"Hello?"

“Hello?”

The throaty roar of the beat-up Harley Davidson’s shiny, chrome tailpipe was abruptly silenced as a cloud of dust began to settle around the bike, and the two riders dismounted. The driver, a sturdy man, at least six feet in stature, flipped the kickstand down, allowing the bike to rest in the parking lot of the apple orchard.  On both sides of the lot, row after row of straight, carefully planted trees swayed in the breeze.  In the dirt paths between the rows bruised, fallen apples were strewn about.  Bees buzzed lazily around the fallen apples.

He seemed to have arrived grudgingly; of all the places to stop on this bright autumn afternoon, the apple orchard would have been his last choice. His petite passenger removed her helmet, and her sun-bleached, blond hair tumbled out and splayed onto her pink tank top that appeared to be becoming a bit too snug,  the strands of hair nearly reaching the waistband of her stringy denim cutoffs. This pitstop was her idea, and as he half-heartedly trudged toward the entrance to the orchard store, gravel crunching under his spiked, black-leather boots, he wondered if he would ever be able to say no to her. He knew that she wouldn’t be around forever, in the same way he knew his ex-wife had been temporary. He knew that as soon the opportunity presented itself, she would be gone. Even if she had yet to realize, she could do so much better than a man who could barely make ends meet. He also knew that the weekends the two spent together on the seat of the Harley would be but a distant memory all too soon, and that she would learn what it was like not having to live from paycheck to paycheck.

She snapped loudly on a piece of bright pink bubble gum and removed the giant sunglasses that she thought glamorous, but in reality, swallowed up her face. He heard the flip-flip of her rubber sandals getting louder as she ran to catch up with him, grasping his warm hand with her brightly polished fingers. They made their way through the lot and up to a flimsy, wooden door propped open with a bushel of red delicious apples. The orchard store was a labyrinth; the pair weaved through aisles crowded with bushels of apples and trays of candied fruit set upon bails of fresh hay. They could hear the wind whistle through the cracks of the faded clapboard walls, and the pungent smell of ripe apples was thick in the air.  The two perused the aisles, inspecting the most recent harvest. As she rounded the corner, she came upon exactly what she had hoped to find: a large bin filled with fresh bushels of her favorite apples. Her face lit up, and her mouth began to water at the thought of their tart, snappy, crispness. Although the bright green apples appeared huge and succulent, the man sniffed gruffly as he saw the sign: “$10 PER BAG.”

She had recently started to notice he was uptight about stretching his money so thin, but she reluctantly asked if they could buy a bag anyway. Sensing the hesitance in her voice made his heart ache because he knew how badly she wanted them, and he really did want to give them to her.  He had wanted to take her out to a nice dinner, but, as always, the end of the month meant his funds had dwindled; he knew he couldn’t swing both. If he were to buy the apples, she would have to tolerate his lame cooking skills another Friday night, but he still wanted so badly to appease her.

He looked left and right, up and down the isles, behind the counter, and called out, “Hello?” Moments of silence passed.  Again, he bellowed, “Hello?” No answer. The store was deserted. With no one manning the counter, no one would know if he happened to forget ever seeing the sign and accidentally walked out of the store with a bag or two. That way, he could have the special night on which he had planned. He doubted that anyone would even notice they were missing.

As if she were reading his mind, she announced, “We don’t actually have to pay for them, you know. There’s no one here. No one would even know it was us.”

The man looked at her and immediately knew what to do. He reached into the pocket of his tattered, second hand leather jacket and fished out a shabby wallet that had seen much better days. Peeling it open, he plucked out his last bill, emptying the billfold completely, and put a ten dollar bill under the craggy stone that sat upon the counter at the cashier’s checkstand.

She watched as he turned away from the empty counter and peppered him with questions, “What are you doing? No one would even know we took anything, Dad.”

“I would know,” he asserted, tucking the empty wallet back into his jacket pocket.  With both hands full, one toting the bag of apples, the other grasping his eight-year-old daughter’s tiny hand, he turned on his thick boot heel and headed back toward the gravel parking lot where his  bike leaned heavily on its kickstand, awaiting its passengers.