My working knowledge of today's salt pricing is limited.

I’ve been taken in by family who owns salt mines.* It was understood that I’d be working for the family business as part of this new arrangement. So, I spent some time moving salt from a pile in the garage to the floor of a blue Suburban. Not just in the cargo area, but under the seats and under the pedals. The salt had a blue-ish hue. I knew the buyer was coming to look at the salt, so I went inside to tell the old man that I was finished.

Carlisle was the old patriarch of the family and the business. I went into his bedroom where he was lying in bed, propped up on his side. He told me I’d have to leave with the buyer overnight to negotiate the price. I was indignant. “What? I just got here three days ago. Why do I have to go? What do I know about salt? I thought the buyer would come, pay for the salt, and leave.” Carlisle replied, “you could have done that if you had negotiated that earlier.” I refused to go. I was yelling now. “I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT SALT! Let alone negotiating salt contracts! No. NO.”

I ran out of the house to my boyfriend’s house next door. It must have been Florida. It was hot and sticky and lush and green outdoors. My boyfriend also worked for Carlisle’s salt mining business. I got in the passenger side of the Suburban and we started driving down the road. The floor was covered in five or six inches of salt. I reached over the console to hold his hand. He was Native American or Spanish. Maybe Cuban. He wouldn’t look at me. I told him about yelling at Carlisle and having to negotiate salt contracts. “You yelled at Carlisle?” He seemed appalled that I would do such a thing. He was mumbling at the window. I turned down the radio to hear him better and he immediately turned it back up. I never saw his face. He was irritated that now he was going to have drive the salt to the buyer.

We continued driving. High stone walls lined either side of the dusty road. The walls seemed to restrain the dense, rich forest from spilling over. We slowed as we approached a huge forest fire. Billowing flames mushroomed high into the air behind the wall. Obviously the authorities knew about it, but they must be attacking it from the other side. There were no fire trucks on this side. We kept driving and came to another fire. I know that no one knows about this one, though. I wake up.

* I recently watched a documentary on salt.

Sweet, groomed relief.

I’m at a wedding or some formal reception. Round tables and chintz. My 8-year-old nephew is twitchy and agitated because he has an eyebrow hair that needs to be plucked. He grabs some scissors and starts snipping wildly at his head and face, trying to get the hair. Afraid he’ll poke his eye out, I take the scissors from him and tell him I’ll get it. I have to hold him down on the floor. He’s now morphed into a very sweaty, writhing baby. I finally pluck the hair and release him. Sweet, groomed relief.