Picking Prunes
From the ground up is how you rise
in this dustbowl cornucopia corps
which is to say, if you lug enough lugs
of dirty plums
scraped up out of the crud
at the base
of these inverted pyramid shaped trees,
you might, just might, get to work
the trays of the drying racks,
sliding the dessicated elongated globules
out of the shake roof shed
where they’re spread
to evaporate their moisture in the
slow intense heat (the prunes,
not the workers,
though we too lost volume as the valley
warmed like a flat clay oven)
and you could have all the prunes you
could eat in that heat
which meant shits
for days and pay in pennies on the pound;
your back might break, you might even
faint, but it was money, black
gold, soft turds and
living high off the fructified hog—
how far can you spit that pit.
The Majestic Theatre
Raiders of the Lost Ark on screen number 3, The Empire
Strikes Back in the main screening room and Cannonball Run
2 on screen number 2, any of which I could see free. Plus
popcorn if I brought my own bag, and sodas if I brought my
own cup. $3.35 an hour and all I had to do was tear tickets,
kill roaches if they ran across the lobby, sweep, kick Mr.
Fidget out when he took out his weenus, inventory the hot
dogs, the buns, the cups, the lids, the bags of prepopped pop
corn, the bags, the butter, the whoppers, the junior mints,
restock, close up, and open the emergency doors when the
air conditioner broke, which happened all summer, while
the same three films played 4 times a day, 5 on the weekends.
The midnight feature was 18 and over, softcore and mostly
couples, by which I mean men with women or women with
men. My uniform was a tie and a badge with a name on it.
Not even mine. A character from Crime and Punishment. I
wasn’t stupid. I got cruised by a Russian man and an English
teacher. Possibly others; I wasn’t always paying attention.
Gave notice and got fired in the same week, as one did when
the school year started. No hard feelings. That’s show biz.
