Chapter Text
Here I am, lying in a hospital bed, pain meds wearing off and gown riding up in just the perfect, most uncomfortable position. And I can’t even adjust it because my arms are both imobile. Wonderful. Don’t even get me started on my face. Actually, I have no idea what it looks like, but every time a nurse walks in they wince and immediately look away, refusing to meet my eye from then on. I haven’t even worked up the courage to ask for a mirror.
Oh! My beautiful face! This is my sales face! This is what brings the masses in and keeps ‘em coming back! “Ah, c’mon, what’s one more? For the road!” “Oh, no Edward, I just couldn’t.” “Now Henry, you just told me 2 weeks ago how irritable you get on the drive home. Help me help you with that little problem and forget your worries mate!” “Well, if you insist…”
I do insist. That’s what made me successful. That’s my brand. That’s what the townsfolk and travelers alike remember Ed Teach by in Providence. And I’ll be damned if anything, or anyone is going to try to steal my customers. And then put me in the hospital!
****record scratch****
Ok, so you’re probably wondering how I ended up in this situation. Well, let me start from the beginning. I hail from a small island called Aotearoa…
…just kidding. We’re not going back that far. I don’t want to bore you out of your skull and lose your attention. Plus there’s not much from my childhood that’s particularly happy and you're not my therapist. Although you could be if you want! What’s your rate?
Annnyyway…the one relevant thing that does come from my childhood is farming. And feeding people. That is in my blood, thanks to my mother and our small, tight-knit community that came together anytime one of us needed help. We always made sure no one went hungry, blah blah blah, all the nice sentimental shit and whatnot. Well, one thing I took to since I was a child was fermentation and pickling. Our family passed down the knowledge generation after generation and were the people to go to for winterizing your yearly vegetable harvest. As I got older I started experimenting with different flavors and spices and I dunno, just kinda became “the pickle guy.”
Now cue the sentimental montage of the next portion of my life: mom dies, community grieves, I can’t stand anything to do with food anymore, eventually need a change, move halfway across the world for a fresh start, try my hand at random jobs, and of course, find myself going back to what I know (and honestly what I love) and starting up a small farm in a small town. Hey, I told you I’m not going to bore you! And no one needs a full history so, just use your imagination or something.
It didn’t take long for my local, organic, pickled varieties to become popular at the town’s Marketplace. Basically we have a permanent farmer’s market with consistent vendors in coveted indoor stalls and newbies or “less desirables” in outdoor spots barely covered and forced to compete in duels for customers. Ok, maybe that’s a stretch but it can get pretty competitive. I’m not even going to admit to some of the tactics I used when I was among the unwashed outdoor stall masses, fighting for my spot in the elite inner circle.
And I got an elite indoor stall! Only took a year of showing up and gaining a customer base. Not only that, but I’ve now become THE most popular vendor of the market! If anyone tells you otherwise they’re a lying liar who lies and I will fight them–or my employees will fight them on my behalf…because, you know, my sales face! Oh no, now I’m sad again, and angry…stop getting me off track!
Blackbeard’s Pickled Delicacies and Delights is what the people come to the market for. “The Pickle Guy” is a household phrase, and even one found on numerous travel blogs about our small picturesque town. And I’m fuckin’ proud of that! Had to pull myself out of quite the depression hole to get where I am and the line that forms all the way down the market hallway every week is my reminder that I fuckin’ did it!
And that’s why I took it so personally. No one is going to take this away from me, this very special, very particular life I’ve carved for myself here in Providence. You have the arrogance, nay, the gall to come into my marketplace and try to sell pickled products to my friends and customers?! You’ve got another thing coming. Stede fuckin’ Bonnet. What kind of name is that anyway??? “Oh my name’s Stede Bonnet like a little fancyman from the 18th century! And I’ve got a fancy stall where I sell pickles too!” Give me a fuckin’ break!
Ok, I know what it sounds like. But I promise I’m not just a power-tripping, big-fish-in-a-small-pond jerk or something. Let me tell you the story of this… Stede (ugh) and you’ll see. You’ll understand my plight.
~~~~~~~~~~
It was a typical Saturday at the Marketplace. Busiest of the 4 days we operate, which is why we always need all four of us on Saturdays–Izzy, my right hand man (picture an extremely loyal man with the personality of an angry chihuahua), and our farm hands Ivan and Fang (also loyal, but much more personable). Each of us takes a couple breaks during the day when we can and Izzy was the first on the fateful Saturday in question.
