Chapter 6: The Real Price

Negotiations dragged on for hours. The tension was thick—the plant owner clicked his pen, eyes flicking between me and the contract. My knee bounced under the table. Finally, he said he could pay $2.70 a pound, maybe even get it approved by his higher-ups—but I couldn’t tell the townsfolk the full price.

I hesitated. He took a long drag on his cigarette and spelled it out: "Here’s how it works, kid. You bring in the fruit, but we need a little something to grease the wheels. Call it a finder’s fee, an under-the-table commission, whatever. It’s how business gets done. We gotta make our cut, or there’s no deal next year."

He emphasized 'we' and 'boss'—it was clear: the price was $2.70, but $0.90 went to the plant as a commission. The farmers would only see $1.80.

I got it—nobody works for free, except maybe me. My classmate confirmed it was standard. By the time the trucks were ready to roll, I’d accepted it: better a million or two than nothing. After calculating marketing costs, the best I could offer the town was $1.80 a pound—twice what the plant offered before, and higher than anyone else around.

I called Dad, explained the price. There was a long silence. Then, "That’s the best you can do?"

"If I want to pay more, I’d have to make up the difference myself—out of my own paycheck."

He snorted. "We’re not asking you to go broke, kid. A buck eighty’s fine. I’ll tell Henderson."

Whatever he said, it worked. A few days later, Dad called: folks had agreed. $1.80 was better than nothing.

I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Maybe, just maybe, when folks raised a glass at Christmas, they’d remember I helped. By the end of November, the harvest was in—sacks of mandarins stacked in barns, waiting for the trucks.

As I finished up work and packed my bags, I realized pickup day was almost here. There was still weighing, counting, payments to handle. The money wouldn’t hit until nearly Christmas.

No more time to waste. I caught the next bus home, fields flashing by—orange dots shining in the cold sun. As the bus rattled down Main Street, I wondered if anyone would thank me—or if I’d be the next name folks cursed over Christmas dinner.