A Work in Progress, Barry Rachin [ereader android TXT] 📗

Glancing up from an inch-thick pile of invoices on her desk, Tawana Saunders recognized the middle aged fellow standing in the doorway as a reporter with the Brandenberg Gazette. Back in April, he had written a few paragraphs on the ShopRite Supermarket when they donated food to the local soup kitchen on the south side of town.

“Eudora Grossberg working today?” the reporter asked.

Peering over the reporter’s shoulder at an oblique angle, Tawana could see the beanpole of a girl stuffing butternut squash in a plastic bag. Favoring dark-framed glasses that were forever sliding down on the bridge of her narrow nose, she reminded Tawana of the rubber-necked Olive Oil in the old Popeye cartoons. And then there were the wrinkled cotton blouses haphazardly thrown together with frumpy, mismatched skirts that looked like they were bought, sight unseen, off the bargain rack at a consignment shop. Eudora Grossberg was a grotesque—a physical train wreck of a woman with no polish or pizzazz. “Checkout aisle three. She’s bagging groceries.”

He fished a fountain pen and small pad from a shirt pocket. “Mind if I borrow her for ten minutes?”

The black woman pushed her seat away from the desk. “For what purpose?”

“We received a letter from the senior editor of the Yale Review. They published one of her short stories in their hoity-toity literary quarterly this past February, and now the piece is being anthologized. There may even be a book deal in the works.” The reporter was noticeably pleased at the young grocery clerk’s good fortune. “Our newspaper wants to do an article in the Arts and Leisure section of the Sunday edition on a local, up and coming fiction writer.”

“Yes, I don’t see why not. Spend as much time as you need.”

The reporter made a motion to leave but turned back. “Do you know how many unsolicited manuscripts the Yale Review receives in the course of a month?” Tawana shook her head. “Hundreds if not thousands. And that includes a smattering of established writers with national name recognition.”

“And they chose our own Eudora.”

“Chose her twice—¬once when they printed the story and a second time when the editorial staff recommended it to the anthology.” When the man left the office, Tawana craned her neck staring up over the flat panel computer screen. The reporter was gibber jabbering away with the lanky girl who never even bothered to pause from sorting the customer’s groceries as she fielded his questions. Eudora positioned a bulky, twenty-five pound bag of Purina dog food on the bottom rack of the metal cart along with a jumbo pack of toddler diapers. Fifteen minutes later Tawana looked up again. The reporter was gone. Eudora had shifted over to aisle five, where an older cashier, who was painfully slow and prone to mood swings, was ringing up an order.

By noon everyone in the store knew about the reporter and Eudora’s short story, but that wasn’t the girl’s doing. Gail Crowley, the bigmouth gossip from customer service, collared the reported as he was leaving and extracted a blow-by-blow description of what was going on. “We got a regular Shakespeare among us!” the tubby blonde crowed. Gail, who probably hadn’t read anything more challenging than the National Inquirer in the last dozen years, waddled off to tell the workers in fresh produce about Eudora’s newfound celebrity status.


Back in her office, Tawana checked her calendar. In the morning, she had to be in district court. A seventeen year-old negro was caught shoplifting the week before Thanksgiving. At his arraignment, he pled ‘no contest’. An incorrigible thug, it was his sixth offense, and Tawana had to appear in court Tuesday morning representing the market as plaintiff. The previous month the perpetrator had been a fourteen year-old Caucasian, a bleary-eyed, latchkey brat from one of the inner city subsidized housing projects. A month earlier, an unwed Latina on AFDC. Driven by poverty, stupidity and enlightened self-interest, they came at you from multiple directions, in all ethnic varieties, sexes, shapes and colors.

In the parking lot, two plain clothes detectives nabbed Reginald Owens as he was unlocking a metallic blue Cavalier sedan. They handcuffed him and threw the back youth in the back of an unmarked police car but not before relieving him of his stash of stolen meats. A small crowd gathered, watching from a discrete distance.

A black kid ripping off fillet mignon in the meat department - what must they be thinking? The fourteen year old boy, who was caught in a similar bind in October, became so unhinged when the police collared him, that he wet his pants. The urine dribbled down the front of his dungarees reaching to the cuff. That was a good thing. At least, at some primitive level, the under-aged crook grasped the severity of his predicament. Reginald Owens was too thick-skinned. When the cops pulled him aside, he affected the hollow-eyed indifference of a hardened felon.

* * * * *

“Congratulations!” As she was leaving work for the day, Tawana bumped into Eudora running down stray grocery carts in the ShopRite parking lot.

“It’s no big deal.” She jabbed at the bridge of her glasses with an index finger, pushing the frame up on her nose, but they immediately careened back down coming to rest at a cockeyed angle.

A grocery cart began rolling away and Tawana positioned it back in the stack. “What’s your short story about?”

“It’s creative fiction,” the girl replied.

“Yes, I understand, but where do you get your ideas?”

