Rose’s fingers drummed nonstop across the steering wheel for what seemed like an hour as she watched the house. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap. Nothing. Tap, tap, tap. Tap… Rose bounded out of the cab and headed straight for the front door. She tried to ignore the broken lattice and warped boards leading to the farmer’s porch, and the strips of peeling paint hanging from the flower boxes, but the glow from the porch light cast them into stark relief. Now was not the time for regrets, Rose reminded herself. Now was the time for anger. She would focus on that. As she began climbing the steps, she was almost knocked down by an elfin body in baby blue sneakers tearing out of the house. Rose stopped the girl by the shoulders and shouted in an aggravated whisper.
“Gwendolyn Angeline, how dare you make me wait like that! I told you over and over that we had to leave at three thirty this morning and now it’s almost four. Every weekend we go through this. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“Sorry isn’t going to do us any good if we show up late and lose our space. Go on, get in the truck.” Rose added a slap to Gwen’s backside.
Gwen ran ahead of her mother and jumped into the passenger seat. Daring another look at her mother’s face, she buckled up and prepared herself for the lecture to come.
Rose got in on the driver’s side and started the engine. She fastened her seat belt, put the truck in drive and continued her tirade, this time at closer to full volume.
“There is no excuse for this. When you do these kinds of things, you don’t just make yourself look bad, you make me look bad too. That isn’t right.”
“I’m sorry, Mama.”
“You’re sorry? I don’t understand what’s wrong with you. I woke you up. I told you twice to get a move on, but you’re still late. What have you been doing all this time?”
“I was looking for my hat.”
Rose stared at her daughter. “What do you mean, you were looking for your hat? I gave you that hat yesterday. How could you lose it so fast?”
“I don’t know. I just did. Do I really have to wear it?”
At the end of the rutted, gravel drive, Rose turned the truck left toward the main road.
“Of course you have to wear it. What kind of a question is that? We’re going to work. We’re not only selling our product, we’re selling our farm. We have to advertise whenever we can. That’s why I got you that hat. Promotion, promotion, promotion. Always remember that.”
“I’m already wearing the t-shirt,” Gwen said, tugging at the seams of the green and white cotton scratching her bare skin.
“Oh, but you look so cute in them both. Who wouldn’t want to buy produce from such an adorable little girl,” Rose gushed, squeezing her child’s knee.
“Fine. But you have to wear one too.”
“Baby, what’s cute on a ten-year-old doesn’t always work on someone who’s, well, someone my age. An apron is good enough for me.” She patted Gwen’s knee again and smiled.
“I’m so excited we got the refrigeration unit hooked up to the truck, aren’t you? Everything can stay perky wherever we go. More fresh stock on the market can only lead to more money in the bank. Life is going to be so good. I can’t wait until the rest of the snapdragons are ready… We’ll have some real fun then, won’t we, baby?”
Gwen knew that the worst was over, so she settled into her seat and looked out the window. There wouldn’t be anything to see until the sun came up, but that was okay. She was happy to let her mind wander to wherever it wanted to go. The far-off places she went to in her mind were always more interesting and exciting than the places her mother took her to, like Springfield, Illinois, which was where they were headed today. In her head, Gwen spent time in castles and ballrooms. With her mother, she stood in stalls and showed off her dimples. It wasn’t the same.
She didn’t mind being with her mother like this: it was almost like being alone. All Gwen had to do was say “uh-huh” or “I’m sorry” every now and then and eventually her mother would talk herself out. It was a game she played. Today though, Gwen was tired. Unlike her mother, she enjoyed sleep and didn’t like getting up before the sun. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the window, one final “uh-huh” passing her lips before she drifted back to sleep.
~
“Gwenny, wake up. We’re here.”
Cracking open one eye, Gwen scanned the sky for signs of morning. The faint orange glow far to the east wasn’t very encouraging. With a groan, she unbuckled her seat belt and slid out of the truck. They had only been to this market a few times so far, but each time, the lot was packed. Gwen decided that was both good and bad: good because there would be lots of customers, but bad too because of the competition. Competition made Gwen uneasy because it made her mother a little crazy. She closed her eyes and sent up a quick prayer before pulling the largest of the tables off the tailgate.
