How a can of chili started a romance novel
Writers tend to grab bits of life and use them as seeds for their literary gardens. I know I do. I took the true story about my husband and a can of chili and wove it into the opening scene of One Arctic Summer. Here’s the true story followed by the fictional tale of Alexandra Oppenheimer and the two guys she encountered at the Arctic village store. My husband, Marty, is a mechanic. In Alaska, he’s what’s known as a bush mechanic, a guy who flies into remote areas in little puddle-jumper airplanes or by boat with a minimum of repair parts and tools, hired by local agencies or contractors to repair finnicky or broken generators or heavy equipment. In the late 90s, he was in Kotlik, a village of less than 600. His task was to repair the main power generator for the village. There are no hotels or even bed and breakfasts in Alaska villages. Informed visitors (usually mechanics, contractors or government agents) know to bring their own food and a sleeping bag to lay out on the elementary school floor, the go-to inn. Marty decided a can of chili sounded better than the granola bars he always packed, so he picked up a can at the little store. “Do you have a microwave?” he asked the clerk. “Yup. Right over there.” Marty paid the five dollars for the can of chili, popped the top on it, set it in the unit, and started pressing buttons. He checked the power cord (he is a mechanic, after all, and troubleshooting comes naturally), unplugged it and swapped it with the functional light cord but still no power. “I thought you said you had a microwave?” he asked the clerk. “We do. You didn’t ask if it worked or not, though,” the man replied. I’m not sure if the clerk grinned or not, but I’m sure he was laughing deep down inside. My husband, not to be deterred, took the can back to the powerhouse, set it on the shield above the exhaust manifold, and was able to eat hot chili less than a half hour later. I love that guy. So adaptable! Now, here’s the excerpt where I took a true life experience and incorporated it into my story. Oh, and just for the record, One Arctic Summer takes place in Barrow, Alaska in 1994. I really was there at the time of the story. When I find the pictures of me there, I’ll share. In the meantime, here’s your free fiction for the week:
Alexandra interrupted the two
men, waving a can of chili in the air. “Are you kidding me? Five bucks for a
can of chili? You have to be out of your ever-lovin’ mind!”
Q and Rocky looked at each
other, their grins identical, their dark eyes dancing as they silently decided
who was going to be the one to give this cheechako the lecture on the costs
involved with bringing ‘Outside’ food into Barrow. Just as Q was ready to
explain the economics behind his pricing, the base station radio crackled.
“Hey, Q. It’s me, Big Ben. We
got another one. Over.”
“Roger that. Rocky’s here with
me now. What’s your location and situation?”
“Half mile before you get to the
polar bear sign. Make sure Rocky has lots of cat gut. Little Ben was showing
off. The cut’s not deep, but it is long.”
Rocky reached beside the duct tape-patched
kitchen chair he sat in and grabbed what looked like a plastic tackle box. He
held it up for Q to see, then stood up and grabbed the hand-held radio from the
charger.
“We’re on our way. Over and out,”
Q said, then let his finger off the radio switch, following Rocky out the door before
it shut.
Alexandra set the chili back on
the shelf and raced outside, shouting after the pair, “So, does this mean I
have to wait before I can buy anything?”
Q stuck his fist out the truck
window and gave her a thumb’s up, then grabbed the steering wheel and shifted
gears. Little Ben was big for an Inupiaq,
but he was also diabetic. Even a minor wound could cause major problems. Rocky
and Q didn’t have time for a prissy white woman and neither did Little Ben.
***
“Well, it’s about time!” X
groused when the two men came in an hour and a half later. “What’d you do? Stop
off for a beer?”
Q and Rocky shared that same
brown-eyed twinkle of ‘should I tell her, or do you want to?’ This time, Rocky
shrugged a shoulder to Q, accepting the task.
“Barrow is a damp town. There’s
no place—bars or taverns—for us to drop in and have a beer. Besides, neither of
us drink.” He looked around and saw the displays had been dusted and the cans
and boxes straightened and brought forward so the shelves looked fuller than
they actually were. “Thanks for sprucing up the place. Did you decide what you
wanted?”
Alexandra huffed then slid the
can of chili and a can of evaporated milk toward the vintage cash register. “Do
you happen to have a can opener and a microwave here? I can use my pocketknife
to punch a hole in the canned milk for my tea in the morning, but it won’t work
for the chili.”
“Microwave’s right over there
and the can opener is right next to it,” Rocky said.
“You pay me,” Q said. “I’m the
owner. He just hangs out here.”
