Olive Omen
It wasn’t the usual impeccably uniformed delivery guy I met at the back door. This guy was wearing a leather jacket and spotless white basketball shoes as he wheeled five cases of extra virgin olive oil into the storeroom on a dolly. Tattooed flames crept out of the collar of his button up and tangled with his thick chest hair. I wondered vaguely where the fire started. And what he was trying to burn.
“I’m supposed to pick up an envelope,” he said, popping his gum. I put my hand in my pocket, my fingers touching my favorite lighter. I usually keep it in my backpack since I’m not really a smoker, but the night before, I had dreamt I’d see an omen. Thought I might need the lighter, the flaming delivery guy proved I was right. See, I believe in omens, warnings of catastrophes to come. Omens have driven the course of my life for as long as I can remember. Timely portents have kept me alive. This guy and his flaming chest were definitely an omen.
“How do you keep your shoes so white?” I asked, leaning on the canned goods shelves in the cramped back storage room. Omens never know that’s what they are, but I love to chat with them regardless.
“Seriously?” He rolled his eyes, very exaggerated, but he still hadn’t let go of the dolly.
“Yeah.”
“Bleach. I’m not supposed to leave without the envelope.”
“That shit is so bad for your lungs. Did you know if you mix bleach and rubbing alcohol you can make chloroform?” He wouldn’t look at me, but I saw his eyebrows arch in profile. “How much should be in this envelope?”
“I don’t know, I’m just supposed to pick up an envelope.”
“Perfect. I’ll go and grab an envelope. I’m sure we have one, mail’s already come this morning.”
“Jesus, come on. Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m Charlie.” I smiled.
The door to the storeroom slammed open and we both turned. Nick was alright as managers go, but I think tentacled cannibal overlord was probably more her true calling. She held the envelope in her hand. It seemed a thick envelope to hand over to a portent of doom, but I’m not the boss. Nick is.
“We count the bottles first, then you get this.” She waved it at him.
The delivery guy wilted. “Lady, I got other stops. It’s hot out there, and I don’t like, do, deliveries, ok.”
“Why the leather jacket if it’s so hot out?”
They both ignored me. Nick didn’t so much as blink her red-shadowed eyelids. “Put ‘em down, or you definitely won’t be doing deliveries anymore. If you get my drift.”
Brutal. I really loved her. Platonically, of course.
He let go of the dolly and threw his hands up, so exaggerated this omen. But then, they did tend to be. I think that’s why most people ignore omens. They’re so over the top they’re hard to take seriously. But there lies the path to peril.
I cut the top box open, it was full of bottles of olive oil. So were the other four. Nick snatched a bottle out of the last box and held it up to the bare lightbulb we used in the storeroom. It was too yellow, with cloudy wisps of black floating around in the oil.
“What is this?” Nick held it up to the delivery guy, tapping the glass.
“Don’t look like EVOO,” I added. I like to be helpful.
He cleared his throat. “I’m supposed to tell you that this was the last press before the trees got sick. It’s fine though, we tested it. Tastes like the usual stuff. I’m also supposed to tell you that we’re tapped out. No more olive oil on the blackmarket. What’s left is being too closely guarded and isn’t making it out of Italy.”
“Jesus,” Nick tipped the bottle over, the black clouds shifted and swirled, like a putrid lava lamp. She tipped the bottle back over and unscrewed the cap, the little metal catches on the safety seal broke reassuringly as she twisted it. She sniffed it and held it out to me.
“No. Absolutely not. I’ve switched to avocado oil.” I would likely never ingest olive oil again after seeing that bottle. Not that I’d get the chance. Most of the world’s olive trees were dead, wiped out by a disease. The few trees that were still untouched were in Italy, but there weren’t enough of them to supply the world. At the restaurant we’d tried avocado oil, walnut oil, sunflower oil, customers never really took to them.
Nick stuck her finger in the bottle.
“I can run to the store for… anything else,” I said. She took her finger out and stuck it in her mouth. The delivery guy looked as horrified as I felt, but I’d learned from Nick that pulling faces made it easier for people to read you and that made you weak. Like I said, cannibal overlord.
“It’s not as bad as I thought it would be.” She looked side-eyed at the delivery guy, “It does not taste like the usual stuff. It’s a little- burnt? I don’t know, but it’ll work.” She flipped the envelope to the driver who was gone before she’d even recapped the bottle. She held it out to me.
“You want to try?”
I shook my head, “Nope. I’m just going to put these boxes away.”
“You do you, little Froofroo.” Nick called me Froofroo when she thought I was being a wimp about something. Which was often. I’m not a wimp. But I am decisive, and once they’re made, I stick to my decisions. I had decided not to taste it, and I never would. Simple as that. Simple as omens. You see one, you heed it. How to heed is not always clear at first, but the path will always be revealed to the patient and observant.