Rhubarb by M. H. van Keuren Page A

Eileen.
    Doris narrowed her eyes. Martin shivered. “Twern’t no human
corporation interested in Margie’s rhubarb pie,” said Doris. “You get my
meanin’, son?”
    A new hour of Beyond Insomnia began down the hall.
“From Virginia Beach to Yreka, from the Rio Grande to…”
    “The…truckers…Herbert’s…?” said Martin.
    “That’s right,” said Doris. “They been comin’ since Herbert
opened the place in ’46. And they loved nothin’ better than that infernal pie.”
    “Do they still….?”
    “I suppose they do,” said Doris. Eileen gave Martin a
wide-eyed glance, committing to nothing. “But nowhere near as many as when
Margie and Linda were bakin’.”
    “Cheryl,” said Martin. “Then where is she?”
    Doris captured Martin’s eyes. “Eighty-six was a long time
ago. Five’ll get you ten that she’s run off with some slab to Boise. But if
that ain’t the case, there’s not a blessed thing you or I can do about it.”
    Eileen let Martin blink, then said, “Come on. Let’s let
Doris get back to her show.”
    As her headlights found the way back to Brixton, Eileen took
a deep drag on a fresh cigarette and blew a cloud out her window. “Aren’t you
going to ask me if I buy it?” she asked.
    “I don’t know what to ask,” said Martin.
    The blinking yellow at the center of Brixton warned of
something, but Martin couldn’t imagine what. Back at Herbert’s Corner, his
FastNCo. truck waited like a long-lost memory.
    “Why did you take me out there?” Martin asked after she shut
off her engine.
    “Because you care,” said Eileen. “Am I wrong?”
     
    ~ * * * ~
     
    From the FastNCo. procedural manual for area
representatives who’ve been up all night (among other distracting issues):
    1. Make contact with the account
holder. He/she may be an alien. If account has invoices outstanding, do not
grab anyone by the collar and try to peel his/her false face off.
    2. At FastNCo. installation, take a
general survey. What the hell are you doing? Does your already-piddling job
retain any shred of its significance when aliens have probably abducted your
girlfriend? Can you even call her your girlfriend?
    3. For each drawer:
    a. Scan product code into
FASsys. Scan it again. You’re not doing it right.
    b. Stare at PIC card until you
remember what you’re supposed to be doing. Remove inappropriate items and put
them anywhere. Shoppers’ kids will mess it all up again anyway.
    c. Weigh contents. (For
products 1264-2350, hand count must be taken.) You’ll get right on that.
    d. Record weight (or count). A
kindergartner could do your job.
    e. Restore inventory. Why are
you on your knees in a hardware store while real live beings from another world
are prowling around?
    f. Confirm restoration of
inventory with FASsys. You’re still using a PDA running on Windows C? This
whole species is doomed.
    4. For bulk products…
     
    ~ * * * ~
     
    Martin struggled to steer the truck toward Billings and not
a ditch, the wrong way down the interstate, or back to Brixton—all equal and
viable options.
    Brixton. It was no destination. Not even now. At best it was
a place to eat and use the restroom on the way to somewhere else. At worst, it
was a place to start. Like Cheryl had, Martin thought, not for the first time
that day. He couldn’t ever get to the next thought.
    Whether Cheryl was being probed by an alien or an Idahoan,
there was no getting around that somehow this was all his fault. If he’d left
well enough alone, she’d probably be helping Lester close up the co-op and
heading home with some broasted chicken for Stewart right about now.
    Martin hated the seed of uncertainty that had been planted,
fertilized, watered, fertilized, and watered again. It had grown into a noxious
weed worthy of its own desk at the state agriculture office. How long would it
take me to get to Boise? he wondered. He wouldn’t even have to talk to her.
It’d be enough to see her working or shopping, or hanging on