by Matt Moss
The universe always gets its due.
“Rules are meant to be broken, Abram.”
Two
“Rise and shine!” Mr. Gibbs shouts outside the barn, rapping a stick on the door.
My eyes instantly open, mind reeling with the gravity of my current state.
Why couldn’t it have been a dream? What did I do to deserve this?
“Let’s go. On your feet!” Mr. Red bellows.
It’s still dark inside the barn. I raise my head to see the two shadows moving by the light of the moon, barking orders from behind the closed door. The rest of the men beside me stir in their small beds, no doubt dreading their own reality in the waking moment. Donald’s already up and walks to meet them. He slides one of the large doors open. “You’re late,” he mocks.
Mr. Red laughs. “Alright then, spring chicken, let’s get at it then. I’m gonna call you Cock from now on. Is that okay with you, Cock?”
It’s too early for this shit.
“Suits me just fine, Mr. Red, sir.”
Mr. Red sucks air through his teeth. “Good. Go on and grab one of those hoes out front and wait for the rest of us.”
I roll out of bed wearing the same clothes from the day before and slog my way towards the door to join Donald. The two farmhands glance at me as I walk by to fetch a hoe for myself, but pay me no more attention than what I deserve. I know my place.
I hear them bark at the rest, and the other four soon fall in line beside Donald and myself, each rubbing their eyes and muttering what I would imagine to be curses at whoever damned us to this existence.
I feel the rough wood handle of the tool in my hand before throwing it over my shoulder. Sun’s not even up yet. It’s gonna be a long day.
Mr. Gibbs leads the way, flashlight in hand illuminating the ground ahead. We walk in silence, away from the barn—our only safe haven—and into an unknown land. “Careful now,” Gibbs says. “Don’t wanna break an ankle first day on the job.” He’s right. I feel the uneven ground below my feet that I imagine cattle or groundhogs making. But I’ve seen no cattle or groundhogs since I’ve been here. That’s not saying much, though. A farm like this; it’s probably overrun with deer, turkey, and all kinds of wild game. The cows are likely to be elsewhere, grazing.
Most farms have cows. I assume this one does, too.
We walk for what seems like a mile when Mr. Gibbs finally stops. The sun begins to rise and casts its light upon the land. We’re standing on an old corn field, the stocks broken and jetting from the earth like thick, broken weeds. I figure it to be about five acres.
How the hell do I know what an acre is? I’ve never lived in the country before, let alone owned a piece of land. Downtown Nashville is city streets and high-rises. An apartment on the ninth floor.
“Hope you boys got a good night of sleep,” Mr. Gibbs says. “Because you’re gonna need it.”
I see the barren rows and know what needs to be tilled. It’s going to be a really long day.
Mr. Red points to the far end of the field. “Start down there and work your way back here. Till it good or you’ll be doing it over again.”
Donald marches to the far end of the field like a man on a mission. I grudgingly follow as Abram steps in beside me. “Don’t overwork yourself. Keep busy but conserve your energy,” he advises.
“Don’t worry about me, Abram. I can play the game.”
Larry skips ahead of us, holding the hoe out in front like he’s dancing with it. He does a twirl and nearly trips. “There’s something wrong with him,” Abram says.
I glance behind me and see Benji still standing where we left him, his head cast down, shoulders slouched. Mr. Red steps in front of him and points, his words muffled from where I stand. I stop and turn, waiting to see what happens, hoping Benji doesn’t do anything stupid.
Benji shakes his head.
Rule one.
Mr. Red clenches his fist and draws his arm up like he’s gonna hit the poor bastard. He takes a deep breath and restrains himself. He leans close and whispers into Benji’s ear. Whatever it was that Red said made Benji grip the tool with both hands and turn to join the rest of us.
“C’mon, man. Don’t linger,” Abram says and puts a hand on my shoulder.
Instantly, my blood rises. I shoot a glare at him, something inside me tensing at the touch. I swallow my words, saving him from the sharp edge of my tongue. Don’t ever touch me again.