“Okay, I talked to the booth coordinator,” Rose said, referring to her clipboard. “From what I can tell on this map, our spot’s only so-so. They put us next to that strange man again, the one who tames his own bees, but I guess it could be worse. What do we have here now…three tomato vendors, two lettuce…and no one but us selling herbs? We’ll be fine then. Okay, let’s get moving. We’re number sixteen, so it looks like we go that way.”
Rose picked up a collapsed table and marched into the market like a battle-ready soldier while Gwen struggled to keep up with the rickety wagon her father had given her when she was a toddler. It usually took about four trips from the truck to set up, but packed as they were today, she figured it would be closer to ten. She noticed some of the farmers using dollies to move their boxes from place to place. It would only be a matter of time before her mother wanted one too.
~
“That’s beautiful, Rose. I love what you’ve done with the banner.”
“Thanks Linny, you don’t know how much I needed to hear that. I kept going back and forth about changing our name and finally decided that Voss Family Farm didn’t have any zing, so I let it go. If I’m going to be taken seriously in this business, I have to manage things perfectly.” Rose crossed her fingers and grimaced.
“I don’t know what you’re worried about. Your booth always looks wonderful, it really does. And your produce is exquisite; I don’t know how you find the time to do all of this. I’m the one who should be nervous, not you.”
“What are you talking about? You’ve been farming for, what, twenty, twenty-one years now? I think you’re doing okay.”
“Twenty-three years, and we do all right, I guess,” Linny said. “I mean, I really can’t complain, but when I see your booth, I know something’s missing. We could be doing so much more. I’ve always felt that way, but you know Larry doesn’t like change. ‘This way was good enough for my father, and my father’s father…’”
Rose nodded in commiseration.
“Yeah well, when I started growing my peppers again this spring, he nearly had a fit. We tried growing them years ago just to see, but it must have been too late in the season, because they didn’t do very well. Larry gave up on the spot and expected that to be the end of it.”
“Of course,” Rose said.
“But then I thought, ‘Who doesn’t love peppers? The way they smell, the colors, stuffed peppers, smoky, roasted peppers…what’s not to love?’ So I got up one day and told that man that the bell peppers were going to be for me, separate from everything else, and that I was going to grow them whether he liked it or not.”
“Good for you,” Rose laughed. “How did he take it?”
“Um, not so well,” Linny said.
“New Age Hydroponics? What in the hell is that?” A husky man with feral sideburns itching to expand their territory lumbered over to Rose’s stall, peered inside, and swatted at a leaf that brushed against his ear.
“That, Larry, is the new name of our farm. Gwenny, why don’t you get some more ice from the truck? It looks like we’re ready now.”
“Okay.”
Rose watched her daughter pass by a stall full of cantaloupe before continuing. “Is there something I can get for you?”
“What’s all this,” he asked, pointing at the plants hanging from the rafters. “I haven’t seen a jungle like this since Viet Nam.”
“Those,” she said, “are hanging herb pots. In addition to the freshly cut herbs my customers have always enjoyed, I’m now offering these premium hydroponic herbs that can be harvested over time thanks to state-of-the-art Dutch engineering. They’re pretty to look at and they smell and taste delicious. Would you like to see a brochure?”
“Lady, are you nuts? This is a farmers market, not some florist shop. People come here for squash, potatoes, and corn—things they can use. No one’s going to want your artsy-fartsy napkins and flute music. This ain’t California. You don’t belong here.”
“I don’t belong here? Really. Take out one of those tomatoes,” Rose demanded, pointing to a carton on his dolly. She picked up one of her own and held it out in comparison.
“We both grow beefsteaks, right? But look at mine: it’s plumper and juicier, and look at that color. That is a true red. My tomato is nearly twice the size of yours and it’s perfect, no blemishes anywhere. Go on, look,” she said, handing it to Larry. “It’s gorgeous.”
Linny and Larry turned the tomato over and over, but couldn’t argue.
Rose continued, “My hydroponic tomatoes also have a ten-day shelf life, without refrigeration. I harvested this batch last night so they’d be as fresh as possible for my customers. They will never be picked green, gas-ripened, or covered in wax. I take pride in that. My tomatoes actually smell and taste like tomatoes. Can you say the same about yours?”
“At least my fruit ain’t on steroids,” Larry said, banging the tomato on the counter. “No one’s going to want that thing, it’s not natural.”