“Hmph,” she remarked with one
eyebrow raised, then took a twenty-dollar bill out of her Gucci shoulder bag
and handed it to him. “And make sure you count back the change; don’t just dump
it in my hand.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Q said, fighting
back a full-blown laugh at her rudeness.
“I’m a miss!” she said, flipping
her hair back.
“Yes, miss!” Q replied, fighting
back the urge to salute her. Instead, he stuck his hands in the till and took
out the change. “Ten, fifteen, twenty dollars. Thank you for your business, miss. Have a nice day.”
“Hmph!”
Alexandra grabbed her
high-priced cans and strutted to the microwave next to the hallway. Grabbing
the can opener with an exaggerated flourish, she spread its jaws and clamped
down on the lid, squeezing the handle and twisting the knob with a vengeance.
Once the lid was canted up, she held it by the edges and neatly dropped it into
the waste basket next to the counter. It was then that she realized she didn’t
have a bowl to put it into or a spoon to remove the contents.
“You can buy some paper plates
or bowls,” Q offered, “or dump it into a coffee cup. I usually don’t let folks
have a cup without buying coffee, but since you’re new around here, you can use
the cup for free.” He reached under the counter and brought out a single
porcelain cup, coffee-stained brown, the handle chipped but usable.
“Thanks,” she said, scowling at
the marginally sanitary vessel. “How about a spoon? Is there a charge for
that?”
“Not unless you take it outside
the store.” Q took the spoon from beside the coffee pot that held an inch of
overcooked java and wiped it with the red handkerchief from his back pocket.
“Don’t forget to give it back when you’re done.”
“Yeah, it’s part of a set,”
Rocky added with a chuckle, then went back to rolling the rest of the herbal
blend in his mis-matched plastic container.
Alexandra took the spoon
hesitantly, her stomach growling to hurry up and get it done. With her back to
the men, she reached in her purse and removed a tissue from its small packet
and re-wiped the spoon. She turned back and dumped half the food into the cup,
covering the contents with the tissue so the chili didn’t splatter all over the
inside of the microwave. When she opened the oven door, she gasped. “Oh, my
goodness! When was the last time someone cleaned this?”
“Was it my turn this year?”
Rocky quipped. “Or maybe that was last year, and I forgot…”
“Ergh! I guess it’ll have to do.
At least with the tissue on top, the old baked-on crud won’t fall into it!”
Alexandra pushed the set-time
and start buttons, but nothing happened. She pushed the quick cook for popcorn
and nothing happened with that, either. “How do you get this thing to work?”
“Oh,” Q said with as straight a
face as he could manage. “I told you we have a microwave. You never asked if it
worked or not.”
“Now how am I supposed to eat
this?” she screeched, waving the spoon in the air.
“With the spoon would probably
be the least messy way,” Rocky said, then licked the paper on the last herbal
smoke, looking down at his project to keep from laughing out loud.
“But it’s cold!”
“Yeah, and once it’s in your
belly, it’ll be warm,” Q said. “What’s the problem? At least it’s not frozen.
If it was, it might break your teeth.”
“Ergh!” Alexandra growled again,
this time adding a hiking boot foot stomp for emphasis.
“You know, if you’re not going
to eat that, I’ll need my cup and spoon back,” Q said. “If you don’t want it,
my dog will get rid of it for you. He’s more of a fish-eater, but he’s been
known to chow down on Mexican beef and chilis. The folks over at Pepe’s save
their scraps for us who have dogs.”
“What’s Pepe’s?” she asked as
she inspected the reddish-brown blob on her spoon.
“The Mexican restaurant at Cape
Smythe. You don’t have much choice for cheechako food up here. It’s pretty much
either Mexican or pizza. Oh, and I wouldn’t expect much in the way of salad or
fresh fruits and vegetables if that’s what you’re looking for.”
Alexandra’s stomach roared
again. It knew that even if she went somewhere else to eat, it would be at
least an hour before she actually got to consuming the food off the end of a
fork. “When in Rome,” she grumbled, and stabbed the spoon in the cup. She pulled
out a lump of brown gravy-covered meat and took a bite. Chewing slowly, she
realized it wasn’t as bad as she had feared.
“Would you like some chips with
your chili?” Q asked, waving a small snack-sized bag of corn chips. “Only two
bucks a bag.”
She swallowed the bite in her
mouth before answering, her taste buds eager for a flavor other than straight
red chili. “Are there any hidden costs?” she asked, setting the cup on the
counter to get into her purse.
“Nope. I’ll even throw in a
paper napkin since you’re a repeat customer.”
