All Over Creation. Ruth OzekiЧитать онлайн книгу.
Charmey. Tu comprends?”
“I don’t understand,” said Frank. It was such an understatement. It was definitely the pot. Her laughter shattered like glass. She brought her mouth down so that her lips just brushed his. Her lips were soft, and they teased his lips with nibbles until Frank opened his mouth. Quick as a newt, she slipped her tongue inside. He felt her tongue stud click against the back of his teeth. The kiss went on and on.
“What the fuck?” he said at last, when she stopped to catch her breath.
“Pauvre petit Frank,” she whispered, pressing him down on his back, onto the blankets. “Petit Frank, qui est perdu.”
It was Frank’s first fuck. Accomplished by a girl with a pierced tongue, who kissed the length of his body from throat to groin, ran the trembling silver ball up and down his penis, used it to tickle him to the brink, then backed off again, over and over again until finally he couldn’t stand it anymore. And he came, and then they did it again until he got the hang of it, and together they rocked the Winnebago until morning.
In the dull dawn light, filtering through the mists that rolled off Erie, Frank stroked the girl beside him, taking in her sleeping face, her breasts, running his fingers through the thicket of her hair. She murmured and turned over, and he caught sight of something dark on the nape of her pale neck that took his breath away. He brushed back her hair and stared.
Frank was a suburban kid, and a foster kid to boot. He knew that the world sucked. He listened to hardcore. He’d grown up in malls. He worked as a janitor at McDonald’s and would have dropped out of school except he couldn’t think of anything more interesting to do. But all of a sudden things were looking up. He’d just lost his virginity to a girl with a pierced tongue, and if that wasn’t enough, now he’d stumbled onto a political stance he could wrap his mind around, one that bespoke a whole new world order. He traced his finger across the slim bone at the top of her spine.
What had made his heart turn over with a definitive thump was the delicate, two-inch-long bar code tattooed to the nape of her neck.
This, he told himself, was truly fucking radical.
lucky
Spudmen are gamblers, Lloyd used to say. It’s a hit-or-miss business, beset by the usual fluctuations in weather, bank rates, oil prices, random factors, and acts of God faced by any farmer. Getting the spuds safely in and out of the ground is only the beginning. After that you store them and wait. It’s a lot like timing the stock market: If you hit, there’s a lot of money to be made, and if you miss, you can lose the farm. As a result, spudmen are notoriously cagey. They keep an eye on their neighbor. They play it close to the vest.
The rapid growth of the fast-food chains was the random factor that helped fuel the potato boom of ’74. In the 1980s it was McDonald’s introduction of the Supersize Meal. In the nineties it was Wendy’s Baked Potato.
That was the fun, Lloyd always said, in growing potatoes. The randomness. The little bit of luck. In fact, the entire agricultural backbone of the state of Idaho rests on a bit of luck that turned up in a truck garden in Massachusetts in 1872. The garden belonged to Lloyd’s hero, a man known as the Father of the Modern Potato, Luther Burbank. His was an American success story, and Lloyd loved it. He would settle into his big chair and pull me onto his lap and read me Burbank’s own account of how, as a twenty-one-year-old farmer with an elementary school education, he went out to tend his potato patch one day and found a seed ball!
“ ‘I use an exclamation point,’ ” Luther wrote. “ ‘That is because—well, it was what an astronomer would use if he discovered a new solar system.’ ”
“Imagine!” Lloyd would interject, putting the book down. It was Burbank’s autobiography, The Harvest of the Years, and Lloyd would look up from the pages, past my head, marveling at Luther’s metaphor and sharing his vision—an entire planetary system in a small ball of seeds!
“A potato seed-ball was not unheard of,” Lloyd read, “but it was a great rarity, and I couldn’t learn of any one who had done anything about the event even when it occurred. I did something; I planted the seeds in that ball.”
And here Lloyd would look at me, to make sure I appreciated the radical nature of Luther’s act. Being my father’s daughter, of course I did.
You see, spudmen don’t propagate potatoes by planting true seeds. They do it by cloning. It’s quick, simple, and reliable, and you can understand its appeal to farmers like my father, who are into total control. First you cut up a potato into small pieces, each containing an eye, and you plant these. The eyes grow into identical replicas of the parent, bearing their bundles of tubers, some of which you eat or sell, others you cut up to clone again. It’s pretty foolproof.
The reason you clone rather than plant from seed is because potatoes, like human children, are wildly heterozygous. Lloyd taught me that word when I was eight. It simply means that if you try to propagate a domesticated potato using seed, sexually, chances are it will not grow true to type. Instead it will regress, displaying a haphazard variety of characteristics, reminiscent of its uncultivated potato progenitors—it may prove superior to the parent plant or may be wildly inferior. At eight, gazing up at my father’s face, I didn’t know which was worse.
After nature offered up her seed ball, Lloyd explained, Luther prepared the ground with great care, then planted each seed about a foot from its neighbor. The seed ball contained twenty-three seeds, so tiny that you could fit ten of them on the head of a pin. All twenty-three seeds produced seedlings, and here is where Luther was twice lucky: Of the twenty-three sprouts from his seed ball, he found two that were superior to the others in yield and size. That was his luck. The rest was history.
“ ‘It was from the potatoes of those two plants,’ ” Lloyd read, his voice triumphant, “ ‘carefully raised, carefully dug, jealously guarded, and painstakingly planted the next year, that I built the Burbank potato.’ ” Lloyd set down the book again. “Imagine!” He stared past me, shaking his head. “Building a potato as fine as that!”
In 1874 Burbank sold those precious potatoes to a seedman from Massachusetts, who paid young Luther $150, which he used to relocate to California.
In 1974, exactly one hundred years later, I slept with Elliot Rhodes and split for California, too, and the price of Russet Burbanks soared. There was no correlation between these events, of course. It was entirely coincidental. Ninteen-seventy-four was a year of rotten luck for me, and Elliot was my random factor, but it was a very lucky year for my father, and most farmers in the state, with the exception of our neighbor, Carl Unger. The Nine-Dollar Potato was the random factor that ruined him.
Because it’s not just about luck, Lloyd would tell you. Potatoes also took guts. Cassie’s daddy was never much of a gambler, and, although greedy, he was a bit of a coward to boot, which was why, early in the year, he thought it safer to contract his entire crop to the processor for a price of $3.25 per hundredweight. It was a sure thing, but where’s the fun in it? Not that my father was anyone’s idea of a high roller, but he did have a stubborn and independent nature, a suspicion of large corporations, and even something you might call vision. He didn’t like to get into bed with anybody for the promise of a safe buck. So he held out, and when the market soared, Lloyd had a mountain of potatoes, free and clear and promised to nobody, piled sixteen feet high, stored at a cool forty-five degrees, in a cellar the size of an airplane hangar. He started to sell.
Carl had his $3.25 contract and a whole lot of envy. He just could not help himself. Nine dollars per hundredweight was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, so he reneged on his contract and sold at the open-market price, incurring the wrath of the processor. Then, desperate to make amends, he tried to buy potatoes from Lloyd. Lloyd refused. Carl offered 250 acres of land for 35,000 bags of potatoes. Lloyd accepted.
This deal must have caused a certain rancor to grow in Carl’s heart, rancor that had been building over