The tricked-out, spotless white truck driving up my road only solidified that.
It was equipped with tinted windows, a logo too polished for a Vermont fall, and the fancy trim package. My dad had taught me at a young age, never trust a person with a brand-new gleaming truck.
It parked right inside the gate like it had every right to be there.
I walked towards it, with Wayne on my heels, annoyed, undercaffeinated, and too busy to put up with any more shit today.
The driver’s door swung open and the man who stepped out looked like he’d never held a shovel in his life. Pressedkhakis, clean boots, branded fleece vest with a distinctive green and gold logo stitched over the chest.
“Josh Lawrence?” his tone implied we were old friends who shared a friendly round of golf once a year. He smoothed his short blond hair and unfolded a pair of Ray-Bans that he’d tucked into the collar of his shirt.
I slowly removed my work gloves. “Depends,” I said. “You lost?”
He laughed like I’d made a funny joke and reached out. “Tristan McDevitt. Regional development for AgriNova.”
Of course.
I crossed my arms. “When we last spoke on the phone, I told you I was all set.”
His smile got wider. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by. As you know, I’m deeply committed to supporting independent producers.” With his hands in his pockets, he wandered up the driveway, surveying my land like he owned it. “You’ve got quite an operation. Family-run, organic certified, one of the highest yields per tap in the region. Well done.”
His knowledge of my business made my hackles rise. “What do you need, Tristan?” I asked. Wayne stared him down like he was an annoying squirrel.
The man stepped closer, lowering his voice like this was a friendly chat. “BGX-9.”
My jaw muscles clenched involuntarily.
“It’s not a fertilizer,” he said quickly. “We’re past that. Twenty-first century innovations. It’s a bio-organic enhancement agent. Improves flow efficiency and cellular response during freeze-thaw cycles.”
I’d heard this sales pitch half a dozen times. Every fewyears some giant agro-chemical company came out with arevolutionaryproduct that was going to make us all rich. Investors and scientists were always trying to hack nature. But maple syrup wasn’t like that. We needed healthy trees, the right weather, and appropriate expectations. Maple trees weren’t faucets that could be turned on and off. The tree gave what it gave, when it wanted to give it. But these assholes could not accept the reality that maple sap was a finite resource. No, they wanted bigger and better and more.
“It’s already being piloted across the state. And it’s having major success in Canada. We’ve seen a 12-percent increase in yield due to high flow efficiency and increased Brix percentages.”
That was the pitch, the sentence designed to hook me and make me see dollar signs.
“Which producers?” I asked.
He hesitated a beat too long, and when he spoke, his eyes shifted to one side. “Several in Addison County. And even more in the north. This upcoming season will be the best ever.”
“You talk to the Fitzgeralds?” I asked.
He’d likely been chased off their farm with a shotgun. They were one of the biggest operations in the state, and I had no doubt they wouldn’t touch this shit with a ten-foot pole.
Another flicker. “We’re in conversation with the family,” he said diplomatically.
“Not interested,” I said, already bored of this conversation. “I don’t chase yields.” I also did not take risks with my trees. A maple tree had to be around thirty years old before it could be tapped. Each tree was a long-term investment, andsome of my best producers had been planted by my grandfather. I didn’t fuck around with them.
“I get it.” He held his hands up in surrender. “You’re a steward of the land, which is why we are aligned environmentally.”
I’d spent five years on Wall Street trading agricultural commodities. I knew the buzzwords and all the corporate bullshit that came along with them.
“You’re pushing this really hard.”
“Our company is committed to?—”
“Your company,” I interrupted, “is owned by one of the largest agro-chemical manufacturers in the world. Filling our soil and our crops with all kinds of genetically enhanced and synthetic shit.”
His eye narrowed, but the creepy smile remained. “BGX-9 is EPA compliant. But I only stopped by to have a conversation. Independent farms like yours are under pressure these days.”
