Greenleaf
A magical realist wizard serial
Greenleaf’s Tea Stand sat on the far side of the dirt parking lot, away from the other roadside fruit and nut vendors. It hadn’t originally been like that.
He knew they all wanted him to leave, but this was the only sell spot on Old 99 and they were too afraid to ask him.
“Good morning,” he yelled to them, making him cough. After closing the heavy van door he waved, and they did not wave back.
“Man, people don’t have manners any more," he sat down on his fold chair. He refilled a handless clay mug from his green and dented jug. Then he smiled, took a sniff, and remembered the thread.
“It’s just a natural process, you know. That mountain over there, er…” then he looked for north. “There. Lassen. That’s a motherlode for the ecosystem. Sure, you got your dead areas, your sulfur springs, and the wildlife just knows where not to go. People forget stuff still lives in a dead zone.”
Quietly, he fed Sylvester a homemade dried cricket from a leather pouch in his pocket. The large, fat reddish white lizard lay placidly in a small wooden box next to the many filled jars of tea and dried things.
It was May, so his joints hurt. He looked over the steam of his mug at the painted plywood signs declaring “Nuts! Fruits! Stuff!”
His neighbors wouldn’t even sell to him anymore. He’d have to move soon. Maybe Arcata.
“Hell no,” he remembered aloud, it would be a few generations before he could head back to the coast. “Who knew fishermen had so many pitchforks.”
Greenleaf looked good for his age. This time around he was wearing dark brown logging boots and worn denim jeans. He appeared to be in good shape for a man in his late sixties. Yesterday someone had asked him to help push start their car in the parking lot.
In exchange, Greenleaf sold him something for his wife’s cough… and something for his anniversary.
His fingers were long, angular, and polished tough by the soil. He wore a ring made of wood, and the pads of his fingers shone like glass.
He was constantly smoking, the contents depended on his time and inclination. Right now it smelled like rotten lavender.
“So, what are we working with today?” Greenleaf fingered through the paper sack chock full of books sitting next to his chair. A long time ago, he’d realized churches would just give you books if you asked. It had become a habit to volunteer for a meal and blindly grab from the lending library.
He was open to almost any subject, so long as it could be criticized honestly. The old man didn’t see the wisdom of trying to curate your own knowledge, he feared it led to blind spots.
It also made for interesting conversations, when he could find them.
The only downside, really, was Greenleaf had become a quiet domestic champion, having digested a library supplied by a certain demographic. Terms like “Good Housewives" made him miss a hot bra fire.
His clothes were well laundered and mended, he had defensible opinions on dining room furniture position and if he were provided the ingredients and facilities he could prepare a traditional Christmas dinner perfectly.
Sly was also fluent in these subjects but was more reserved in their discussion.
Sometimes if he liked a book he would keep it for a while, until there came a time to give it away. His favorite books were wrapped in oil cloth, written in pencil and were very hard to read.
This was not one of those.
“‘A Practical Approach to Home Decor’,” read Greenleaf. “Again. They really sold the shit out of this one.”
Sly looked at him.
“Or maybe they’re just regifting. I mean look, the spine’s not even cracked.”
He bent the book.
“For the burn pile.”
Sly disapproved.
“Come on, not again,” Greenleaf puffed hard on his long white oak pipe. “Might as well retire it with some dignity. I read the thing once, I gave it a shot, and that’s that.
“Next book.”
Sly relented, flicking his tongue and looking down the two-lane tree lined highway.
A car had pulled up. A family of four was now stooping over picked strawberries, so Greenleaf kept digging for something to read.
“‘Fun with Fondue’. Ah, yeah, I remember when this one came out.” He opened it quickly. “Fondue WAS fun. And look at that! This one’s got a few dog-eared pages too. Wonder what they liked.”
Greenleaf perused with a smile on his face, remembering everything.
“All that cheese. Good god. You’d go home with someone else’s car keys, and the shits…”
“Hey old man!”
There was now a young boy standing at the stand.
“Hello weird boy,” Greenleaf said back without looking up.
“What kinda stuff you sellin’” he was eight and squinting.
“Just stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?”
“Interesting stuff,” he flipped through the book. “Do you know what fondue is?”
“No. Why does your stuff smell?” The boy pushed on.
“Everything smells,” Greenleaf smiled.
The boy giggled.
Greenleaf pushed. “It’s okay, I won’t tell.”
“Butts smell,” the boy giggled.
“They do indeed. Fondue doesn’t smell, though. You’d like it. It’s like Mac and Cheese but with subtext.”
“My mom and dad won’t make me Mac and Cheese. It’s bad for you.”
Greenleaf puffed on his pipe.
“That’s smart. You should listen to your mom and dad. Where are they?”
The boy shrugged small shoulders and looked at the table filled with jars of dried herbs. “They’re over there. They don’t like me. They say I’m too loud. Sometimes I like to give them space.”
“That’s kind of you.”
“Huh?”
“It’s nice of you to think of others. Do you think you're loud?”
“Sometimes, probably,” he said while looking at everything.
“Eventually you won’t be. Just don’t let them silence you. Be loud, if you want.”
The young boy was enthralled by the objects on the table now, Greenleaf was gone. His parents were gone. He saw possibilities laid before him on a stained wool blanket.
“Weird boy,” Greenleaf said to him.
“Yes, old man,” the young boy finally said, eyes sparkling.
“Your mother’s calling you,” Greenleaf said. The boy reached for the table.
“Boy to your mother, now,” he yelled at him.
The boy's big eyes told Greenleaf exactly the memory that boy had just made. He felt it a shame, but could do nothing about it. Halfway to the car he called for his momma, but it didn’t sound like he had started crying yet.
“Good kid,” Greenleaf said before returning to the marked page for Chocolate Strawberries.
“Wish I knew where I could get some of those.”