Eudora stared at the black woman then waved her bony hands in the air. “That’s a bit hard to explain.” She leaned heavily into the train of stacked shopping carts that ran a good twenty deep and inched the mass forward toward the front of the store.

Tawana felt her face flush hot. Of course Eudora would conveniently sidestep both questions. Properly understood, creative fiction was meant to be read not served up like a platter of exotic pastries at a coffee klatch. “I just read a wonderful book.” For some inexplicable reason, the store manager was tripping over her words. “Maya Angelou’s collected poems.”

By way of response, Eudora snorted making a disagreeable sound. “You don’t like her poetry?”

The unlovely girl studied her bony hands which were chapped and raw from the cold. “Robert Hayden… now there’s a decent poet.”

“Never heard of him,” Tawana replied.

Eudora swallowed and her Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in typical Olive Oil fashion. “Hayden wrote a poem, Those Winter Sundays.” Lowering her eyes, she recited the poem from beginning to end in a lilting singsong cadence. When the poem was done, she raised her head and noted, “A poet could spend a life time laboring at his craft and never create anything quite so perfect.”

A flurry of icy wind caught up a pile of dead leaves and sent them swirling in a brittle, orangey funnel. The poem was devastatingly beautiful. Tawana could feel her heart pounding in her ears. “Yes, that was quite amazing.”

A freckle faced boy and his mother passed by with a load of groceries, mostly junk food -potato chips, frozen pizzas, ice cream, three quarts of cream soda plus a carton of cigarettes. Tawana had a compulsive habit of psychoanalyzing customers by their purchases. "I’ve wanted to write something for quite a while but don’t seem to get anywhere.”

Eudora smiled opaquely. “And what’s the something you want to get down on paper?”

“That’s the problem,” Tawana replied with an embarrassed frown. “Perhaps I should join a local writers’ group.”

“In all likelihood, you’ll end up with some MFA graduate student.” The thin girl pulled her collar up around her throat, but the flimsy coat was of the early fall variety and much too thin for a blustery December. “A snooty misogynist, who filters your prose through his male chauvinist biases.”

Eudora collected the shopping cart that the freckle faced boy had abandoned, adding it to her collection and pushed off toward the front of the building. “Bring me a few pages of your writing and I’ll take a look at it.”

“Yes, I’d appreciate that.” She watched the girl struggling with the absurdly long wagon train and had to stifle an impulse to help Eudora negotiate the carts toward the front of the building. But then, store managers were obligated to maintain a certain professional decorum.

* * * * *

Later that night, Tawana told her husband, Ellis, about the Brandenberg Gazette reporter and her odd encounter with Eudora in the ShopRite Supermarket parking lot. “If she’s so bright, how come the woman’s bagging groceries?”

Déjà vu. Tawana had asked herself the very same question. By assuming an entry level position and showing no inclination to improve her circumstances at the supermarket, Eudora Grossberg had effectively turned the American dream upside down. The girl was hardworking and honest; she got along well with coworkers and scrupulously avoided the endless, petty gossip and intrigues endemic to such businesses.

A low profile oddball, Eudora never flaunted her eccentricities. She brought her lunch plus a piece of fruit to work in a brown paper bag and drank coffee from a thermos rather than indulge herself with a café mocha cappuccino or any of the Green Mountain deluxe blends they sold by the cup at the deli counter. The girl seemed intent on earning the least amount of money possible while subsisting on a pauper’s salary. Was it a masochistic act of penance? Denial and self-flagellation worked well for medieval nuns and half-naked religious zealots contemplating their navels in Himalayan caves, but at the ShopRite Supermarket such austerity was neither fashionable nor chic.

Tawana knew friends from college who were active in social causes. The class valedictorian ran off and joined the Peace Corps where he served in Kenya for a year and a half doing God-knows-what. Then he returned from the Dark Continent, enrolled in law school and later earned a fortune as a six-figure ambulance chaser in the medical malpractice racket. The last time they met at an alumnus function there was no more talk about hybrid, high-yield grains or crop irrigation systems in underdeveloped, third world countries. The social activist had morphed into an insatiable braggart with an equally revolting ego to match.

“That lovely poem Dora recited from memory,... there were well over a dozen lines.”
“Impressive!” Her husband chuckled. “So how are you doing with your writing?”

“What writing?” Tawana rolled her eyes. “I've got an outline that’s little more than a mishmash of fragmented ideas - three pages that go absolutely nowhere.” Tawana had gotten the notion into her head that she would write a book. Something with an ethnic flavor—spunky black woman climbs the corporate ladder to claim her niche in the American business community. Horatio Alger with an Afro-American, chick-lit twist.

Think wonders, shit blunders. A great idea in principle, her manuscript never emerged from the embryonic drawing board. For all her determination, Tawana Saunders couldn’t finesse the project off the ground. Chalk it up to writer’s block, brain freeze, anticipatory fright—she began the literary undertaking eight months earlier and had absolutely nothing to show for it except a new computer with all the fancy bells and whistles.

In the den she sat down at the computer and Googled Robert Hayden. Yes, there it was—the sublimely