When the chips are down

Hollis the Mountain Man is threatened with a job

by Sally Cragin

Illustration by Lennie Peterson

Spring has come to Tritown, though the last snow wasn't so long ago. Several days of sunny warmth have summoned the crocuses out of the ground where they compete with the snowdrops, though usually the spring flowers bloom in an orderly fashion. Hollis the Mountain Man is dressed in his usual schizoid spring garb: wool pants with a T-shirt and a hat with a brim that he keeps wanting to take off and stuff in his back pocket. The warm snap has confused everyone in Tritown who is still thinking in terms of winter chores, and Hollis is no maverick today. He stalks the perimeter of the Mountain Lair wondering where to begin. Of course, he still hadn't gotten around to doing any New Year's resolutions. (To reiterate: 1) to catalogue his tires by manufacturer, age, and condition; 2) to install that 8-track he pulled out of his 1975 Dodge; 3) to sort the contents of the box labeled "String: Too Short To Use"; 4) to care more about what people think of him.)

As he returns to the cabin to ponder possibilities, his boot neatly crashes through the rotten board on the step. The wood has creaked for many years, but the damp winter has finally rotted it out. He gingerly extricates his foot and remembers his fifth resolution: "To either remove or repair the porch floor." Time for a trip to Tritown Lumber Yard.

But first, he paces out the length of boards he'll need, making notations with the stub of a pencil on the back of a renewal notice from Yankee magazine. (His great-aunt Winnie had given him a one-year subscription during the Bush presidency. Hollis had been curious but quickly bored because, as Delia Ellis Bell the Partial Yankee pointed out, Hollis is already living Yankee magazine, albeit with uglier curtains. In any event, Yankee hadn't given up on him, and he uses the fat packets for door-stoppers and scratch pads.)

"Twenty two-by-fours, a box of deck screws, an assortment of brackets . . ." he mumbles, and then climbs in the truck and heads into town. As he drives past the Tarbox Automotive estate, it suddenly occurs to him that he might need help on some of the carpentry. Hollis prides himself on almost total self-sufficiency, but even the hardiest Tritownies need the occasional helping hand. But who could he ask? He hates asking anyone. Surely, someone owes him a favor -- didn't he remember putting up sheetrock? Was that for his brother Mason? Yes, it was, and Mason was too far for a short-notice repair job, though he could be counted on for advance planning.

Damn it. Hollis the Mountain Man hates advance planning. If it snows, he shovels (soon enough). If the leaves come down, he rakes (well, eventually). He wouldn't have had to fix the damn porch if his boot hadn't gone through, and the supporting step is so splintered, it wouldn't hold a new board. He has to get help.

By this point, he reaches the lumberyard, but he drives past and pulls in at the Rod 'n` Reel, where there is a payphone.

Delia is gardening, but she'd brought the portable out, so Hollis doesn't have to let the phone ring more than 10 or 20 times. She listens to his query, then feels a few light drops. "You know what?" she tells him. "You're off the hook. It's raining. I gotta go."

Hollis hangs up the line with a feeling of reprieve. The satisfaction of a job well-done is pleasant, but the relief at a job deferred is no small pleasure either. He turns around, and found Myrt, the ex-showgirl barkeep (the second-to-last burlesque performer ever to dance at the Old Howard) polishing a glass. "The usual?" she asks.

"Nah," says Hollis. "Gotta go downtown."

She nods. "Goin' by the potato-chip factory?" she asks. Hollis says he is. "Well," says Myrt. "I've got a proposition for ya -- and, yeah, it's legal." She gives him a lingering wink.

Hollis sidles up to the bar and eases onto a stool. "That Whitey Leblanc was supposed to deliver me up some chips, but he's been off work all week, and there's no one else who can collect," explains Myrt. "I'm down to pretzel sticks for the reg'las, and that won't do. Someone's got to make a run down to Tried-N-Tru Chips and pick up a coupla cartons. They're already paid for."