We take our place on the rows next to Donald. He’s already working the ground like a pro, making it look easy. I square up, set my feet, and strike the earth. I make my row neat, straight—ten inches deep and no more than the five inch width of the metal blade. I till about ten feet thinking that it’s not so bad. Then the blade hits something hard and I feel a numbing tingle run through my hands. I dig around the rock and try to pry it loose but the damn thing won’t budge, so I drop the tool and begin to work at it with my hands. A drop of sweat drips from my nose and falls. I wipe my face with a sleeve, furrow my brow, and attack the stone with full intentions of not letting it get the best of me.
A shadow fills my work space and I pause what I’m doing to crane my neck up.
“What are you doing?” Mr. Red asks, a flash of light reflecting off his dark, Texas cop glasses as he regards me like a child playing in a sandbox.
What does it look like I’m doing? “I’m following last year’s row and ran into this.” I straighten my back up and point at the rock like he’s ignorant to it being there.
“Quit dicking around, Cole, and skip over it,” he instructed as though it were a simple solution to a trivial problem that anyone should have been able to see. It was simple and a good idea. I didn’t even think of it. But it’s in the way.
My hands grip the tool and I rise from my knees, wipe more sweat from my brow with my arm. I ignore Mr. Red and continue digging the ditch, skipping over the rock.
I glance towards Abram who’s nearby and witnessed the whole embarrassing ordeal. He’s trying his best to stifle a sheepish grin and keeps his head down.
A thought crosses my mind and I wonder why the rock was there if the same row was worked last year. Did someone skip over it last time, as well? I turn to bring it to Mr. Red’s attention, but he’s already gone to rejoin Mr. Gibbs in the middle of the field, fifty yards away.
There’s a certain melodic sound from a group working the ground; the sound of the tools hitting the earth in succession giving a nice tempo to keep pace with. Like a metronome, I time my strikes with the others and imagine them listening to the same music because we’re all playing to the same tune.
Time passes fast on the farm. Suppose it’s just that we’re staying busy, but it’s still surprising how quickly the day fades away. The farmhands haven’t said much today; the only words coming from Mr. Red earlier when he instructed me like a child. They haven’t even talked among themselves… at least I haven’t noticed them doing so. They take turns fetching us buckets of water from the well, and I welcome the sound of the four-wheeler firing up every time they push the ignition.
It’s a large ATV, camouflage. The kind with racks on the front and back—one for guns and one for a deer. Or bear, hog, coyote, whatever. Farmhand.
I’m going to steal it.
They drop the water off at the edge of the field, then park it to the side before rejoining the parched men at the bucket. We’re all soaking wet—sweat making our brown, ragged clothes stick to our chests and backs.
I glance at the four-wheeler and figure it’s a good time to break away from the group. I don’t get five steps away before Mr. Gibbs asks me what I’m doing. “I gotta piss. Can’t a guy get a little privacy?”
“What do you got to be ashamed of?” Gibbs replies, amused. “We’re all grown men.”
“I’ll just go right over here,” I say and keep moving in the direction of the ATV. They ignore me and I hear them talk to the group. I keep walking.
Almost there.
“Hey, that’s
far enough,” Mr. Gibbs calls out to me.
I pretend I don’t hear him.
“I said that’s far enough!”
“Alright,” I say and take a couple more steps before untying my pants to relieve myself. I’m close enough to make a break for it—close enough to see that they leave the key in the ignition at all times.
“Let’s go. Now,” Gibbs yells out and takes a couple steps towards me.
“Alright,” I call back over my shoulder and finish my business. All eyes are on me as I rejoin the group, and a sinking feeling rises up in my gut. Do they know what I’m planning? Is it that obvious? I whistle as I walk towards them, pretending that everything is normal.
“What was that?” Mr. Gibbs steps up to me and puts a hand to his whip. Mr. Red joins him and squares his broad shoulders. Both of them are bearing down on me with a serious gaze, one that bears consequences for doing something out of line.
