MAX ORDOS DOES NOT EXIST

MAX ORDOS DOES NOT EXIST: CHAPTER THREE

After sitting in the local post office's parking lot for a few minutes to gather himself, Pearl decides to explore the farmer's market in town. It's one of the few non-Civil War tourist attractions in the area, and Pearl's in the mood for apple dumplings anyway. The drive there is uneventful, but the entrance to the market's parking lot is blocked by a two-car fender bender. The three people involved are yelling at each other, and Pearl gets the gist of their disagreement through his open window: both drivers saw a blonde girl right in front of them, one hit the brakes and the other swerved to avoid hitting her. One of their cars is playing the college radio station.

Pearl backs up and enters the parking lot through the designated exit. The farmer's market is a massive brick structure built on an old fairground, and some of that signage has been added to the current décor. The produce section is right up front, followed by meats and fish, and there are a lot more prepared food vendors than he expected. The bakery section is tucked into the back of the market, and apple dumplings are just one of the assorted Amish and Pennsylvania Dutch goodies on sale.

As he peruses the baked goods, Pearl relaxes. Something about this place is comforting. Possibly its representation of the community; southern Pennsylvania is a simple place, and not in a pejorative way. The locals outnumber the tourists here, dressed in comfortable, shapeless clothing and radiating a kind of genuine humility that Pearl doesn't see most other places. These are people who allow themselves few indulgences besides food, especially desserts. Their pies, cakes, and pastries are heavy and rich, made with real butter and real lard and real fruit. As Pearl picks up a plastic-wrapped apple dumpling and hefts its weight, he considers that one benefit of keeping people yoked to a religion that limits how they express joy is that it all winds up in the food. He buys two dumplings, and almost drops one in the parking lot as he fishes his cigarettes out of his pocket. He almost drops one again when a woman asks him for a cigarette and startles him.

"I normally don't," she says, "but it's been a rough day."

"Sorry to hear that," Pearl says, giving her a cigarette. "What's going on?"

The woman shakes her head as she lights the cigarette. Her graying brown hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail, and she's wearing jeans and a faded yellow sweatshirt. "Work stuff. It's not important."

"Fair enough," Pearl says, his mind already drifting to the apple dumplings in his pockets and how much he wants to eat them. "Where do you work?"

"Someplace I should quit," the woman says between puffs.

"You should quit, then," Pearl says.

"I can't," the woman says. "I want to, but I can't."

"You can quit any job," Pearl says. "I used to coach minor league baseball. Now I'm a union delegate."

"Why'd you quit coaching?"

"Work stuff," Pearl says, smiling. "It's not important. You have a good day now." He hurries back to his car, where he eats one of the apple dumplings before he puts the key in the ignition.

He returns to the hotel for a shower, after which he calls the lawyer — who left four messages with the front desk for him — and recalls the damage to the house and property, using his notes for reference. "It's not gonna be cheap," he says. "I'd estimate high five figures or low six, but it's worth doing. A lot's broken, but all of it can be fixed." He doesn't tell her about the well or his reaction to it, and only mentions the sheriff in passing as an interested party.

"That can be good or bad," the lawyer says. "Be careful." She hangs up without saying goodbye.

When the apple dumpling wears off, Pearl drives out to a diner he passed earlier. It looks like a stainless steel train car, with big windows along one side so passers-by can see the pies on the counter. They can also watch people eating in their booths if they want to, although Pearl can't imagine why anyone would.