Hollis is not a good negotiator, but he is very comfortable holding his tongue while he decides what to say, so most of Tritown thinks of him as shrewd. He nods, removes his hat, smoothes his thinning locks southward, and restores the cap. Myrt, who is a good negotiator ("Ya think ya get ya name up in lights at the Old Howard 'cause you're a good dancer?" is one of her favorite ripostes), bides her time. She polishes a glass, while Hollis chews reflectively on a toothpick.

Finally, they both speak at once. "What's in it for me?" he asks, while she declares, "I'll forgive the last 10 bucks on ya bar bill."

"Deal!" says Hollis, whose bar bill isn't really that high, just that his inconsistent income has been more inconsistent than usual lately.

"I'll need two boxes of the Regla Chips," she says. "A box of Vinegar-Dubl-Salt, and a box of the 'Chusett Chive."

"What, no Ba-be-cue?" asks Hollis.

Myrt smiles, "Woulda forgot about that. Yeah, get a box of Ba-be-cue, and try not to drop 'em." Hollis grins, takes the list, and heads out.

HIS PORCH FORGOTTEN, he arrives at the plant to find the manager irate about Whitey Leblanc, the all-too-unreliable delivery man. "Aw, good," he says, his balding pate mottled red and white with frustration. "Yer here for Myrt's chips -- she's called me twice today, and my other customers are going through the roof. Whitey's jeezled everything up, damn drunk."

Hollis nods and follows the manager through the plant to collect the cartons. A delicious smell of warm oil and salty chips perfumes the air, making his mouth water. What would it be like to work here? Hollis wonders. In his youth, he'd had a variety of junk food-related jobs, none of them for longer than a few weeks. He'd sold cotton candy at the Harum Scarum (local amusement park), grilled hot dogs at the Tritown Athletic Fields, and even worked behind the counter of the Minit Variety, dispensing sodas. But dealing with the public brought out his surly side, and it soon became clear that he would be better employed elsewhere.

The manager and Hollis stack the cartons on a hand truck, and Hollis wheels them through the factory. "Say," says the manager. "Ya mind dropping off a coupla cartons at the VFW, the Short Stop Cafe, and Happy's? They're all on the way to Myrt's, and I'll give ya 10 bucks." The manager pleads with his bushy eyebrows. "I'll give ya 10 bucks and a carton of chips."

It was the carton of chips that did it. The weather is warming up, and there is no pleasure greater than sitting on the Mountain Lair porch sipping home brew and watching the sun sink beneath the treeline. "Deal," says Hollis.

"Actually," says the manager, sizing him up. "We could use someone at least one or two days a week, making the runs. The trick is, with potato chips, is that you gotta move real slow, and don't throw 'em around. They're delicate, see, and too much jostling makes 'em crumble. Crushed chips? Crushed customers."

It sounds like something he says a lot. Hollis almost laughed, but then nods responsibly. They unload the boxes in the back of Hollis's truck, fitting them together so they wouldn't slide around. Hollis climbs in, folding the 10-spot into his overall pocket. He nods and fires up the ignition, not knowing what to say. He isn't poor, exactly, but he lives pretty close to the bone, the way most people in Tritown do.

"Think it over," says the manager, loosening his tie. "And drive slowly," he cautions, waving him off.

Hollis slowly pulls back onto the main road, his golden cargo locked into place, but his mind is racing. He has a number of rules that make life easier: no crowds, not more than five cups of coffee a day, and no heavy lifting. A part-time job delivering chips would definitely fulfill two out three. He might not get around to fixing that porch for a while, and in the meantime, he could lash together some milkcrates from the R 'n` R for the bottom step.

Funny thing, he thinks, driving toward town. You start out wanting to fix your porch, and end up with a job, sorta. And people don't think Tritown's magical.

Sally Cragin buys only locally made potato chips.

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