Unexpected Introductions [PHTHALO WHATELEY/FLINT]

Late May is when we do our second harvest of the year.  The sun beats down on us as we stoop over the shrubby plants, stewing in the humid District Eleven air.  Sweat drips down my back as I cut the plants down to a few inches of stalk and fill my burlap sack with the leafy part of the plant.  We've been out here since just before the sun rose at half past six.  That   makes ten hours of harvesting today.  I look over at my brother.  He's still going strong filling sacks at about the same rate as when we started.  But my stomach lets out a low growl.  If I need food, I'm sure Pop and the kids are  even hungrier.  I call out, "You finish up here.  I'll go find us some food."  He grunts in agreement.  I know he's just as hungry as me.  Probably more so; just strong enough to keep going when I can't.  

I go into the house and quickly wash up.  I slick my hair back and put on one of my favorite white poplin dress shirts, making sure to crisply cuff the sleeves to take advantage of the contrast between my spotless clothing and discolored forearms.  I put a pinch of dried leaves in my lip and suck out some of the aromatic bitter flavor.  Our safe hasn't got much cash, so its up to me to barter to get food for the family.  Eight mouths to feed today.  I can't skip another day, so yeah.  Eight.  We can't afford for that to be more than a few grams of powdered dye.  I scoop out three grams of the dark chalky powder onto a handkerchief and twist it into a little pouch and set off into the district to find dinner for eight.

We won't have cash until we fill our next Capitol contract at the end of the month, so I'm limited to just the merchants with a use for dye.  I've been going to the printer for money, but every time he makes a purchase he lowers the price he's willing to pay.  He says he's taking a discount for buying in 'bulk' but the prick is really just taking advantage of the fact that hungry children can't afford to wait to eat 'till I have cash.  My thoughts are interrupted by the captivating scent of someone frying a greasy pan of sausage.  I stop walking to deeply inhale as my mouth begins to water at the thought the mere thought of pork fat.  The smell's coming from the big house on Bigsby Farms.  The thought occurred to me that someone like Bigsby with all the money in the world just might be willing to part with some of that sausage for some fancy powdered dye.  I sharply turn from the main road onto the dirt path that leads to the big house.  I catch a few furtive glances from their farmhands as I walk past the sprawling fields.  I even smile and wave to one young boy who didn't even attempt to hide his curiosity at my otherworldly blue hands.  

When I was still a few yards away from the big house, I caught the attention of a petite young woman lounging on the front porch nursing a glass of sweet tea.  "Hello..." she called out.  Her voice shook a little, almost like she was startled to see me.  "here to see my father?"  I jog the last bit of the walkway and quickly climb the steps to join her on the covered wrap-around porch.  I get a good look of her.  Her hair is tied in a nice little ribbon and her clothes are nice-definitely more expensive than mine.  I make a point of resting my eyes on her hands for a moment, long enough to see that they clearly haven't done anything resembling real farm work.  I respond to her question.  "You know, I'm not sure who I'm here to see.  I smelled your sausage from the road and wondered if you folks would be willing to make a trade."  I flash the girl my most charming toothy grin and pop my knuckles in an attempt to pique her curiosity.  "I've got the finest blue dye in all of Panem and I'm sure a family as distinguished as the Bigsby's can make much better use of it than I could.  Would you be able to make a quick trade on your family's behalf?  You could use it for a lovely dress or to color your hair for the Reaping."  I register the look of fear that flashes across her face for a second at the mention of the Reaping.  These rich kids don't have anything better to do than lounge about worrying about the negligible chance they'll get picked for the Games.  Money doesn't insulate people from fear.  It just gives them time to be afraid of something other than poverty.  This might be how I get her to give me those sausages.  I fall silent, holding eye contact.  Your move, Miss Bigsby.

For a girl who asks so many questions, she didn’t seem to be all too interested in the answers.  As I gave her my sales pitch, her attention drifted from the dye on the table to the window, then back to me.  Or at least back to my skin.  Few workers in District Eleven would ever be considered for jobs as hand models.  Many of us are missing fingers, callused to a grotesque degree, or in my case, discolored.  For most people, my hands only hold interest for as long as it takes for them to figure out it’s because of my work.  But these Bigsby’s seem to be totally flabbergasted by the idea of a life of hard work changing the way you look.  

