In the summer of 1969, Brock Weston and I were thirteen, fresh out of seventh grade. We signed up to work the berry fields as soon as school let out, first strawberries, and when that short season was over, on to raspberries in early July. Nishimoto Farms had an old yellow school bus that picked up young farmworkers at designated stops along Pacific Highway. Our 6 a.m. pickup spot was the TradeWell Market parking lot. Most of us were between twelve and sixteen, a good mix of boys and girls. After getting on the bus, we continued south, collecting pockets of kids until the bus was full, then turned east toward the Valley and followed the Green River out to the farms.
Our bus driver, Willard Welch, was a foul-tempered guy in his mid-twenties. He had a weaselly face with pathetic-looking sideburns, was skeleton-skinny, and his already thinning hair always looked unwashed. Willard would leer at the girls as they got on the bus, and I felt uneasy about him. Three girls and two guys got on at the next pickup spot after TradeWell, and Willard’s eyes nearly popped out of his greasy head. The group were all a year or two older than us, and Brock knew one of them from his All-Star Baseball team – Mack Berg, the best athlete in the school district just south of ours. Mack’s nickname was “Iceberg.” One of the girls, who was very well-developed for fifteen – built like a brick shithouse, as my neighbor, Joey Tucci, was fond of saying, led the others to the seats behind us. When Mack saw Brock, he yelled: “Brock Star!” and they exchanged greetings. As we rumbled down the highway, I felt exhilarated, and as we rode toward the acres of sweet, unpicked berries, the bus buzzed with teenage chatter.
Our bus had NISHIMOTO FARMS painted on both sides in bold, black letters. While driving past the entrance to Yamaguchi Farms, a young Japanese boy of nine or ten stood in the dirt driveway, flipping us the bird with an angry look on his young face – the berry competition was fierce in the Valley. The old bus eventually pulled into Nishimoto Farms’ driveway with the early morning sun beating down on the tall rows of raspberries. Willard opened the bus door, and as we poured out, he shouted: “Don’t forget your lunches – the door’s locked until it’s time to leave!” We all brought sack or box lunches, and ours were usually a sandwich, fruit pie, and a can of pop we had frozen overnight. The pop would melt by lunchtime and stay ice cold. Willard had us put our lunches in the potting shed beside the parked buses, then showed us the two decrepit outhouses where we would have to do our business. Some kids complained about the putrid smell, but I didn’t care; the sun was shining, the berries were ripe, and we were young and full of piss and vinegar, as my Poppa liked to say.
Other buses had arrived, and a crowd of eager kids were ready to pick berries and get paid. The picking area was a hundred yards away, so we started walking. The three girls from the bus were beside us on the dusty path with Mack and his buddy, Gabe. The built young lady, Cricket, was the queen bee of their group, and the other two, Janelle, a pretty spitfire with short blonde hair, and Marcie, short with brunette locks, were buzzing around Cricket like she was the honeycomb. A gangly boy with glasses was in front of us, and Janelle walked up behind him and said in a sexy, breathy voice: “Hey, Dreamboat.” He turned around, and she snapped out with: “Not you, Shipwreck!” Mack started laughing and said: “Nice one, Jannie.” Janelle smiled and turned red; I could tell she had it bad for the Iceman.
I tended to notice and be sensitive to things like that – a young observer of teenage mating rituals.
In addition to driving the bus, Willard had field boss duty, and he happened to be assigned to our section that first day. Most of the kids were veteran pickers and knew the drill, but he gave us the rundown on where the berry baskets and carriers were, how full they had to be before we carried them to the flatbed truck, and the hard and fast rule – no spot picking – pick every ripe berry in the row. I noticed Willard being extra attentive to Cricket and her companions, trying to ingratiate himself into their hive. He made my skin crawl.
As the week went on, we heard a rumor that the Cricket crew had either made or found a camp near the riverbank bordering the farm on one side. We got an hour for lunch, and I think that’s when they had the time for any extra-curricular construction. Brock and I ate lunch in the grassy shade of the potting shed. There were picnic tables, but we liked reclining during our break after standing all morning.
As the days grew hotter, Willard grew surlier, checking on us more often and trying to find the littlest thing to give us shit about. I think being ignored by Cricket, and her apiary had stuck in his craw. One afternoon, he came into my row and said: “Hey, Dumbass, you spot-picked this whole row. Go over it again, you Dumbass!” Brock was on the other side of the row, and he heard Willard but didn’t say anything. I returned to the start of the row and began looking through the leaves for the ripe berries he said I’d missed.