“Deal!” she said, handing him
two one-dollar bills.
She pulled on the sides of the
bag, trying to open in, then tugged harder, the bag exploding and scattering
its contents all over the floor.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Rocky set down his empty herb
container and ran to her side, stopping short of touching her. “Don’t worry.
Today’s your lucky day. It’s not often we have a money-back guarantee. Q, get
me another bag.”
“Ahem…”
“It’s covered by the dinner you
owe me,” Rocky said, and grabbed the chips from Q’s hand. He pulled the
Leatherman tool out of his front pocket and slit the top open.
“Here,” he said and offered it
to her. “Sometimes it’s safer to use a knife. Or at least, there’s less food
wasted.”
“I’ll take care of the mess,” Q
said. He walked to the back door. “Come on in, Fish Face,” he called to his
dog. “I got another floor cleaning job for you.”
Alexandra looked around the
store again. Other than the stool behind the cash register and the old kitchen
chair her knife-toting new acquaintance had been in, there was no place to sit.
Rocky saw the search for a seat
and took the lead. “Here, let me get my stuff out of the way. You can set your
cup in the window while you eat your chips. You might want to buy a bottle of
water or soda, too. There aren’t any drinking fountains around here.”
Her resolve to stay strong in
the strange new land was wearing thin. Between delayed flights, lost luggage
and the hotel reservation that the university had never made, Alexandra was
spent—depleted and depressed and without a place to stay for the night. Her
head shook back and forth slowly as she made her way to the duct-taped chair.
“Are you going to be all right?”
Rocky asked.
“I don’t know,” she said,
sniffing back the tears. “I thought it was because I was so hungry. I haven’t
eaten anything for,” she looked at her watch. “What day is it?”
“Saturday,” Rocky said and
crossed his arms across his chest, stuffing his hands under his armpits, making
sure he didn’t reach out to comfort her.
“Crap!”
Q and Rocky looked at her but
didn’t say a word.
“Well, at least I didn’t say
‘shit.’”
Both men nodded minimally in
agreement.
“You save that for spilled food,
I guess,” Rocky said, and winked at her.
Alexandra’s mouth twitched as
she tried to contain her smile. She had worked so hard for her degree, to get
those letters after her name so she’d be respected, and now what happens? She
melts down in front of a couple of locals who probably don’t own a spare shirt
between the two of them.
“What’s the matter?” Rocky
prompted, watching her waver between letting her human side out and continuing
with the proper and uptight college snob facade. “Did you lose a day, your job,
luggage, resolve…”
“Yes, I did. Or at least, most
of the above. That idiot at the university didn’t make my hotel reservation, I
guess. At least, they can’t find it. I thought today was Friday and I could
call and get the name they reserved the room under, but that isn’t going to
happen since today’s tomorrow and no one is in the offices on the weekend. Yes,
on the luggage, too. The airlines told me to check back tomorrow. That is, if
the plane comes in. They said something about scheduled maintenance or
something. My job? I’m an intern. I don’t get paid. I’m slave labor, working
for the experience. I need a certain number of hours in the field before
they’ll even consider me for an appointment where I want to be. Resolve…”
Alexandra took a big bite of the
chili, then shoved three chips in her mouth and chewed thoroughly, wishing she
had something to wash it down with. Since she was scraping by on what was in
her wallet, she worked up some spit and swallowed. “I’m tougher than I look.”
“Well, I don’t know…” Q said.
“You got mighty upset about spilled chips…”
“I think you look very tough,”
Rocky said, turning his flirtatious wink into a blink hidden by a feigned
cough. “You’re probably thousands of miles from home, no place to stay, limited
funds, eating canned chili and chips in a convenience store at the northernmost
city in America…”
Alexandra dropped the spoon
before it got to her mouth, spilling its contents down the front of her
raincoat. “Shit! Yes, right now my life sucks! Thanks for spelling it out for
me!”
Rocky grabbed the handkerchief
out of Q’s hip pocket and made a hasty clean-up of the chili on the front of
her clothes, backing off on wiping up the smaller smears left behind. He stood
back, shook out the contents on the floor, called, “Fish Face, food!” and stood
back.
The three-legged black dog came
running from the back of the store and quickly licked up all traces of the
spill.
“I can fix you up with a place
to stay for the night,” Rocky said. “No charge. As far as everything else, I’m
sure it’ll work out.”
She looked up and saw he was
serious—a genuinely concerned person. It didn’t matter whether he was male or
female, young or old, all she saw was sincerity and willingness to help a
fellow human being in distress. Try finding that at an east coast university!
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