"It looks wonderful honey."
His name is Nate Burow, juicemaker at Tropicana Farms Regional Plant #3, Hillsboro. His wife is an interior designer who specializes in wedding venues, her name is Kate. Kate and Nate went on a date, and now they're celebrating 8! That was the heading on their anniversary card last January.
They are looking at a new chicken coop with state-of-the-art amenities. Their old one was built by Nate's father, and it's falling apart. There are termites in the wood, 2 chickens died from heat exhaustion in March due to poor ventilation, and the coop lacks any sort of automation. Last month, the Burows' egg yield was down 37%. After 3 years of hardly making a profit, they finally dipped into the red. Kate knew it was time for a change, so she dragged Nate out to Waco to tour a full-service coop.
He played with his tie in the mirror, adjusting the knot until it almost choked him. Smiling at himself, he put on a thin layer of concealer to minimize the appearance of wrinkles. It had been a long day, and these ritualized trips to the bathroom were how he centered himself, preparing for the next sale. He always wore the same suit: Black-and-white houndstooth jacket with a black shirt underneath, black boot-cut dress pants, a wide tie with thick diagonal black-and-white stripes, and a black belt with a silver square buckle. Today he was wearing black patent leather cowboy boots that squeaked when he walked. They glistened in the bathroom light, blending in with the freshly polished linoleum tiles. "So, what do you think?" "How are ya today!" "Hi, I'm Burt. Pleased to meet you." "Where do you folks stay?" He enunciated each syllable, analyzing his facial expressions and mannerisms.
The door opened, a dirt-covered farmer entered and made his way to the urinal. "Oh boy, do we have a deal for you!" He looked up with a puzzled expression and continued pissing. Burt was staring a hole in the glass. He delivered his lines with increasing conviction and his appearance became comically distorted. "I am so happy that we could work something out." He stepped back from the sink, smiled, and held his right hand out, rigid and slightly trembling. His eyes were almost closed and his lip was pulled so far upward that his wisdom teeth were visible. The farmer ran his hands under the sink and swung the door open, letting in a stream of dusty heat. Burt held the pose for 10 more seconds, exhaled twice, and followed him out.
His long slicked-back hair shone in the afternoon light. Coop #45T is on the Northwest edge of the compound. He has a ways to go before he gets there, but he has time. It’s 2:36 pm, and the Burows' appointment is for 4:00. Tire tracks mark the dirt paths around the facility. As he walks next to a wooden fence, he notices a rattlesnake on the other side of the road. Its head emerges from a divot in the ground and it looks toward him, mesmerized by the pattern of his tie.
The sun beat down, but he hardly noticed. When one lives their entire life in the Texas heat, they become a little cold-blooded.
Burt winced every time a gust of wind blew pebbles onto his boots. They were brand new, and he had paid a week's salary for them. These are his 11th pair of boots and 5th pair in the last 3 months. He rarely wears the same pair two days in a row, unless he’s seeing the same client.
From a young age, Burt was taught by his uncle Chuck how to make a good impression on others. "Always look sharp. I've seen plenty of untrustworthy men get what they were after because they looked the part, and a trustworthy man who's put-together almost always gets what he's after. Remember, they always notice the shoes first. A boot with a heel tells them you're of high character. A canvas shoe tells them to go screw themselves."
"Hi, how are ya today?"
"We're doing great, thank you for asking." Kate smiled at Burt as they walked through the arched doorway of the coop. The door was painted Ventura Red, characteristic of a Rustic Farmhouse model. Kate and Nate followed Burt in single-file as they entered a narrow chamber with a low ceiling. Burt had to lean over to get inside. He towered over his guests: he’s 6’4” without boots on. Burt paused and said, "This little room is for temperature control. Just wait 3 seconds after closing the front door, and you're good to go. It'll never get too hot inside. It's so nice in there, some of our customers use their coops as vacation homes!" Nate chuckled while Kate walked around the chamber, eyeing the ceiling and tapping the sheet metal walls with her second knuckle. "Okay, now for the main event." The interior has 4 pyramid-shaped glass skylights and high, sloping windows. The walls extend straight outwards from the doorway, making the space far longer than it is wide. Three softly humming contraptions resembling olive drab refrigerators are set against the back wall. From the air, the coops are arranged on the compound like bullets in a magazine.
