The Farm

by Matt Moss

  “Now that, I can do.” I turn to leave, but before I can even take a step, Donald grabs my shoulder. “Cole, don’t mess up this time.”

  “You can’t seriously be talking about the four wheeler. How was I supposed to know Larry was gonna go all waterboy on me. Also, you did a hell of a bang-up job keeping watch. Real nice job!” I toss the bread to him.

  He catches it and rolls his eyes. “Go on.” With a gentle nudge from Donald, I’m on my way to the white house. The others come stumbling out as I walk past the barn door. I glance back over my shoulder to find gawks and confusion written all over their faces as they see me heading towards the mansion. I’m not going to lie, it feels good to get picked even though I could be walking into a trap. As soon as I knock on the door, Mr. Whyte could open up, put the gun to my head and pull the trigger.

  So what? Part of me hopes that he does, and delivers me from this miserable existence.

  I would like to get high one more time, though. And maybe share another bucket with Abram.

  The porch steps squeak. I stand in front of the old, blue door. I don’t know why I didn’t notice the color before. Suppose it was washed out from all the white surrounding it, not to mention hardly ever seeing it in the daytime since we work from sun up to sun down. I would have painted it red to match the barn.

  I see Mr. Gibbs go through the gate that’s beside the house. Moments later, he fires the ATV up from behind the house. My hand shakes as I bring it up to knock on the door.

  Breathe.

  Three knocks and I wait. “Be right there,” I hear Mr. Whyte faintly call from inside. I expect to hear locks sliding and hinges turning, but none do; the door opens freely and Mr. Whyte greets me with a smile. “Hello, Cole. Please, come inside.” He steps aside and extends his arm, welcoming me in. A half-hearted smile is all I can manage in reply before stepping inside.

  The house smells like any old house would—musky, earthy, thick with age. Natural light enters the house through the many windows, only a few lamps are lit for ambiance. The foyer is large and has a welcoming feel to it with a brown rug in the center, two leather chairs and a small table. A bookcase sits on the wall adjacent to the chairs, its shelves leaving little vacancy. Beside a chair is a lamp and behind the lamp is a staircase. On the second floor, there is a hall that overlooks the foyer. Three doors are spaced equally apart and I wonder what’s behind them, finding their location in the hall odd and awfully close to one another. Paintings hang on white-painted walls, and I’m sure someone who’s well versed in art could tell you all about each piece—who painted them, and how moving each one is, along with depicting the intended interpretation of the artist.

  Mr. Whyte closes the door and walks beside the chairs. “Please, come sit.”

  “I’d rather stand, thanks.”

  “Suit yourself.” He walks over to a chest, opens a drawer, pulls two glasses and a bottle from within. “It’s been a long time since I’ve drank with anyone,” he says, turning his head to the side and cracking a grin. “I usually drink alone… when I drink, that is.” He pours the amber liquor and offers it to me. “Word around the farm is that you like to drink.” He winks before putting the glass to his lips.

  The act catches me off-guard and I look into the glass that’s cradled in my hands. Without overthinking anything, and giving insult to his offer, I drink. It burns like fire going down and I begin to cough and hack.

  Mr. Whyte laughs. “A little stronger than wine, yes? That’s why man made whiskey. He wanted something that didn’t leave him all love-drunk and lazy.”

  I regain my composure and catch enough breath to reply. “Could probably run that four wheeler on this stuff,” I choke out, my voice raspy and chaffed in my own ears.

  He chuckles and looks away in thought. “You know, I’ve never thought of that. It would need to be a higher octane to create more combustion, but it could probably work with a little modification to both machine and drink.” He stares at me and ponders for a moment. “Come, let’s take our conversation into the smoking room.”

  He leads us past the front door, past the staircase, and through a hallway along the front of the house. Primeval weapons are placed on the wall; club, spear, axe, sword. All of them look strategically placed in order of their emergence in history. Sun gleams through one of the windows in passing, and I see everyone departing from the barn and no doubt cursing me for skipping on the day’s work.

