The Winter People

   Way down in the Gorge we'd pulled a plough truck over into a coffee shop parking lot.  I was trying to decide which book to read next in a little collection deemed Borrow One Leave One.  My hand was still shaking from being close to a logging truck in front of us that seemed to be hugging a steep drop off a little too closely when it almost got stuck.  Long seconds of going to tip, it's not....goung to tip, it's not.  The plow guy and another rider bet seven dollars.  "If I had seven dollars," I said, "I wouldn't bet it away."

  "What would you do with it?"

  "Coffee and smokes."

  "The weight can shift on those trucks."

  "Hot, black coffee."

  "'Specially if they load 'em quick." 

  "It's called settling."

  "Like a house or a deck when it starts to get weathered."

  "I'd be settling into that cup of coffee like it was a home.  A home away from home."

  "You need a break.  I know where."

  "What are you doing?"  A woman in a turtleneck sweater asked near a dumpster.  An older man had two shovels and a pitchfork.  He'd scraped the snow off a patch of gravel and was unsuccessfully trying to break the frozen ground.  "What's all this Don?"

  The man pulled his furry cap down farther mostly covering his eyes.  He mumbled something.  She looked around, saw a gunny sack coffee bean bag, and looked back at the man.  He scraped the earth with the pitchfork.  She put down her travel mug and a space around it immediately cleared of snow.  Then she put on winter gloves and approached the sack.

  Just opened it up and peered inside and said, "Ew." Don just looked at her, then he shook his head sadly.  She uncrouched and came back towards him.  "It's offensive to God and man," he said slowly.

  "It's natural."

  "T'aint."

  "Happens every month for women Don, so it is natural, normal."

  Don looked over at the burlap.  "Chef said, abortion in a bag."

  "Oh. My. Gawd.  That's what you think?"

  The man didn't say anything.

  "Don.  It's feminine hygiene product.  Girl stuff for," she started toward the building, a pointer finger with pictures on nail polish ordered stay there a minute. 

  She was digging her nails into the chef's hairy arm a little hard and he said, "Oowww," and pretended to pull away.  "Look what you did to this poor man." She gestured with the other hand emphasizing this. poor. man. "Looks like a man with a shovel.  Probably not poor." The chef said.

  "Tell him what you're doing Don." 

  The man said nothing.

  She let go of the arm and went to the coffee bean sack.  Picked it up and started dumping it out.  "These," she lectured, "Are Maxi Pads." Her designer cowgirl boot footed a pad.  "And these," the foot pointed, "are called Tampons."

  "Look in the bottom." Don said.

  Hands grasped the bottom corners of the gunny sack and she shook the rest of the contents out.  Various pads and plugs rolled in toilet paper and not tumbled to the ground.  Then plastic squares with tubes clunked on top of the little pile.  

  "Abortions," the chef said.

  "Deusch bags!" The woman said. 

  "Deusch bags?" The chef asked.

  "Feminine rinse."

  "Rinse?" Don asked.

  "So girls smell good.  Down there." 

  "You sure?"

  "I could show you in an advertisement."

  "If I didn't smell good, down there, I wouldn't advertise it," the chef said.  He'd folded his arms and propped one hand under his chin considering the curious scene.

  Don started to rake the trash away from the woman holding the gunny sack.  She folded the sack and laid it on the ground.  "I'll go get a proper trash bag," she said.  And went back towards the building.

  "Reckon we'll get a couple more inches."

  "That's what the TV says."