“A couple new stalls outside,” Izzy said.
“Well that’s every Saturday. Anything interesting?” asked Fang.
“Depends on what you consider interesting.” Izzy responded and shuffled through a few labels, reorganizing them. “Another pickle vendor sound interesting?”
I was finishing up with a customer when I heard him say that and honestly I cannot be responsible for what my face did (sorry customer).
“What do you mean? What are you talking about Iz?” I asked, not sounding frantic at all.
“Yeah, looks like a fancy bloke. Bit of an idiot though. Only him and one other guy with a shitload of barrels. Not sure how they’ll last all day or why they have so many varieties when they’re new.”
“Fascinating.” I whispered. “Cover the till Izzy, I’m going to go get a look for myself.”
“Whatever you say boss,” Izzy said, turning to the front as I walked away.
I quickly made my way towards the outdoor stall area, taking shortcuts where I could. My mind was racing: who was this newcomer? Why haven’t I heard about him? (Yes, the Marketplace underground gossip ring is real people.) How does he have the nerve to intrude on my turf?
As I stepped outside of the main building I realized that I hadn’t asked Izzy which outdoor stall the “new pickle guy” ( gag) had. But it didn’t matter. It took me about two seconds to spot him. There really was no missing him to be fair. It was a garish, colorful, downright obnoxiously decorated stall with a huge sign hanging above that read “The Gentleman Pickle.” There were additional signs made of coordinating neon poster board that named each pickled variety.
I squinted, read a few of the signs, and sighed. “ Jesus fuckin’ christ you gotta be kidding me.”
The signs read, and I shit you not:
I’m Kind of a Big Dill : our signature dill pickle chips that pack a punch of flavor!
Netflix & Dill: less sour, more to devour! Perfect for a night in with someone special.
Dollar Dollar Dill: individual travel pack of our pickle chips for not a lot of cash money money!
Revenge is Sweet: patent (pending) sweet bread and butter pickles. They say revenge is a dish best served kosher (which these are!)
Gerkle Jerks: our spiciest offering! If you can’t handle ‘em, give ‘em to your enemy!
…and probably half a dozen more. Alright, probably nothing to worry about then. I’ve been in this business long enough to know the 2 key rules of selling homemade pickles: 1. Keep your offerings limited. 2. Stick to the classics. Mr. Ridiculous over here was breaking both rules. He wouldn’t last a week.
And I call him Mr. Ridiculous not just because of the look of his booth…or his outlandish naming conventions…or because I refuse to call him The Gentleman Pickle are you freaking kidding me. But because he truly looked ridiculous. Actually, the booth made a lot more sense when you saw who was running it. He was wearing an intricately decorated and highly impractical turquoise suit coat? No, tailcoat? It looked like it was straight out of a theater wardrobe. Bright, bouncy blond curls bobbed in and out between his pickle barrels as he practically danced around helping customers. Ok, put all together I guess he didn’t look that ridiculous. It kind of…worked, if you like that kind of vibe…
His helper at the booth looked a lot less happy to be there and mainly seemed to be running the till, talking to as few customers as possible. And he only had a handful of customers! Alright Teach, nothing to worry about. You’re still top dog here.
At least that’s what I thought when I left on Saturday, completely out of our stock. Even the sauerkraut sold out! In the first days of summer! Ha, take that blondie! And as always, we returned Monday with a fresh stock, ready for our loyal weekly shoppers to buy us out again.
“I’ll take one of the classic spears and one spicy relish Ed, thanks!”
“What about your bread and butter pickles Dave?”
“Oh, sorry Ed, but I’m going to pass on those this week. Have you tried The Gentleman Pickle yet? He’s got a bread and butter mix that’s out of this world! No offense…I think he calls it Revenge is Sweet. I love all his punny names, they're so charming!”
“Dave. You have been one of my most loyal customers since the day I started. And I have one thing to say to you right now. FUCK YOU!!!”
No, I didn’t say that! Jesus are you crazy? But man I wanted to say that. Fuuuuck. Ok, here’s what I actually said.
“Oh, no I haven’t tried his yet. Thanks for the heads up!” And then I plastered on such a fake smile that one might have wondered where my matching colorful wig and clown shoes were.
As soon as precious Dave left with his too small purchase I threw down my apron.
“Izzy watch the till!”
“Yes boss.”
And with that I stormed off towards the stairs. Time to get management involved.