  I grin, take a slow drink this time, and maintain my composure. “Whoa,” I say to myself, becoming more familiar with the whiskey. It warms my chest and a feeling of relaxation washes over me. Longbow, yewish bow, crossbow, and compound bow fill up the rest of the wall, and the hall opens up into a lavish room filled with leather furniture. More paintings hang on the walls, but not as many as there are maps—maps of what looks like every country in the world. A fancy globe sits on a stand in front of a wall decorated with guns. A lot of guns. From antique muzzle-loaders to modern day tactical, all behind a glass case like one might see in a museum. A few pistols line the bottom of the display, ranging from black powder single-shot to revolver to semi-automatic. It’s an impressive collection, but I don’t dare comment on it. In light of this discovery, the possibility of time travel is out the window—the tactical assault rifles putting an end to that crazy theory.

  “See anything you like?” he asks and turns to the glass case.

  Must have caught me staring.

  “Just admiring the room. Actually, sir, I’m a bit taken aback by the whole ordeal with you inviting me in and all. And treating me to such hospitality…”

  “Understandable. But rest assured, you’re not in trouble, Cole. I didn’t invite you here to be chastised or reprimanded.”

  “So, why am I here?”

  Mr. Whyte cocks his head at me, curious. “Now that’s a good question, don’t you think?” He sets his glass down and walks to the globe. He turns it slowly, bending down to examine the gold lines that break up the continents. “Why am I here—the question that rings through the hearts and minds of every man, woman, and child at some point in their lives. Unfortunately, the small, quiet voice that whispers it eventually gets snuffed out like the flame of a candle.”

  “Like stoicism,” I note, though Donald never told me what it was the other night. I’m just guessing because it sounds archaic and overthought.

  He turns and raises an eyebrow, giving me a searching look. “No. But I am curious on your thoughts about stoicism.” He opens a cigar box that sits on a built-in shelf below all the maps. “The ancient philosophy of the Greeks, fathered by Zeno, later spreading into Roman culture primarily through the minds of Seneca and Marcus Aurelius.” A hand chooses carefully and brings the cigar to his nose for inspection. He sighs, turns to me and smiles. “Care to wager how much this cigar costs?”

  “I knew a guy who went to the Dominican Republic once. Said they go for around ten to twenty bucks, depending on the label.”

  “Try ten thousand.” He hands it to me and holds a Zippo lighter in the other hand, much like the one Mr. Gibbs carries. Or, used to carry. “Here, enjoy.”

  My hand moves towards it, but something doesn’t feel right. “I can’t. I don’t think I can ever pay you back for that.”

  He waves the comment off. “It is a gift. And what good is a smoking room if there isn’t anyone smoking in it?”

  I take the cigar and nod my appreciation. “Thanks.” I bite it in my teeth like I see people do in the movies. He strikes the flame and kindly lights the end for me.

  I take a couple puffs as the tip burns red hot. “Much appreciated,” I say, smoke rolling from my mouth.

  “You’re quite welcome.” He lights one of his own and pulls three strong puffs before flicking the lighter shut. “You are my guest and shall be treated with the utmost courtesy.” He returns the lighter to the shelf. “What were we talking about? Oh, yes, stoicism. The fates.”

  Damn this cigar is good. And the whiskey…

 
; He turns back to me. “Stoicism can be a powerful mindset. At the heart of the philosophy, it is accepting one’s fate, or destiny if you will, and knowing that it is for the greater purpose.”

  I really don’t want to hear this right now because it sounds like he’s trying to sell me on the luxuries of being a slave and accepting my fate. It’s bull shit and no ancient way of thinking can change that. I nod and take a pull from the cigar, my eyes narrowing from the stinging smoke.

  He sits in a chair and continues. “You see, it’s all about perception. It’s all about choice. You can perceive anything as good, though it may seem bad, and use it for your advantage—to make you stronger, wiser. Choose your attitude and welcome fate with open arms, and you will know power; true power. A power that no man or no circumstance can ever take away from you because you are in control of your perceived world.”

  I change the subject and point to the wall behind him. “What’s with all the maps?”

