuck the cell in my Carhartt. "Now, then," I say. "I assume you gentlemen are in need of legal tender?"

The leader says, "Nice boots, Gomer. You in town for the pig-ropin' contest?"

"Suey, suey," I say. "Listen, can either of you tell me how to find the gardens? Maybe some nice azaleas?"

The leader has had enough banter. He pulls a blade from his pants and says, "Shut the fuck up, motherfucker, and gimme your motherfuckin' shit."

I say, "That's a lot of motherfuckers."

"All your shit—that cell phone too."

"You wouldn't want this one. Roaming plan's a bitch."

The white crackhead, a pockmarked chap with dirty blond cornrolls, says to his colleague, "Yo, Linus, cut that motherfucker. Cut him."

"Linus? You've got to be kidding me. And who the fuck are you, Lucy?"

Linus surges for my chest, bringing along a wave of nasty street funk. I find myself holding my breath as I do what I do, rather gently in this case, for I've decided to take my time with these little twits. Seizing Linus by the wrist, I confiscate his blade and introduce him to its efficacy—cheek and ear, chest and ribs—just shallow cuts to begin with, and careful to avoid the blood spray—a lesson I learned well years ago in Houston.

The cornrolled fella produces his own blade and joins the action. By now I'm a veritable whirling dervish, slicing and dicing in my own gruesome ballet, and I deposit him on the alley floor next to his friend, removing a healthy patch of scalp in the process. Panting, synapses afire, I fling the pulpy pelt against the brick wall and take a seat. The leader grasps my ankle weakly and pleads for his life. I wipe the bloody blade on his arm and tell him if he can quiet his friend down, I'll think about it.

"Shut up, G. Shut the fuck up." The leader elbows his comrade but this only heightens his bleating.

"Here," I say, offering the blade. "Try this."

The leader stares at me squint-eyed, gauging his chances with me. I squint-eye him back, toss him a little smile, and he makes the right choice. The cornrolled fella is ready with his own knife, however, and they go about puncturing one another with vigor, growling and rolling about as if they're lifelong enemies instead of crack-snortin' buds. As knife fights go, it's a decent one, though a bit sloppy for my taste, and eventually they get their respective blades stuck in one other and I have to help them out. At this point, all we have is a couple alley cats taking each other out, which is no place for a legitimate businessman, so I continue on my way, strolling through the vacant streets of Newark, searching for that elusive garden.

-END-

Copyright © 2009 by Andy Henion