Everyone’s waiting on me to say something and wondering what the farmhands are going to do. I go to speak but feel a lump creep up into my throat. “I… just had to pee.”
Mr. Gibbs busts out laughing and Mr. Red wears a bemused grin on his freckled face. “Damn, man, I’m just jerking your chain,” Gibbs says and holds his stomach as his laughter fades to a chuckle. I look to the other men. They’re all froze in place, surprised by show, and relieved that the farmhands didn’t throttle one of us for something as trivial as taking a piss.
I’ll admit that the farmhands are hard to figure out. Most of the time, they’re serious business. But every once in a while, they cut up and make jokes. Except nobody finds them funny. They’re showing too much, though. I’m beginning to figure out what buttons I can push and how they’ll react. Sure, they’ve got the upper hand, and everything’s still all mysterious and shit, but they’re giving away too much.
“Okay, break’s over. Back to work now.” Mr. Red takes the water bucket back to the ATV and Gibbs steps in beside him.
The five of us look at one another.
“What the hell were you doing?” Donald asks, keeping his voice down. “Tell me you weren’t thinking of doing something stupid like stealing that four wheeler.”
“Rule two—no talking,” Benji reminds us with a strained whisper and looks at the farmhands nervously.
I meet Donald’s eye. “I thought about it.” I glance over my shoulder to see them leaning on the machine, talking in earnest about something. Or someone.
“They leave the key in the ignition.”
“I’m going back to work before you guys get all of us in trouble,” Benji says and walks away. Larry joins him and pats him on the back, reassuring him that everything will be alright.
Abram closes the distance between the three of us and speaks. “Say that you do steal it. What then? Where will you go?”
“That’s simple. To the nearest town to ask for help.”
“You don’t even know where we are! What if there’s no town within a hundred miles?”
“C’mon guys, let’s get back to work. They’re coming back,” Donald cautions.
“We’ll talk about it tonight,” I say. “Let’s just get this day over with.”
The inside of the barn is lit by a couple lightbulbs that’s strung along the hay lofts. Everyone’s scattered around the floor eating like a pack of starving, ravenous dogs that just found a rotting deer carcass on the side of the road. It’s not roadkill that we’re eating, though. Our meal’s a spread of corn, bread, fruits and vegetables fit for a king. I’m surprised that we’re being fed this well, suspecting our meals to consist of some gray mush that they slop into a bowl. Donald’s tearing through a cooked chicken—a whole cooked chicken—his reward for working so hard and obeying the rules. Meat of the Day went to him. Maybe I’ll get it tomorrow. That’s if I’m still here.
I’ve already imagined stealing the ATV and riding away multiple times, leaving everyone and everything behind. I wonder what everyone else would think as they watched me tear away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust and the sound of a red-lining engine fading off into the distance.
Donald picks through the remnants of a chicken leg and looks at me with bits of meat and grease smeared around his mouth. “Tell us about this master plan you have with stealing the ATV from Mr. Gibbs and Mr. Red.”
It’s not much of a plan. Pretty simple, really. Just take it and ride like hell.
“I figure we wait until they’re separated, then I’ll make a run for it.”
Benji shakes his head. “They’re never separated. Always together.”
“He’s right,” Abram says and reclines on the dirt floor of the barn, hands cradling the back of his head. “It’ll never work.”
“It will,” I assure him.
Donald pushes his plate aside and wipes his mouth with a sleeve. “One of them will have to use the bathroom or something at some point, and that’s when we’ll distract the other one while Cole here makes a break for it. If they do leave the keys in the ignition all the time, it’ll work. I’m in.”
“But what if they don’t? What if it was just a one-time thing, and when they find out you’ve been plotting this, they kill us all?” Benji states. He reminds me of a mouse. Not one of the cool ones like in Tom and Jerry, but a scared, shifty-eyed mouse. Scared, anxious people are the ones you gotta look out for. I’ve seen the movies. They’re always the ones who talk too loud or spook too easy when the killer or monster is near. They usually end up dying and nobody has any sympathy for them; especially when they’re the reason that the other people around them get killed.