After finding and picking a handful of sub-par ripe berries, I walked back, showed Willard the berries, and tossed them in a basket. He said: “See, Dumbass, I told you!” Brock had ducked down, slipped through a gap in the row, and now stood facing the field boss. He looked at Willard’s rodent face and said: “He’s not the Dumbass, Welch, you’re the Dumbass.” I could tell the creep was intimidated by my pal, but I could also sense that he wasn’t through with us. As he left, he turned and said: “I’m keeping my eye on you little shits.”
There were only a few days left in the season, and we got to know the Cricket gang fairly well from sitting near them on the bus. They always seemed to be in a different part of the field and spent their lunchtime at the camp, which I had never been to and had no idea where it was. Gabe and Marcie had become a thing during the season, and I noticed other couples getting together during those weeks. It was very social and conducive to sneaking away from picking if the mood struck.
I finally arrived at the mysterious camp on the last day of the raspberry season. For some reason, I’d left my lunch sack on the bus and didn’t realize it until I got to the potting shed at lunchtime and saw it wasn’t there. I didn’t think anyone had swiped it – that never happened. I’d just absent-mindedly got off the bus without it. Willard wasn’t around, and with the door locked, the only way in was through a couple of open windows. I wanted my lunch and cold pop, so I had Brock give me a boost up to an open window. My plan was: I’d crawl in, grab the lunch sack, throw it down to Brock, then back out, and drop safely onto the soft grass. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Except it wasn’t.
After the boost, I was half in and half out when I felt two hands gripping roughly onto my hips. I was then yanked out hard with no ceremony and stumbled, falling on the ground before the dusty, berry-stained boots of our bus driver. He wanted to know what I was doing trying to get onto his bus. I told Willard I’d left my lunch inside, and he just laughed and said: “Tough titty, said the kitty!” He wouldn’t open the door and was gloating about getting back at us. Pissed off about getting manhandled and more pissed about not having my lunch, I saw red and took off, hiking back toward the field, hating Willard, and kicking myself for being forgetful.
After venturing deep into the rows, I began to calm down but was still hungry and thirsty. I found an unpicked row with ripe berries and picked a handful. I didn’t care that they weren’t washed and ate the sweet red globes as I continued toward a stand of trees near the riverbank. A beaten path in the grass led down a little way, then went parallel to the river. I took the path, and as I drew closer, I could tell someone was down there, and my curiosity led me into the camp. It was a fishing stand in a hollowed-out bank halfway between the grassy top and the slow-moving water. Salmon and Steelhead fishermen had these stands up and down the river, and someone placed an old car bench seat on this one. Sitting there by herself and crying was Janelle.
She heard me tromping in, raised her tear-stained face, and asked what I was doing there. She looked small and vulnerable, sitting on the old car seat, and I couldn’t think of what to say, so I said: “Hey, Dreamboat.” Janelle put her head down and started crying again, and I thought – what a dumbass thing to say. I thought about getting out of there quickly, but I didn’t. I don’t know what made me do what I did next, but I sat beside her and asked what was wrong. She didn’t push me away or tell me to leave, and when she stopped blubbing, she said Cricket and Mack were here making out when she arrived at the start of lunchtime.
I guess that wasn’t something she was expecting to see. I wasn’t involved in the Cricket Hive dynamics and had only a rudimentary understanding of their complicated caste structure, but I could tell the Iceman’s choice anguished her.
I started to leave, and she touched my arm and said I didn’t have to go. I don’t know why I did what I did next, but I put my arm around her shoulder, and she rested her blonde head against my neck. I didn’t know what pheromones were back then, but I think we were both giving them off. She turned her head toward mine, and our lips met, soft and salty-sweet – my stolen raspberries mingling with her dusty teardrops. It was the last thing I expected when I stumbled onto the camp, but it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. Janelle was gentle; she could tell I’d never kissed a girl. I let her lead the way, leading us to a place I never wanted to leave. The soft summer breeze along the river wafted over us as we found comfort in each other’s distress. It was probably only a minute or two, and I wasn’t ready for the kiss to end, but Janelle ended ours as warmly as it started. I was still in a daze when I stood up and could only think of saying: “Bye, Jannie.” As I climbed out of the camp back to the field, I heard – “See ya, Shipwreck.”
William P. Adams is a retiree who writes short fiction inspired by his upbringing in the baby boom generation. He lives in the Pacific Northwest and has stories at Friday Flash Fiction.