  He turns and observes. “I’m fascinated by them. And as you can tell by my collection of weapons, I’m a bit of a history buff as well.” He turns back to me with a faint gleam in his eye. “The past can be a great teacher.”

  I exhale a cloud of smoke and meet his stare. “I never got an answer from you before. Why did you call me here? I’m afraid history isn’t my strong suit.”

  He smiles fondly. “Cole, it’s been awhile since I’ve had some company. I just wanted to talk to someone and share my wares. Have I not been accommodating enough that you would already like to leave?”

  He’s desperate for a friend, and that ain’t me.

  “No… I beg your pardon if I’ve came across that way. You’ve been a very gracious host, far better than I deserve. Thank you,” I appease him and raise my near empty glass. He springs back to fetch a different bottle of whiskey and pours us another round. “What should we drink to?” I ask.

  He raises his glass. “To the past. And to tomorrow.”

  To tomorrow. Hearing him say the words sends a shiver down my spine and I wonder if he spied on us the night we were drinking in the barn. What if he has cameras and microphones hidden around the entire farm and has been watching us the whole time? He can feel my distance, so I snap back to the moment and smile. “To tomorrow.”

  “Ah, now that’s a much finer whiskey,” he exclaims and sits in a chair. “There’s something different about you, Cole. I can see it. To be perfectly honest, that’s part of the reason I invited you here. Please, sit.”

  I sit and melt into the chair. Never have I felt anything so comfortable in my life. “Then I hope you like company because this chair makes me want to never get up again.”

  He laughs. “Sorry. I’m rather fond of my privacy, no offense.”

  “None taken,” I reply and run my hand down the arm of the brown leather chair, marveling at the craftsmanship it took to build it.

  He takes a drink and slowly sets the glass down on a small table beside him. “I knew there was something different about you when you stopped Donald the other day. You were trying to break up the fight.”

  “Nah, Donald’s a prick. I wanted to get a couple shots in on him.”

  He grins. “You were trying to break up the fight. I’ve never seen anyone do that before. In the heat of a moment, most people react by idly watching, uncaring so long as they’re not involved. Few rarely act and put themselves at risk, especially for the benefit of someone else.”

  I look at the smoke rising from the end of my cigar, the ember slowly burning its way towards my fingers, seeking freedom from my hand. It’ll burn me if I let it. Seems everything is bound by something and nothing is truly ever free.

  “I just didn’t want anyone to get hurt. What I did was no big deal.”

  Mr. Whyte stands. “I beg to differ. It is a very big deal and says much about your character. I wonder, though. Would you have died to save him? If Mr. Gibbs had pulled a gun after you tackled Donald and, in that very moment, you had the choice to take the bullet for your friend and save his life, would you have?”

  His eyes are searching for an answer that I don’t have. Normally I would say hell no, but then again, why did I try to break up the fight in the first place? Besides, the afterlife couldn’t be much worse than this. If there is an afterlife.

  “I take your silence as a maybe. Maybe even a probably,” he says and smiles.

  “You’re presuming too much,” I say and stand to place the glass on the table before seeing myself out. “Thank you so much, but I don’t want to cheat myself out on a day’s work and all.” I grin and look at the floor, my face, no doubt, betraying my feeling of wanting to leave, wanting to live this life of luxury everyday inside the mansion. But it’s not for me. I never was dealt a winning hand.

  I turn to leave.

  “Wait,” he says and meets me before I enter the hall. “If I invited you for company again, would you accept?”

  He wants something from me, but I don’t know what. What do I have to offer that he could possibly want? “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

  He smiles and places a hand on my shoulder.

  “Don’t touch me,” I snap and jerk away. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel remorse and can’t believe that I said them out loud. “I…I’m sorry. It’s just…”

  “It’s quite alright. I’m the same way,” he pulls his hand back down and offers it towards the hallway, guiding me out. “Noted, though,” he says with a smile.

  He opens the front door for me and I step out into the light that streams onto the porch in the early morning. I turn back and offer my appreciation. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Whyte.”

  “It was my pleasure. Cole. If you’re ever working on the far end of the farm and run across a large rock in the field, it may be worth your while to dig it up.”