As I wrap up my spiel, she starts to play with her long, coffee-colored ponytail and glance furtively out the window for her father.  “I think that's just him now. I don't think it'll be a problem. Looks quite blue, really. The bluest of blues I've seen. I'm surprised I haven't seen you around here before. Then again, it seems like you're doing quite alright."  I explain that I just recently came to run my family farm.  “It’s not really a surprise that I haven’t been up to Bigsby Farms yet.  I just came to run the old Whateley farm a few months ago when my pop…” I take a breath and think of my once strong father laying in bed, too weak to sit up on his own.  I can’t bring myself to tell the whole truth here, so I finish with “retired.”  “If I recall, he’s done some business with your father in the past.”  Lorelai raised her eyebrows at my pause and for a second I worry she would inquire about his condition.  But I am rescued by the human mountain that is Irvin Bigsby.  

He’s easily half a foot taller than me and I doubt he’s ever missed a meal.  He wipes his brow and looks me up and down.  The first words out of his mouth are “Blue arms, huh?”  He isn’t intrigued like his daughter or frightened like his wife.  He’s just blunt, like someone noticing a squirrel in a tree.  Lorelai is basically doing my job for me.  She looks up at her father with big pouty puppy dog eyes.  I want to smile at the predicament, but I put forward my stoic business face.  I’m ready to make a deal.  “Alright, What are you asking for it?” I start to open my mouth to respond, when Lorelai beats me to the punch with what is perhaps the most pitiful ask I’ve ever heard.  "He's just looking for some food, Pa, he said he'll dye my dress for the Reaping for a loaf of bread and some sausage. Mom can just cook up some more, right?" For a second, I’m glad that Pop’s not here to see me let this spoiled little girl do my job for me.  But the man’s face softens and I begrudgingly recognize that she’s the best advocate I could ever ask for, even if she sees me as some sort of exotic pity project.

Irvin gives a dismissive shrug and addresses me instead of his daughter:  "Can't give you any unless you can walk the walk, son. How many are ya' needin' for? Lorelai's gonna look the best on Reaping Day so I'd be glad to let ya' help 'er out. But I don't think I'll let ya' leave with it unless we get started today."  I meet his eyes and confidently make my demand.  “Sir, I assure you I can walk the walk.  I can color your daughter’s dress by suppertime and set you up with your own dye vat if you want to make your own blue yarn or cloth.  All I’m asking for is a pound of sausage and a loaf of bread for my family to eat for dinner.  Your daughter will look like she’s wearing something straight from the shelves of the best boutique in the Capitol.”  He wipes the sweat from his brow again with his massive hand.  And before he can respond, his daughter makes up his mind for him by getting up to fetch a dress.  "Okay, well. Phthalo, this is my dad, You just cool off, Dad. I'll grab the dress and I suppose we can use a trough outback? Phthalo, is that alright with you?"  I can’t contain my happiness at what this girl has done.  She essentially played both parts of a business deal and got us both exactly what we wanted.  She may not know how to grow anything, but I think she’ll do fine running this farm someday.  Phew.  I’m going to eat well tonight. I allow myself to focus on the things my hunger had forced back in my mind like the way Lorelai seems to gracefully float from place to place instead of just walking like the  rest of us.  Before she leaves, I make sure she knows what to bring to dye her dress.  “Miss Lorelai, could you make sure to pick something cotton, satin, or silk.  And a big bucket or pot with a lid would be much better than a trough.  The dye doesn’t like open air.” 

She went upstairs, leaving me alone with her father.  He stared at me through narrowed eyes and introduced himself as Irvin.  I let the corners of my mouth raise into a tight half-smile. “It’s good to meet you Irvin.  I’m Phthalo.  I think you used to do business with my father, Hiram Whateley?  I run that old indigo farm now.  It’s a pleasure to do business with you.”  I want to make sure Irvin Bigsby understands the situation.  I’m my pop’s replacement--Bigsby’s new associate--his equal.  I don’t offer him the genteel honorifics I gave to his wife and daughter because even if he has more money than me, to me he is just Irvin.  I meet his eyes and hold out my hand.  He doesn’t hesitate to grab it hard and shake it.  I hear the faint crack of one of my knuckles popping under his  grip. He may be loaded, but deep down he’s still a hardworking farmer from District Eleven.  I can respect the hell out of that.  We hear delicate footsteps on the stairs and both turn our attention to Lorelai.