Burt was nervous about her. Seeing a questioning look on somebody's face was never a good sign: they were either a tough sell or a miss. You can never hook them easy because they won’t let themselves be led. Always a pause, consideration, indecision. Some days he was up for the challenge, and other times he would accept the prospect of a lost sale, rush through his pitch, and move on to the next showing. Kate asked, "Who manages the coops when the owners aren't around?" Nate held her hand as she circled the perimeter of the room. They peered into the identical chicken-holding units, 8 in total. Burt answered, "We have attendants at the facility to take care of refilling feeders and routine maintenance. But the coops are pretty much self-operational unless something unexpected occurs." "Something unexpected?" "Maybe a cold front, or a meteor shower. Heh heh." Kate took granola out of her bag and ate some. Burt adjusted his tie and wiped his boots off with a black satin handkerchief. Nate sat down in Unit #5, opening the newly-installed wire fence. He whistled a tune, arms wrapped around bent knees. It went "whoo who whee woo, woo woo woo".
"This is Josie, one of our best producers. She makes more eggs in a month than most chickens make in a year." Burt released Josie from Unit #8 and she strode towards the center of the coop. Her grey feathers glistened in the afternoon light, accentuated by the brown speckles in her coat. The guests watched as she walked around the coop with impeccable posture. A celebrity chicken only comes around once in a while, and you don’t want to miss it when they do.
Josie was a performer, and she knew it. Every customer aspired to have a chicken that produced and pecked and walked like she did. She was shuttled around to multiple tours each day, and she was rewarded handsomely for her work. No chicken in the entire compound ate better than her. Free-range organic feed, filtered water, the occasional omelet, you name it. She even had her own suite in the office headquarters, complete with a private breeding room and a dedicated air conditioning unit. Her lineage is one of great distinction, and Rogers Delux-Coop Corp protected her like their firstborn child.
"She reminds me of Fabrice when he was young", said Kate. Nate replied: "Fabrice was one of our best. He could go all night and go some more in the morning. He really slept around in his time. And he doesn't do too bad for himself now, even as he gets older."
"It looks wonderful honey."
Nate stepped outside and kissed the back of Kate's neck near her shoulder blade. The heat was oppressive. Both of them were hardly clothed: Nate wore khaki cargo shorts that ended at his upper thigh and Kate wore a beige spaghetti-strap tank top. They blended in with the surrounding sand, imitating the brown lizards that roam the desert. Burt was waiting in his Fluro Purple 1978 Cadillac Alabaster. It is 2:36 pm, and Burt, Kate, and Nate are heading to the Red Rocks Diner. Burt turned around in the neighbors’ parking lot, and they were on their way.
"A real blisterer out there today, eh?"
"You're telling me. I just weeded my garden for 15 minutes and I'm drenched in sweat."
"I wanted to let you folks know my boss is letting me offer a special deal, this weekend only. They want all the coops taken before breeding season rolls around."
"That sounds great. If I may ask, where are we eating?"
"The Red Rocks Diner, it's one of my favorites. I grab a coffee here at the end of every workday. A real local spot."
Nate, Kate, and Burt arrived at the Red Rocks Diner. The diner is a long and flat silver building with red chrome piping along its windows and a red flashing sign attached to the roof. The sign says "Red Rocks Diner and Western Restaurant".
The parking lot was nearly empty. That will no longer be the case once Sunday service gets out of session. At the end of the block was Calidad Presbyterian, one of the largest Hispanic churches in Central Texas. Every week, a contingent of twohundredish churchgoers comes to Red Rocks for their post-service meal. The scent of pork fills the diner's insides all day long on Sundays. Chefs are paid overtime to come in at 4AM, 2 hours before the restaurant opens, and start slow-cooking batches of Chile Verde for the church crowd. Melvin O’Donnell, the Red Rocks' manager, appreciated that the churchgoers were consistent with what they ordered. It allowed him to prepare the best he could for the mad rush that lasted from 3-5 PM. The Chile Verde is best when it’s been cooking for at least 12 hours, but Melvin couldn’t pay enough to get anyone to come in at 3 in the morning.
"Hi, my name is Clara." Clara sat the table of 3 in a booth looking out onto the parking lot. Heat waves wiggled off of the painted concrete, dissipating into dry, salty air. "Would you folks like some coffee?" Burt spoke first. "Yes, please. Black." Kate and Nate asked for water, they don't care for caffeine. Burt took off a pair of yellow aviators and took a sip from his cup, wincing as the coffee scalded his tongue. He looked Kate in the eyes, paused, and looked at Nate as he drank his glass of water. "So, what do you think about the coop?"
