by Keith R Fentonmiller
May 30
Honorable George Ervin “Sonny” Perdue II
United States Secretary of Agriculture
Washington, D.C.
Dear Secretary Perdue:
I’m deeply grateful for your emergency order allowing cash-strapped corporate farmers to pay migrant workers in fruits and vegetables instead of money. I used to earn $12 per hour as a watermelon picker. Now I make $8 cash and one watermelon. A 20-pound watermelon goes for six bucks at the grocery store. That, plus $8 cash, means I’m earning the hourly equivalent of $14. You gave me a raise!
I’ve cleared 120 watermelons so far. I’m rolling in melons. The downside is I’m also rolling on melons. Those fat, round devils are hard to see in the unlit shack where I sleep. Yesterday, I took a wrong step and tore ligaments in both knees. Too bad, because I was still getting over the prior week’s concussion. To be honest, I’m not sure I have torn ligaments or a concussion. A doctor would know, but I can’t afford one. Maybe you could issue an emergency order for health insurance. (I’m kidding, obviously. What would I ask for next? Electricity in my shack? A floor? LOL!)
Thank goodness I have a sympathetic boss. “Get back to work, Julio,” he shouted when I collapsed in the watermelon patch. “This is why God made crutches.” I asked the boss if God had left a pair of those crutches on the farm somewhere. The boss said God stores His crutches at an Amazon warehouse and I had to order them. I tried that, but Amazon didn’t recognize “Rickety Shack Between Rusted-Out Tractor and Manure Pile, Caldwell, Texas” as a valid address. I salvaged two old push brooms from the trash, turned them upside down, and tucked them in my armpits. I didn’t know if God or Amazon was responsible for the brooms, so I thanked them both before hobbling back to the watermelon patch.
Thank you and salutations,
Julio
# # #
June 15
Dear Secretary Perdue:
I have a question. I’ve long dreamed of college and medical school. Before your order, I’d been investing a portion of my wages in the Texas College Savings Plan. Now, all my cash goes toward food and rent on the shack. The lady on the phone says government regulations don’t allow the Plan to invest watermelons in the stock market. Have you considered an emergency order letting students pay tuition with watermelons? Just curious.
I asked the boss to borrow a pick-up truck so I could sell my melons at the farmers market in town. He said government regulations don’t allow DACA recipients to drive pick-ups. What is it with all these regulations? Man, big government really needs to get off our backs. (Listen to me. Preaching to the choir.)
Good thing I’m off my brooms. I stuffed a melon under each arm and hiked the ten miles to town. Dehydration and a choking dust storm slowed me down, as did the State Police, who stopped me twice and demanded a receipt for the watermelons. Still, I made it to the market in time to sell one melon. I’d have sold the other one too if I hadn’t caught my foot on an armadillo and dropped it on the way there. I’m so clumsy these days!
Thank you and salutations,
Julio
# # #
June 30
Dear Secretary Perdue:
I had to move the cot out of my shack to make room for the 500-plus melons I’ve socked away. Sleeping under the stars is nice on nights it’s not raining or hailing or the north wind’s not ripping off my blanket and whipping fertilizer-laden grit up my nose. By the way, did you know copperhead snakes can climb? It’s true. One slithered up the frame of my cot and bit my big toe. That was my fault for forgetting to re-duct-tape my shoe. Oh well. Nothing I couldn’t fix with a purifying bleed, a sharp Bowie knife, and a heated spatula to cauterize the wound. I felt like a real doctor—well, a real doctor without sterilized instruments, anesthetic, or antibiotics. Anyway, the venomous snakes haven’t been a problem since the coyotes started encircling my cot after sundown.
Thank you and salutations,
Julio
# # #
July 15
Dear Secretary Perdue:
This last pay period, the farm started withholding state and federal taxes from my watermelon income by slicing the ends off the melons. Cut watermelons don’t keep real well, so I’ve been eating them as fast as I can. I’ve polished off 60 already. I’ll dive into the rest once my explosive watery diarrhea begins tapering off.
Cramps. Gotta go!
Thank you and salutations,
Julio
# # #
July 30
Dear Secretary Perdue:
My friends say I should leave the farm and work with them as gardeners in the gated communities. They say my watermelon-only diet is making me malnourished and delirious. But I feel fantastic. I have more energy than ever. My heart races every second of the day, and I don’t sleep anymore. All the spare time at night has allowed me to get acquainted with the uncut melons in my shack. At first, I couldn’t get so much as a “Buenos noches” out of them. Later, I realized they couldn’t speak my language—any language really. Man, did they open up after I painted mouths on them! Since then, we’ve bonded through sing-a-longs, scavenger hunts, and pick-up soccer games. We’re even putting together a talent show. I’m singing a duet from West Side Story with Tierra. Which brings me to my exciting news. Tierra and I are in love and—don’t spoil the surprise—I’m going to propose marriage. I’ve picked out the perfect barrel hoop for an engagement ring. Tierra wants a big family, having grown on a vine with a hundred other melons. We’ll have to adopt, though, as Tierra is a seedless variety.
Cramps again. Gotta go!
Thank you and salutations,
Julio
# # #
August 15
Dear Secretary Perdue:
I feel obliged to make this report because it was your emergency order that brought Tierra and me together. A faction of pumpkins is threatening to undo your good works. I’ve heard their rabble-rousing through the grapevines. The cabbage and rutabaga are agitating as well. Just the other night, their patches traded shouts of “Produce of the world, unite!” Even the pacifists—the brainy cauliflower and the reclusive parsnips—have a subversive cast to them. I fear this will not end well.
Thank you and salutations,
Julio
P.S. Enclosed are three-hundred watermelon seeds painted with the evil eye for your protection. I can vouch for their loyalty, as I personally passed them while writing this letter.
# # #
August 30
Dear Secretary Perdue:
This will be my last letter for a while. The traitorous pumpkins have fixed September 15 for the uprising. I expect you will dispatch jack-booted agents armed with scythes and canisters of defoliant. Don’t worry about Tierra and me. We already have left the farm.
Life on the run isn’t easy. You’d think we’d be safe in the city, but we must remain vigilant for the agro-collaborators. The revolutionaries have recruited tomato plants in garden shops and cucumbers in sidewalk produce stands to spy for them. Fortunately, we have allied with the canned vegetables, whose resentment of their farm-fresh cousins runs deep.
But the future is bright. The FDA says it will let cash-strapped drug companies sell placebos as real drugs to lower their research, development, and production costs. I won’t need a medical degree to prescribe the fake drugs, so I plan to open a clinic. I’ve rented the shopping mall kiosk between the eyebrow threader and the Jamba Juice. I also found a white coat on the floor of the abandoned nail salon. Apart from the “Nailed It!” logo embroidered on the lapel, the coat is exactly like the one a real doctor wears. With big government finally off my back, I can bring the semblance of healthcare to the masses.
Sadly, I will realize my pseudo-professional dream without the love of my life. Even with good refrigeration, Tierra won’t keep more than another month. All I can do is put on a brave face and savor our remaining time together. Then, when the inevitable is upon Tierra, I will hack her to pieces, consume her flesh, and toss her rind in the Jamba Juice trashcan.
Thank you and salutations,
Julio