Langston was trying to work up the nerve to ask Mr. Burton a terrible question, a loathsome inquiry, but found herself unable to form the words. Finally, she picked up the one grand and anomalous product Clarence stocked that she could find nowhere else: Giant Fizzies. Fizzies were two big tablets that looked like Alka-Seltzer and which foamed mightily when dropped in a glass of water. They had an ersatz fruit flavor, but mostly just color. In addition to being delightful, Langston believed they aided one’s digestion, because she always felt better after drinking one.
Mr. Burton rang up her purchase. “That’ll be sixty-seven cents, missy,” he said, as usual. As far as she could tell, Clarence had never told anyone about Langston’s lifelong attachment to the Giant Fizzy.
“Clarence,” she began, “do you ever find yourself in need of . . . what I mean to say is, are you ever tempted to take on a . . .”
“Whatcha fixin’ ta ask me there, Langston, because I’ve got to be gettin’ on home to the missus.”
“I’m asking,” she cleared her throat, “if you need any assistance with—”
“Well God love ya! Thanks for askin’, but no, we get along fine. Mrs. Burton is happy to stay on the couch watchin’ her programs while I’m here at the store. But I’m a’ tell her that you asked.”
Langston nodded, humiliated, and walked out of the store into the bright morning.
That’s it!
she thought, stomping down the street.
That’s the end of that particularly hideous road. I’ll tell Mama when she brings it up, because she’s about to bring it up, I can just feel it, that I cannot possibly get a job, I’m not ready to get a job, there is absolutely
no
suitable employment for a person of my education and my temperament in this town. I will even be able to say that I humbled myself once, dear Lord, I all but
maligned
myself, by asking for a job in Clarence Burton’s Leaning Grocery Store!
These thoughts were followed by the encroaching shadows, the dark visages of her former professors and colleagues witnessing her plight in Haddington, hawking crafts in Kountry Kids or serving pie at the diner, and there was no end to the pain of such an encounter, even in imagination. It was the stuff of literature, Langston very well knew, it was
overrepresented
in literature, this failing in increments. She was no Lily Bart, nor even Bartleby. Haddington was a destination no respectable writer would choose as the fate of a character; it lacked the power of the tenement, the beauty of the gothic ruin, the geometry of the heartless city. She wondered if she were about to become one of them: the hog farmers who waved at everyone while driving live animals to slaughter, or broken-hipped Mrs. Burton, absorbed in daytime television, or Alice Baker-Maloney, laid waste. Or even worse, Langston’s own mother.
*
As she approached her house, which was built at the turn of the century and used to be just a white, wood-sided farmhouse like any other in town, but which her father chose to cover with avocado-colored aluminum siding, highlighted with brown shutters, thus causing it to look, from a distance, like a salad going bad, she noticed her father sitting in the wicker glider on the front porch, drinking a cup of coffee and enjoying the fine Sunday weather. He raised his hand in greeting, then patted the seat next to him, inviting her to sit down.
“Morning, Langston.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
He was no Atticus Finch, her father. Painfully shy and hard of hearing, Walt had recently started wearing two little flesh-toned hearing aids that sent Langston into spasms of heartache. She didn’t know why. He was handsome in a hardworking, laconic, salt-and-pepper sort of way. Something about him was even a bit elegant (he would probably disagree); his finely shaped hands and black eyebrows, the straightness of his nose, his wide mouth, added up to make him look different from the other men in town. All Langston’s life he
Mr. Burton rang up her purchase. “That’ll be sixty-seven cents, missy,” he said, as usual. As far as she could tell, Clarence had never told anyone about Langston’s lifelong attachment to the Giant Fizzy.
“Clarence,” she began, “do you ever find yourself in need of . . . what I mean to say is, are you ever tempted to take on a . . .”
“Whatcha fixin’ ta ask me there, Langston, because I’ve got to be gettin’ on home to the missus.”
“I’m asking,” she cleared her throat, “if you need any assistance with—”
“Well God love ya! Thanks for askin’, but no, we get along fine. Mrs. Burton is happy to stay on the couch watchin’ her programs while I’m here at the store. But I’m a’ tell her that you asked.”
Langston nodded, humiliated, and walked out of the store into the bright morning.
That’s it!
she thought, stomping down the street.
That’s the end of that particularly hideous road. I’ll tell Mama when she brings it up, because she’s about to bring it up, I can just feel it, that I cannot possibly get a job, I’m not ready to get a job, there is absolutely
no
suitable employment for a person of my education and my temperament in this town. I will even be able to say that I humbled myself once, dear Lord, I all but
maligned
myself, by asking for a job in Clarence Burton’s Leaning Grocery Store!
These thoughts were followed by the encroaching shadows, the dark visages of her former professors and colleagues witnessing her plight in Haddington, hawking crafts in Kountry Kids or serving pie at the diner, and there was no end to the pain of such an encounter, even in imagination. It was the stuff of literature, Langston very well knew, it was
overrepresented
in literature, this failing in increments. She was no Lily Bart, nor even Bartleby. Haddington was a destination no respectable writer would choose as the fate of a character; it lacked the power of the tenement, the beauty of the gothic ruin, the geometry of the heartless city. She wondered if she were about to become one of them: the hog farmers who waved at everyone while driving live animals to slaughter, or broken-hipped Mrs. Burton, absorbed in daytime television, or Alice Baker-Maloney, laid waste. Or even worse, Langston’s own mother.
*
As she approached her house, which was built at the turn of the century and used to be just a white, wood-sided farmhouse like any other in town, but which her father chose to cover with avocado-colored aluminum siding, highlighted with brown shutters, thus causing it to look, from a distance, like a salad going bad, she noticed her father sitting in the wicker glider on the front porch, drinking a cup of coffee and enjoying the fine Sunday weather. He raised his hand in greeting, then patted the seat next to him, inviting her to sit down.
“Morning, Langston.”
“Hi, Daddy.”
He was no Atticus Finch, her father. Painfully shy and hard of hearing, Walt had recently started wearing two little flesh-toned hearing aids that sent Langston into spasms of heartache. She didn’t know why. He was handsome in a hardworking, laconic, salt-and-pepper sort of way. Something about him was even a bit elegant (he would probably disagree); his finely shaped hands and black eyebrows, the straightness of his nose, his wide mouth, added up to make him look different from the other men in town. All Langston’s life he
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