He preemptively smiled, sharing his eyes between both of them. This was a trick he learned in his early days of sales training. A smile puts people in a good mood, and warm eye contact makes people feel wanted. “We are very interested. The question is: what’s your asking price?” Kate said. “These prime units are normally 325,000 dollars, but my supervisor is letting this one go for 200,000. Don’t worry, there’s nothing wrong with it. He wants the whole compound occupied before breeding season rolls around.” Burt said. Nate whispered to Kate with his mouth uncovered. “Honey, I’m not sure if we ha-“ “That’s a lot of money, we love the coop but we can’t do anything above a certain range. It would have to be 120,000 or lower for us to consider it.” She’s a smart woman, Burt thought. She would make a good salesperson.
Kate knew there was no way in hell he was selling for 120. “There are 4 other families inquiring about this coop, and I have already received an offer of 150,000. I’m actually meeting with one of the families later today.” Burt said. “Do you offer any financing options?” “We do, every plan is flexible with low interest rates. The down payment on our longest plan is only 3000 dollars.” The bell on the diner door jingled, and hundreds of churchgoers streamed in through the entrance.
“Huevos con Chile Verde, por favor!”
“Si, un momento.”
Racked with anticipation and ready to earn their overtime, 11 ace waiters lurk in the narrow hallway leading to the kitchen. When Felipe heard the jingle, he stepped out and took his position to the left of the door. “Por dos!” “Por ocho!” “Por diez!” “Por cinco!” He seated the diners as quickly as he could, glancing at the growing line outside. Some of them would have to wait for half an hour to get a table. Customers moved in and waiters moved out of the hallway in perfect time, meeting them at their tables the moment they slid into the booth. Starchy notepads in hand, Marta and Fernanda weave through the stream of bodies in pursuit of the next freshly seated table.
The Red Rocks’ floorplan is constructed like a beginner’s maze. Booths line the windows and walls, covering the perimeter. They are large: Each booth can fit 6 adults, and a dozen kids if the circumstances require it. A 4-foot high square dividing wall lies in the center of the diner. Small, moveable tables and scratched silver chairs line the inner square, packed tighter than hay in a hay-bale. The center area has an entrance wide enough for one person to enter and another to leave at the same time, and the outer path is as wide. In other words, the quarters are tight. In general, the middle area is reserved for extended families and 1 or 2-person diners.
Busboys are the scouts of the operation. They keep watch on their tiptoes for hand signals from the waiters and yell orders to the cooks over deafening salsa music. Five fingers means Chile Verde with two eggs, the most common order. To better accommodate demand, the Red Rocks limits their menu during the rush period. Three fingers is also popular: The Big American Breakfast. The first finger flash means how many, the second means what menu item. Simple and effective, as long as the busboys keep a vigilant watch.
Once the first 40 minutes are over, the process becomes routine. The waiters can move freely, Felipe can help out taking orders, and the cooks no longer have to prepare four tables’ worth of food at once.
“Do you offer any financing options?” Kate said.
“We do, every plan is flexible with low interest rates. The down payment on our longest plan is only 3000 dollars.” The bell on the diner door jingled, and hundreds of churchgoers streamed in through the entrance. The speakers were turned up to twice their previous volume, and the station was changed from Soft Rock Radio to Salsa Smash Hits.
Burt watched the diners as they shuffled past his booth. “Huevos con Chile Verde!” Burt turned to Kate and Nate to find Kate talking at him. “We could hum huevos to a tape and feel, what could be … Price?” Burt cupped his hand around his mouth and said, “I’m sorry, what was that? I really can’t hear you.” Nate chuckled as he stared out of the window, craning his neck backwards to watch the line advance at a crawl. He spotted a young girl in a pink satin dress with red piping on the neckline. 5 minutes later, she walked past him inside the diner. “Por nueve personas.” “Bueno!” Three chickens to start “Mi querida” I need to step outside. Shuffling, pointing his finger towards Felipe, gesture given. Kate nodded, Nate watched a mustached man with a denim shirt and a 10-gallon hat. A clear gesture: trying to move against the crowd. Not as skilled a dodger as Fernanda, Nate and Burt follow behind her, patent leather glimmering. Where is the check? They might be coming back. I can finally hear myself breathe.
The parking lot is nearly empty, they all walked. I look at the collar on my shirt. Dust gathers and falls. Gathers, falls. “So, 160,000 with the long-term financing plan?” “Sounds like a deal.” Handshake. “Thank you very much.” “Thank you.”
Let’s go home, I’ll take you back. I had my coffee and I’m still dead tired. Soft Rock Radio stuck in my head. Shiny boots and houndstooth suits. Fluro Purple cars.
Burt dropped them off, parked down the block, rolled up his windows, reclined his seat, and slept until it was dark. In his line of work, being 16,000 dollars richer makes for a natural sedative.
Got a little lost in the diner with all the chaos but I think that was your intention to show the difference between the chaos and calm. Great read.