  Before I can get a word out, he shuts the door and I hear his steps fade away. My hand reaches for the door, knowing that it’s unlocked. I could go in and grab a club or axe in the hall and kill Mr. Whyte right now. With those guns, I could take control of the farm.

  He has no idea what I’m capable of.

  I have no idea…

  The rock mocks me in my mind, challenging me, piquing my curiosity of the bounty that it holds. Could he be talking of the same rock that bested me before? Nonsense. There’s no way he could know about that.

  And just when I think I’m getting better mentally, I find myself once again going to battle with a rock; one that I talk trash to and hold a grudge against.

  I shake my head, turn, and walk away from the white house.

  I join the group to a barrage of jeers, taunts, and curses after meeting with the boss. I feel like an office worker or a ‘company man’.

  “Hey, Cole, wipe your mouth. You missed a spot.”

  “Hey, Cole, you got a little brown on your nose.”

  “Hey, Cole, I didn’t know you were such a suck ass.”

  “You’re all just jealous that I drank Mr. Whyte’s whiskey and you didn’t.” I flip every one of them off, my arm moving like a spigot. “So all of you can kiss my ass.”

  Mr. Red and Mr. Gibbs howl. “Damn, Cole, you drank Mr. Whyte’s whiskey? I didn’t think you would take him all the way!” Gibbs says.

  I give Gibbs the bird, pick up the hoe and start to dig. He bends over and slaps his knee, laughing. The others laugh with him and, for a moment, I can’t help it and laugh with them, too. Guess there’s a first time for everything.

  If the shoe was on the other foot, I’d probably be giving them a hard time as well.

  I spend the majority of the day dodging their jabs and returning some of my own, but the rock is constantly on my mind. I can see if off to the side, about ten rows from the one I’m working on now, and Mr. Whyte’s words won’t get out of my head.

  What’s under the rock? Could this be the one he was talking about?

  Still, all the events and everything that has happened since I’ve been here seem so odd. I feel like a lab r
at who gets teased with a little bite of cheese from time to time, only for the sake of getting analyzed and tested. Probed. Best case scenario, I die in my cage from bloated exploding gut syndrome or something like that. Either way, I lose.

  The four wheeler catches my eye again.

  “Alright, let’s wrap it up. Been a good day today,” Mr. Gibbs calls out. Everyone shoulders their tool and walks to meet the farmhands like we do everyday after work. Before we leave, the farmhands like to huddle up with us and talk about the day, discuss who performed the best, and vaguely go about the plan for tomorrow, though they keep the location of work secret. Not like there’s too many fields to choose from. Over the month or so, we’ve only seen three different fields.

  Mr. Gibbs crosses his arms and sizes us up. “Even Donald has been on his best behavior. Maybe Cole knocked some sense into you.”

  Donald smiles the biggest smile. “Yessir, I believe he did. And sir, I apologize for my actions. I don’t know what came over me.”

  Gibbs is pleased. “Quite alright, Donald. Tell you what, let’s let bygones be bygones. Truce?” He offers his hand. Donald grips it. “Truce. Thank you, sir.”

  Gibbs turns to Red. “Mr. Red, what you think? Who gets Meat of the Day?”

  Mr. Red rubs his chin. “Tough call. Everyone worked extremely well.”

  “Then it’s settled. Every one of you gets Meat of the Day,” Mr. Gibbs announces with pride. “Everyone except Cole. He’s had enough treats for one day, and he skipped out on two hours worth of work.”

  “Wow! Thank you so much,” Benji says.

  Abram throws his tool on the ATV. “I knew you two were pretty cool all along.”

  Mr. Red smiles. “Thank you, Abram. We try.”

  “You guys are rockstars is what you are!” Donald exclaims.

  Larry gives Mr. Gibbs a hug.

  What the hell? What’s going on?

  Mr. Gibbs looks to me. “What do you think about that, Cole?”

  “Looks like you got a bunch of ass kissers on your hands.”

  “Ha!” Gibbs slaps his knee again and his mouth goes wide, showing two straight rows of smoke-stained teeth.