“Now Larry,” Linny said.
Rose could feel the heat rising in her face, but she didn’t care.
“Where do you get off? There aren’t any GMOs here. My products are completely natural. I use the same water and nutrients as you and every other farmer, hydroponics makes them work more efficiently, that’s all. And, I’ll have you know, there’s no fertilizer run-off to pollute the ground water.”
Rose took a deep breath and let the pan pipes from her CD player wash over her. Why did farming always turn into a competitive sport?
“Tell me something, Larry, level with me. How did your crops hold up after the frosts last spring? Two weeks straight, wasn’t it? I heard it did a lot of damage over in Waverly. Shriveled-up vines, misshapen fruit; it’s tough being a slave to the weather. I’m glad I don’t have that problem anymore. When it’s snowing outside, I’m snug in a t-shirt, farming my greenhouses at a comfortable sixty-five degrees all year long.”
“You got a point to make, lady? Spit it out.”
Rubbing a small bruise on his tomato, Rose continued. “You know, when you grow your plants too close together, they don’t dry out real well after the rain either. When wet plants and rain-splashed soil come together, it’s only a matter of time before the diseases come to call—”
“You’re not talking to some hayseed plowboy. I stake all of my tomatoes. So does any farmer with a lick of sense.”
“Okay, but do you mulch between the rows so the soil can’t touch the fruit or lower leaves? And how do you handle planting your precious tomatoes between seasons? Blight and speck are just waiting to happen if you don’t plant your late-season crops upwind of your earlier ones. I hope you’re not relying on fungicides to bail you out, because if those canopies are as thick as I bet they are, there’s no way that stuff is going to penetrate down deep enough to do any good.”
“Who do you think you are, telling me how to farm, lady? My family’s been working the land for six generations. You need good soil to grow a healthy product. Period. That’s all I’m gonna say about it. Come on, Linny, we’ve got work to do.”
“Did I mention that my farm grows everything pesticide-free,” Rose called after the retreating figures. Linny started to turn back, but Larry grabbed her by the arm and frog-marched her back to their stall.
“That’s what I thought,” Rose said.
Alone once again, Rose sat down and started cutting her tomato into sample-sized chunks. She grabbed half a handful and popped them into her mouth. Rose couldn’t get Larry’s words out of her head. She knew she wasn’t like the other vendors, but was that so wrong? It might take people a minute or two to warm up to her way of doing things, but in the end, she was one of the few vendors to regularly sell out her stock. Maybe she did go overboard on her displays, but that’s who she was. Anything worth doing was worth doing well as far as Rose was concerned. Her mother-in-law had understood that. She’d even stitched a sampler to that effect. Rose had it hanging above her desk.
The bell finally rang to start the morning sales. Gwen deftly squeezed through the crowd with a plastic cooler clutched to her chest on her way back to the booth. Together, they quickly set out the final demonstration pieces and samples on trays of lettuce leaves under Pyrex. In Rose’s opinion, nothing was less appetizing than fresh food crawling with flies. Presentation was everything in this business. Anything less than perfect was not allowed.
Only two hours into the market, New Age Hydroponics had already sold most of its reserves. Sales were good for them on weekends, but money had never flowed as freely as it did today. Rose sent Gwen on her third trip to the truck to replenish the inventory, but she wasn’t even sure there was anything left to grab. It had to be the samples they’d laid out; that was the only explanation. Normally, she just cut up tomatoes and lettuce and set them out on paper plates for people to try, but today she had been more creative. Rose had made a banquet out of salsa and salad with herb vinaigrettes. The display plates were now GoBuy ceramics, each artistically presented on the multi-level buffet table that was a staple in Rose’s booth. Between each pair of trays, she had tucked in containers of fresh herbs and flowers, along with bottles of herbed vinegar and loose tomatoes. As the booth got crowded, she made changes to accommodate the extra foot traffic, setting out brochures about the farm and recipes for her customers to read while waiting in line. At first only mildly curious, Rose’s patrons were soon transformed into ravenous piranha; gobbling down anything that she put in front of them and asking for more.
“This is all that’s left, Mama,” Gwen said, setting a partially-filled carton of basil on the ground.
