"What was your relationship with those three women?"
The tears in Andrew Franzen's eyes shone like tiny diamonds in the light from the overhead fluorescents.
"They were my wives," he said.
I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT
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W ell, I'd been on the road for two days, riding on the produce trucks from El Centro to Bakersfield, when a refrigerator van picked me up and took me straight through to the Salinas Valley. They let me out right where I was headed, too, in front of this dirt road about three miles the other side of San Sinandro.
I stood there on the side of the road, hanging onto the tan duffel with my stuff in it, and it was plenty hot all right, just past noon, and the sun all yellow and hazed over. I looked at the big wood sign that was stuck up there, and it said: JENSEN PRODUCE-PICKERS WANTED, and had a black arrow pointing off down the dirt road. That was the name of the place, sure enough.
I started up the dirt road, and it was pretty dry and dusty. Off on both sides you could see the rows and rows of lettuce shining nice and green in the sun, and the pickers hunched over in there. Most of them looked like Mex's, but here and there was some college boys that are always around to pick in the spring and summer months.
Pretty soon I come over a rise and I could see a wide clearing. There was a big white house set back a ways, and down in front an area that was all paved off. On one side was a big corrugated-iron warehouse, the sun coming off the top of that iron roof near to blinding you, it was so bright. About six flatbeds, a couple of Jimmy pickups, and a big white Lincoln was sitting beside the warehouse.
All of them had JENSEN PRODUCE done up in these big gold and blue letters on the door.
I come down there onto the asphalt part. Just to my right was four long, flat buildings made of wood, but with corrugated roofs. I knew that was where the pickers put down.
I walked across to the big warehouse. Both of the doors in front was shut, but there was a smaller one to the left and it was standing wide open.
Just as I come up to that door, this woman come out, facing inside, and sure enough she banged right into me before I could get out of the way. I stumbled back and dropped the duffel.
She come around and looked at me. She said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you there."
Well, she was about the most beautiful woman I ever saw in my whole life. She had this long, dark hair and green eyes with little gold flecks in them, and she was all brown and tan and her skin shined in the sun like she had oil rubbed on it. She had on a pair of white shorts and this white blouse with no sleeves. Her hands was in little fists on her hips, and she was smiling at me real nice and friendly. She said, "Well, I don't think I've seen you before."
I couldn't say nothing right then. I mean, I never been much good around the women anywayâI can't never think of nothing to talk to them aboutâand this one was so pretty she could've been in them Hollywood pictures.
My ears felt all funny and hot, with her looking right into my face like she was. But I couldn't just stand there, so I kind of coughed a little and bent down and picked up the duffel.
I said, "No, ma'am."
"I'm Mrs. Jensen. Is there something I can do for you?"
"Well, I heard you needed pickers."
"Yes, we do," she said. "The hot weather came on before we expected it. We have to harvest before the heat ruins the crop and we're awfully shorthanded."
I started to say something about being glad to help out, but just then this big good-looking fellow in a blue work shirt that had the sleeves rolled up and was unbuttoned down the front so you could see all the hair he had on his chest, he come out of the door. The woman turned and saw him and said, "Oh, this is Mr. Carbante. He's our foreman."
I said, "How are you, Mr. Carbante?"
"Okay," he said. "You looking for work?"
"Sure."
"Ever picked lettuce before?"
"No, sir. But I picked plenty of other things."
"Such