The Porkchoppers

16

Truman Goff used a two-wheeled dolly to roll a crate of Golden Bantam corn up to where the vegetables and fruit were displayed along the left-hand wall of the Safeway store, thus making fresh produce the first item to confront customers after they picked up their carts.

Goff was a conscientious employee, a firm believer in the tenet that if you took a man’s dollar, you by God worked for him because work was not only some vaguely Christian kind of duty, it also was good for you in another equally mysterious way. Goff never really thought about whether he liked his job although he knew he got a kind of a pleasure out of handling the berries and turnips and spinach and lettuce and tomatoes and plums. “There’s variety in it,” he had once told his wife on a rare occasion when they had discussed his job for all of three minutes. “You know, there’s always new stuff coming in and you gotta plan for it and all.”

Goff took the crate of corn from the dolly and put it on the floor. He shifted the few remaining ears of corn already on display so that he could put them on top of the new batch and then started taking each ear out of the crate. He used a sharp knife to cut an X through each shuck. This was so a customer could easily lift up one of the triangular flaps created by the X and inspect the condition of the kernels underneath. Goff didn’t have to do this. He did it because it was a service he had thought up. It was also one of the reasons that he had been promoted to produce manager.

After he had arranged the corn, he trundled the dolly over to the wood-and-glass enclosure that served as the store manager’s office. He opened the door and said, “I’m gonna be a little late getting back from lunch, Virgil.”

Virgil looked up from his desk and said, “How late?”

“About fifteen minutes.”

“Okay.”

“I gotta pick up my ticket to Miami,” Goff said.

“Some guys have all the luck,” Virgil said and went back to his paper work.

Goff wheeled the dolly back to the receiving and storage room, took off his white smock, put on his jacket and went out to his Toronado. He drove seven blocks and then circled until he found an empty meter. He parked his car and went into the United Airlines office.

“You got a one-way ticket to Chicago on Sunday for Harold F. Lawrence?” Goff said to the girl behind the counter.

“Just a moment, Mr. Lawrence.”

In a few moments she produced an already made-out ticket. “Will that be cash or credit card, Mr. Lawrence?”

“Cash,” Goff said.

“That will be fifty-one dollars,” the girl said.

Goff handed her a worn hundred-dollar bill and she handed him the ticket along with his change plus a merry enough, “And thank you for flying United.”

Goff said, “You’re welcome,” and went out to his Toronado. He drove another twelve blocks and started circling again until he found another open metered space. He didn’t like to put his car in parking lots because, first of all, it cost too much, and second, he was convinced that the car jockeys liked to bang up anything over a Ford or a Plymouth.

After locking his car Goff went into a sporting-goods store and bought a box of .30-.30 caliber Winchester soft-nosed cartridges. Then he went back to his car and unlocked its trunk and put the sack containing the box of cartridges in the trunk along with the airline ticket to Chicago. His wife never looked in the trunk.

There was a diner across the street so Goff crossed over and had two cheeseburgers and a chocolate malt for lunch. The diner also had an enclosed phone booth and when he was through with his lunch, Goff got some change from the cashier, entered the booth, and dropped a dime in the slot. He dialed O and when the operator came on, Goff said, “I want to call Washington person to person.” Then he told her that he wanted to speak to Mr. Donald Cubbin, but that he didn’t have the number and that Mr. Cubbin was probably at work and that she’d have to get the number of his union.

Finally, a woman’s voice said, “Mr. Cubbin’s office,” and the operator said, “I have a long-distance call for Mr. Donald Cubbin.”

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Mr. Jack Wilson,” Goff said.

“Mr. Cubbin is out of town, operator, but if Mr. Wilson will leave his number I’ll have Mr. Cubbin return his call.”

“It’s important that I talk to him today,” Goff said.

“Is there another number where Mr. Cubbin may be reached?” the operator said.

The woman said yes, that Mr. Cubbin was staying at the Sheraton-Blackstone in Chicago and that he could be reached there for the next few days. She then gave the operator the number.

“Would you like me to try that number?” the operator asked Goff.

“No,” he said, “I’ll place the call later.”

Goff waited until he got his dime back and then left the diner and crossed the street to his car. That story he had read in The New York Times had been right, Goff told himself, but it was still a good thing to check because you could never believe what you read in the papers. Now he knew for certain that Donald Cubbin would be in Chicago on Sunday and Monday. He would fly up there Sunday and then Monday afternoon or evening he would buy a ticket and fly on down to Miami. Truman Goff had been to Chicago before but he had never been to Miami and he found himself looking forward to it.