“That’s okay, baby. The promoter stopped by and said we could leave early. We really impressed him with our sales today; he said he’d think about reserving us a spot near the front from now on. That means we’re probably going to have to bring triple the inventory so we can sell for the whole day. Isn’t that great?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think it’s died down enough now that I can go talk to some of the other farmers. Are you going to be okay while I’m gone?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I’ll see you when I get back then. Be a good girl and start cleaning up, will you?”
Gwen put her hands on her hips and looked over the booth. Used toothpicks were everywhere but in the trashcan, and salsa stains covered the once-white tablecloth. The place was a mess and, as usual, she got to be the one to clean up. Gwen sighed, got out the mini broom and dustpan, and set to work on some tortilla chip crumbs. She began to hum along to her mother’s pennywhistle CD and imagined that she was a servant girl in the great hall of a castle. The grandest of all parties had just ended, and Gwen had been told by the evil queen that she alone had to clean up the mess, and that it had better be done before she got back or else. Gwen knew that the “or else” meant that she would be thrown into a deep, dark cellar to fight with the rats for her supper, so she made herself work faster.
Water from the cooler had soaked into some of the lettuce cartons in the corner, making them soggy and unusable. “That’s wasteful,” Gwen said, shaking her head. “The queen’s not going to like that.”
She bent down to start sorting the boxes and got the feeling that she was being watched. She didn’t dare turn around and look because looking into the eyes of a superior would get her a beating. She carefully continued to clean, keeping her head bowed as low as possible. Pictures of fat, sweaty men with bushy mustaches kept popping into her head; she’d seen pictures in books of evil emperors and kings, and that’s what they’d always looked like. Gwen imagined that a rich and powerful woman was so jealous of her young beauty that she had sent a soldier after her to kill off the competition, just like in Snow White. She was scared now, deliciously scared. She continued piling up boxes to throw away, even though she felt the presence nearer now and coming still closer. She wanted to be brave, but her hands were starting to tremble. She was about to stand up when she felt a finger tap her on the shoulder.
“Excuse me, are you still open?”
Gwen screamed and dove under the table, scattering cardboard all around. Vendors and customers alike stopped what they were doing and approached the stall. All anyone saw for their trouble was a semi-destroyed booth and a bewildered man as confused as they were. Gwen wasn’t spotted behind the tablecloth. Since nothing seemed to be happening, the crowd trickled away, with one lone voice complaining that the hippies shouldn’t be allowed to do their chanting during business hours.
“Uh, hello in there,” the man said to the table. “You can come out now, everyone’s gone.”
A corner of the tablecloth lifted. “Are you here to feed me a poisoned apple?”
“No, not today. Do you always ask that when you meet new people? I’m Peter, by the way.”
Gwen crawled out from her hiding space and allowed Peter to help her up. “No, that’s silly. I was just imaging that an awful woman was going to make me a prisoner and that another awful woman wanted to kill me because I’m prettier than she is.”
“That’s tragic,” Peter said.
“It is,” she agreed. “I was so scared I thought I’d die from it. But you’re here now, so everything’s okay. You saved me.”
“Glad I could help. You still haven’t told me your name.”
“My name is Gwendolyn Angeline Voss, and I’m ten-and-a-quarter years old.”
“Well, you must be a pretty grown-up ten-and-a-quarter years old if you’re running this whole booth all by yourself. It must be hard work.”
“Mama works here too, but we ran out of food so she’s off talking to the other farmers before we go. All that’s left is some salsa and these herbs.”
“That’s a shame,” Peter said. “Do you mind if I try some? It looks really good.”
“I don’t mind. I have to finish cleaning though. Being a farmer is a big responsibility.”
“I’ll bet it is,” Peter replied, munching on a chip. “I’ve never seen your booth here before, is this your first time out?”
“We’ve been here a couple of times, but we live in Luscious. In Missouri, near the Mark Twain Forest. Do you know where that is?” At his nod, she continued.
“Well, there aren’t a lot of farmers markets around where we are, not good ones anyway, so we have to drive a ways sometimes to make any money. We can’t go anywhere where there’s less than twenty vendors at a time, Mama won’t allow it.”
Gwen kicked a stubborn paper wrapper over to her trash pile before continuing. “This year, we’re getting the plants to come out right every time, which has been a big weight off of Mama’s mind. She’s always saying, ‘You can’t sell what you don’t have.’ Now she wants us to go to any big market that’ll have us.”
