1
MIKE
Even though it’s Saturday morning, I’ve already worked more than a full day – again – by the time Dad saunters into my office. He’s carrying a cup of coffee, dressed to play golf, a man with time on his hands.
I remind myself that it would be a bad plan to visibly resent him, his presence or his attitude. I’m missing my own weekly game today, thanks to the needs of the business, but it’s smarter to avoid provoking my dad. When he looks relaxed like this, I know there’s a storm coming. He’s choosing his moment to attack.
I will be serene, or at least appear to be.
I picked tomatoes all night after I finished up in the office at six, which seems like a million years ago. I’m exhausted, but three more workers are sick this morning and the greenhouses are full of ripe tomatoes that aren’t going to harvest themselves. Who needs sleep? Who needs a break? Me, but tough luck. There’s work to be done. I’ve no idea how we’re going to manage the biweekly pruning of the plants on Monday with sofew bodies, but that’s a problem for another day. Maybe I’ll get lucky.
Maybe not.
So far, Dad’s retirement means nothing but more hours on the job for me, with no additional control. He even went out for dinner Thursday night with his younger family, to try the new restaurant in town, The Carpe Diem Café. The tomatoes had my name that night, too.
Of course, I care about the business.
Of course, I care about the future.
But Dad has vetoed the obvious solution that we hire someone else, so his retirement means my workload has doubled – but not my pay cheque, of course. It’s only May and I’m dead on my feet – we’ll be picking through October. A night’s sleep would set me right up, but that’s not in the cards anytime soon.
Dad must be off to play golf with Richard Bradshaw, again. It’s so special that he just stops in to load up my plate with more demands before he heads out. I thought he would vanish when he retired. Nuh uh. Instead, we have this bonding time at regular intervals, when he criticizes everything I’m doing and have done, tells me how I’m failing the company, and insists – on the basis of no recent information – that his way is always right.
This game is getting old.
So, I don’t look up right away. I’m texting Carlos who went back to his quarters an hour ago after picking with me all night. I’m hopingsomeoneon his team is feeling better. The doctor has been in daily but she says this bug just takes its time. Get up too soon and it starts all over again.
It is not bringing me joy.
Nor are the kilos of tomatoes that need to get picked andshipped ASAP. The plants are loaded, which seemed like a good thing a week ago. Now, it’s a curse and a deadline.
Not jumping to attention as soon as Dad appears in my doorway is as close to rebellion as I’ve gotten so far and he doesn’t miss it.
“You’re ignoring me,” he says, his opinion of that clear.
“I’m working.”
“You wouldn’t have so much work to do if you were more organized.”
I look up. “So, now the virus outbreak is the result of my poor planning.”
“You should have anticipated it. The weather changed last weekend and was cooler again. That means people spend more time inside and illness spreads more readily then.”
“Our people work inside, in our greenhouses, regardless of the weather.”
“You know what I mean, Michael! I taught you to plan better.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. My entire life, my father has been finding fault. At this point, I feel damned if I do and damned if I don’t. Being in desperate need of sleep doesn’t improve my mood.
Still, I’m blunt even for me. “The tomatoes are ripe. We’re short-handed. Everyone who can get out of bed is working full out and when they can’t do any more, they go back to their quarters and crash. The weather is not a variable. The virus is.”
“And the tomatoes are ripe.” Dad shakes his head. “They’re going to rot on the vines if you don’t get it together.”
I hear the steel in my own voice. “Everyone is working as hard as they can. They’re giving 200 per cent.”
Including me.
If he starts on his racist garbage, Iwilllose it.