Benji’s the type that could get us all killed.
“It’s a risk worth taking,” Donald replies. “Don’t worry Benji, you don’t have to do shit. Same goes for the rest of you. I’ll make the distraction while Cole makes a run for it, that way nobody else gets involved.”
I nod my head in agreement. “There’s no reason for everyone to get punished if this thing goes south. Thanks, Donald.”
“Don’t mention it. So you’ll be coming back that night to pick me up first, then make rounds for the rest of the guys here.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement.
I’m not coming back.
“Sure.”
Donald narrows his gaze at me, searching for a lie. He won’t find one. I’m a good liar.
Larry stands up and stretches. He bends over and touches his toes, then stretches towards the sky again. After he’s done, he looks back and forth to me and Donald. “Why do you want to leave in the first place?” he asks.
At first I’m shocked that he said something that wasn’t complete rubbish. Then I begin to weigh the question over in my mind. I want to laugh at the audacity of such a stupid question, but I don’t. It’s actually a good question. One that I haven’t really thought about before.
“Ha! That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard,” Donald says. “You really are bat shit crazy, aren’t you Larry.”
Larry smiles in reply, but doesn’t take offense, which surprises me.
“We’re slaves here,” Abram states. “Who wouldn’t want to leave?”
Larry replies. “Are we slaves? I don’t know.” He shakes his head and bends to touch his toes again. “And who’s to say that leaving would be any better?”
Donald shakes his head, apparently through with Larry. He leans back on a bail of hay and picks at his teeth.
“Can’t be any worse,” Abram replies.
Larry stands up straight again and speaks. “I’m confused. Confused as much as any of you are.” I stifle a snort. He continues. “But these people have the answers that we seek. They know who we are and how we got here. You won’t find the truth out there,” he says and points outside.
He walks to me and kneels beside where I’m sitting. I adjust myself and don’t like how close he is. His eyes are kind, true. Not so crazy.
“You won’t find anything out there. Don’t do it,” he says to me.
“Don’t worry Larry. I’ll come b
ack for you.”
He looks down with a look of shame and disappointment before walking away.
You’re not my damn dad, Larry.
Donald chuckles like a drunk uncle at a party. “Cheer up ladies. Tomorrow’s gonna be a brand new day and full of promise.”
Benji scurries to one of the cots and throws a blanket over himself. Larry walks outside and gazes up at the moon. Abram doesn’t really care one way or the other. Donald closes his eyes, a wry smile upon his face.
And me?
I’m tired.
Three
I feel great today. Sore, but great. It’s not because I’m succumbing to the shit reality that is my life that I feel this way. And it’s not because I slept like a baby last night and had the most wonderful dream of lying on a white-sand beach in Destin, Florida. I feel great because I woke up this morning with a plan.
It feels good to have a plan; to have an agenda for the day instead of just idling through it. It feels good to have a purpose; one that I’ve set for myself instead of someone else setting it for me.
I rise from the bed and lace my boots. They’re extra long laces so I have to wrap them around the back of the shoe before tying a double knot in front. I walk by the others in their beds with a pep in my step and am the first one out of the barn. I even beat the farmhands there who I see walking towards me in the bright moon light. Mr. Gibbs is smoking a cigarette, the cherry burning bright and dark wisps floating up around the silhouette of his head. Mr. Red puts a cup to his lips, which I assume is filled with coffee.
I love coffee—the smell, the taste, the way it made me feel. Not far from my apartment was the best coffee shop in town.
I shake my head and grin because I can’t remember ever drinking coffee, but somehow I know I love it. It’s like you know something—feel it true to your core—but have never experienced it. It’s as if it’s only your imagination and your understanding of the thing that makes it so real. In light of this, I must have had coffee before just as I’ve had an apartment in Nashville before. I hit the side of my head a couple times with the heel of my palm.