“Do you like being a farmer?”
Gwen half-shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve been doing it so long I don’t think about it. I’ve spent most every day of my life in the greenhouses since Mama had them built, so I guess it’s okay. Mama said that we had to stick together like glue so she could keep an eye on me, so I might as well go to work. She tried to keep Riley with us too, but that didn’t last long.”
“You have a brother at home?”
“There are four of us kids all together. Cassidy watches Shane and Riley, I watch Mama. It works out better that way. Mama can’t be everywhere all the time, even when she doesn’t sleep, so she takes care of the business.”
“She must be good at it,” Peter said.
Another shrug. “Mama heard from a bank that it can take maybe ten years to make money in a new business, and she’s going to do it in six. A lot of people couldn’t do that.”
“You’re very mature for your age, Gwendolyn. Your mother’s lucky to have someone like you as her business partner.”
Gwen lit up at the compliment. She was really starting to enjoy talking with this stranger, but the opportunity faded away as her mother approached.
“Gwenny, you won’t believe what I’ve just come up with. It’s going to revolutionize the business, well, the sales part anyway. We’re going to work with the other vendors and market the heck out of each other’s products. It’s a win-win for everyone. I can’t believe people aren’t already doing it.”
“Hi there, you must be Gwendolyn’s mother. I’m Peter Murphy.”
“Please, call me Rose,” she replied, extending her hand. “Gwenny, why don’t you take those boxes to the dumpster? We’ll need to leave soon.”
“Gwendolyn,” she muttered and began dragging cardboard out of the stall.
“I’m sorry, but we sold out early today, so we’re packing up. Were you looking for something in particular?”
“My wife and I own a gourmet bistro in East St. Louis, and we’ve been thinking about making some changes to the menu. Your daughter’s been telling me all about your business, and I have to say, I’m intrigued. I also can’t stop eating this salsa; it’s magnificent. You grew all of the ingredients yourself?”
“It’s the cilantro that makes the recipe; I can’t get enough of it myself. We raise everything but the peppers and onions. We’re still growing our product line, but what we do, we do very well.”
“It shows,” he said, biting into another chip. “What is hydroponics, exactly? Is it like organics?”
“Well, yes and no,” Rose said, pulling out a pamphlet. “We decided not to go organic because the laws are different depending on what state you’re in, so it wasn’t worth the hassle. But like organics, we never use pesticides and we don’t spray fungicides on our plants because we don’t need to, which people really like. We don’t use soil at all, and we don’t have to worry about the weather because everything is grown indoors in a liquid nutrient solution under grow lights.”
“Grow lights?”
“They’re electric lights placed directly over the plants to simulate the sun.”
“Ah,” Peter nodded.
“That’s probably the biggest difference: in hydroponics, just about every aspect of the growth process is controlled. It’s perfectly natural, the plants themselves aren’t changed in any way, but we regulate everything: temperature, humidity, day length, pH of the solution…”
She laughed as Peter’s eyebrows met in a deep furrow. “I know it’s a lot to take in, but that’s what we do. The biggest obstacles for us as farmers are the initial money investment in equipment and the fact that with hydroponics we have to pay constant attention to all the details all the time. Much of it is computerized, but still. The pH factor alone has to be checked at least two or three times a day. I get tired sometimes just thinking about it.”
Rose began folding the tablecloth as she spoke, careful to keep the wet stains away from her clean apron. Peter nodded, trying to absorb what he’d just heard.
“Is it harder to grow things hydroponically?”
“No, but like I said, you really have to pay attention to the details, and not all farmers want to do that. One of the advantages of hydroponics is the amount of flexibility I have as a grower. Because I’m not wasting water to feed weeds, and the plants get the exact nutrients they need at every stage of their growth cycles, I can space them much closer together than a traditional farmer could in soil and increase my yield. I can also grow any of my crops any time of the year.”
She looked sideways at Peter. “Just one of the many benefits I can pass on to my customers.”
Peter chuckled and picked up Rose’s value board. “Okay. Sounds good. I have to tell you though; I’m a little concerned about your prices. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sold on the product, but I don’t know that I can afford you on a regular basis.”
“Peter, Peter, Peter, of course you can once you consider the value you’d be getting for your money. Where’s your produce coming from now? A big truck from out of state?”
“Florida, I think.”
“All right. Good. It takes a while to drive from Florida to Missouri. How fresh do you think your food really is? That produce won’t ripen on the vine and get all juicy and tasty the way you’d expect. There’s no time. It’s got to get to you before it spoils, so it finishes ripening on the truck. It might look okay, but the flavor’s gone. Then, when you do get your order, everything’s probably covered in a good layer of dirt that has to be scrubbed off before the produce can be prepped, right? Am I reading your mind?”
“You’re not too far off,” Peter replied.
“Right. Those are the kinds of things you should consider when you’re figuring out your costs. Obviously, some of that order is going to get thrown out because it’s unusable. Also, you need to think about how much time is wasted in washing each piece by hand. By using New Age Hydroponics, you would avoid those problems: we’re local so travel time is minimal, we hand-pick each order just before it’s shipped so everything stays fresh and there’s no waste or dirt, and then of course your customers are so thrilled with the high quality and amazing flavor you offer that they keep coming back for more, and often. When you take all that value into consideration, I think you’ll find that our prices are fair and competitive.”
“Interesting,” Peter said, rubbing his jaw. “Your daughter’s right, you are good at this. Not one vendor here has been as eloquent about their products as you’ve been with yours. Most of your competitors have lower prices than you do, too. Not that I’m saying—”
“No, I know what you mean,” Rose interrupted. “I think it’s a real shame, too.”
She poured melted ice out of the cooler and stacked it high on top of the wagon. Gwen was back at work dismantling the table props.
“A lot of farmers still have trouble giving themselves credit publicly. They’re just happy to be doing what they love, so more often than you might think, they sell their products for less than they’re worth. They’re settling for wholesale commodities when they could be doing retail and making money. Even if what they’re selling is high quality or unique, they think, ‘Hey, we’re only farmers, so why should we get paid more money?’ I mean, in a way it makes sense, when you look at how they’re treated, but they could be doing so much better if they would just adapt their business models.
“In some ways, farming is a thankless task. When you’re a small farm, you risk your livelihood every day for pennies on the dollar, which you have to fight for because you’re competing against corporations four or five times your size, as well as exports from other countries. You’re growing good food and doing your part to keep people alive and healthy, but you don’t get any respect. I don’t understand how people can live like that.”
“You’re a farmer,” Peter said. “But I don’t exactly see you as a shrinking violet. Does that mean you’re not a humanitarian?”
“Shrinking violets don’t get very far in business, and I’m too practical to be that kind of humanitarian,” Rose said. “I think everyone has the right to good, nutritious food, and I also think that people ought to be paid fairly for the effort they put into growing that food. I’m a proud farmer and businesswoman Peter, and I know what I’m worth. I deserve to get paid and I’m going to say so. You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
“No ma’am, no problem at all. I wouldn’t expect anything less for myself.”
Rose looked over the empty booth and then to her daughter. “Is that everything? Did you get it all packed up?” Gwen nodded.
“Great. Perfect timing. Now let’s not waste any more time. Peter, you tell this little girl here you want us to supply you with the best gourmet produce money can buy.” Rose whispered into Gwen’s ear, “Quick, look cold and hungry.”
Gwen frowned and gave a half-hearted shiver that was in no way convincing.
Peter laughed at such a pathetic performance. “If what I’ve tasted today is half as good as what you normally offer, I’m sure that whatever outrageous price you come up with will be well worth it.”
“I like the way you think, Peter. You and I are going to get along fine. Now you take this brochure and a container of sweet basil home to your wife as a sample of what’s to come, and I’ll call in a few days to answer any questions.”
After an exchange of business cards, Rose and Gwen maneuvered the wagon out of the stall and headed back to the truck.
“Do you know what this is,” Rose asked, waving the business card. “This is the beginning of a better future. One restaurant account is going to lead to two, three, four…just you wait. We’re going to have to step up the pace so we can be ready for it though, but what’s a little hard work when you’ve got your family around for support, right?” Rose squeezed Gwen about the shoulders and smacked a big kiss on the top of her head.
“You know what, baby? I think we should invest in one of those top-of-the-line dollies. Not the tacky kind everyone’s been wheeling around here today, but maybe that folding one in the infomercial. It just looks more professional, don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh.”