Against the Grain

by Phil M. Williams

  Matt breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay, then what’s the problem? We go to court with good legal arguments, and we win.”

  “The problem is that the rules are so vague that we are breaking them. That’s how they getcha. They keep adding rules, bureaucrats, police, code inspectors, and before you know it, everyone’s breaking the rules. It gets so damn oppressive that you can’t live without breaking the law. Then the state has all the power to enforce against any undesirables.”

  “Undesirables?”

  “Anybody opposed to the state in general, or anybody opposed to individuals working for the state. So if a cop or a township official has it out for you, or a connected neighbor doesn’t like what you’re doing, then they can make your life miserable. Everybody’s breaking the rules, but they get to choose who to crack down on. That’s the power of the state.”

  Matt hangs his head and rubs his temples. “What do we do now?”

  Uncle removes his reading glasses and wipes them off with his handkerchief. “I requested an appeal to the citations, and we have a hearing next week. If we lose, … well, … we have to win.”

  [ 6 ]

  Memory Lane Is Filled with Regret

  A polite beep emanates from the yellow sedan. Matt opens the front door to the cabin and pokes his head inside. “Uncle, the cab’s here. Are you ready?”

  Uncle places his pertinent papers and handwritten arguments into a manila folder. His hands are shaky and sluggish; his old suit, quite a few sizes too large. If it wasn’t for his peaked face and normal-size shoes, you might think he was a wearing a clown costume.

  “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he says.

  “Are you sure you don’t want my help?” Matt asks with a furrowed brow.

  “I may be old, but my marbles still work just fine. I can handle it. I need you to harvest the fruit and get to the stand. No sense in both of us wasting the workday.”

  Matt opens the passenger door of the taxi. Uncle groans as he contorts his lanky body into the cab. He gives a confident wave, then buries his nose in his arguments.

  Matt tries to concentrate on the tasks at hand, but he can’t shake the sick feeling deep in the pit of his stomach. After harvesting as many apples, pears, and quinces as he can carry on his cart, he pushes toward the stand. He thinks about Uncle struggling to ascend the courthouse steps. As he approaches the fruit stand, his heart sinks; he feels woozy. The old wooden stand is obliterated, with pieces of wood fifty yards from the original site. Flies buzz around the crushed produce strewn about the ground. Glass and honey litter the asphalt shoulder in front of the site. It appears the initial run-through had left quite a few jars of honey intact. A quick toss to the asphalt solved that problem.

  The old roof is propped up, facing the road, and staged with spray-painted signs. If not for the messages and the honey, he would have thought it the accidental work of a drunk driver. The makeshift sign is spray painted with black letters. There are two messages, with two distinct handwriting styles. The first one is neatly written: Farmer faggot. The second is messier but still legible, in all capitals, FAKE-ASS AMISH MUFUCKER.

  The lockbox sits neatly in front of the signage. Fear courses through his veins, as he stares at the innocuous wooden box. The lock is attached unbroken, but the latch has been pried out, leaving the lock impotent. His heart pounds as he opens the lid and peers inside. A small folded purple note sits like a ticking time bomb at the bottom where his daily pay once gathered. His hands shake as he unfolds the stationary. At the top is preprinted cursive text: From the Desk of Emily Hansen. The note reads in large loopy cursive handwriting:

  I never want to see you again.

  I was only nice to you because I felt sorry for you.

  Emily

  He’s overcome with dizziness. He drops clumsily to one knee. His head and shoulders slump; his eyes shut. His mind flashes blurry images. He sees an enormous form, tall and wide, from a low vantage point. The image comes into focus. He sees the back of a colossal man, wearing an oversize green jacket with Eagles written across the back. Beyond him, is a young blonde woman sitting on the couch, with her knees pulled to her chest. Her eyes are puffy and red, her face pale and washed out.

  The woman speaks in sad whispers, “He never wants to see me again.” She buries her face in her hands. The large man plops down beside her.

  Matt’s mind flashes back to the purple note. He blinks, his breath labored. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Stop your crying. Think this through,” he says, his voice bringing him back to reality.

  He flips the handmade sign down and sets the produce from his cart on it. He moves wood with his cart and makes piles to separate the usable pieces. The good pile for the rebuild, the bad pile to burn in the wood stove. He gives the damaged produce to the chickens and saves the sellable. He uses his cart as a temporary stand and neatly arranges the produce. He finds the piece of wood that states Pay What You Think Is Fair and sets it up behind the broken lockbox. With forty or fifty dollars in lumber and a few days, I can fix it.

  A few hours later, the yellow cab flies down the grassy driveway, dust spewing in its wake. Uncle struggles to exit. Matt props the fruit picker against an apple tree and runs toward the cabin.

  “Matt!” Uncle says.

  “I’m right here,” Matt answers, as he jogs closer.

  Uncle grabs the railing along the front steps to steady himself, breathing a sigh of relief. “Are you okay? I just saw the stand, and then I didn’t see you. I was so damn focused on my papers, I didn’t see it when I left.”

  “I’m fine. I think it was just a drunk driver. I can have it fixed by next week. We may have to wait to paint it until we have more money. I haven’t spent the forty dollars you gave me for clothes. We could use that.”

  Uncle shakes his head. He looks at Matt with a solemn expression. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary. We lost. We have three business days to get rid of the bees, chickens, ducks, and cut the meadow.”

  “But we can still sell the produce.”

  “I’m sorry, Matt. We can’t have the stand either.”

  “There’s no way we can get that done in three days. It’ll take weeks to sell the hives, and probably at least a month for someone to get a rig in here to transport them. I doubt we could even give the livestock away in three days.”

  “You’re right. There’s not an easy way to do this.”

  “Can’t we ask for an extension?” Matt asks with his hands held out, begging.

  “It’s over.” Uncle looks past him.

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “It means, if we don’t comply, the fines run into the thousands per day. We could lose this property. If we comply, we can put the property up for sale. The going rate for land that can be subdivided is $25,000 per acre, so we should net a bit over half a million.”

  Matt shrugs. “I still don’t know how we could possibly comply.”

  Uncle strokes his chin and takes a deep breath. “The farmer we used to get trees from could cut the field. We’d have to harvest the chickens and ducks and burn the hives.”

  Matt balls his fists tight, his fingers going white. “We? You can barely stand up. That means me! No, I won’t do it!”

  “Matt, this money is for you. I’m not gonna be around too much longer. If we don’t do this, they win, and we get nothing.”

  “Fuck the money!” Matt stalks toward the barn.

  He enters the barn and kicks the piece of wood propping the door. The wooden door slams shut. Light filters in through the ramshackle structure. He climbs up on a straw bale and lies on his side with his knees pulled to his chest. Tears slide across his nose and down one side of his face. He hears a meow, and Blackie hops down from the mountain of straw bales. She does her customary three turns and settles next to him. He shuts his eyes and tries to think of a better time. He tries to think about the summer with Emily, but he keeps seeing that note. He drifts off to sleep.

  Matt’s eyes
flicker. He sees big amber eyes staring back at him—Blackie still by his side. He straightens his legs and groans as he sits up, his body stiff, and his jaw sore from grinding his teeth. “You’re a good friend, you know that?” He gives his cat a pat on the head.

  Matt feels nauseated, as he marches to the chicken pen. Laying hens quietly peck at the weeds and scratch the earth in search of bugs. The chickens scurry toward him, as he approaches. They begin peeping, and pacing back and forth along the fence, anticipating a treat. He reaches down for the largest chicken. She braces herself but is comfortable in his arms. He stands up, and she surveys her new vantage point. Her feathers are soft to the touch. She purrs and lightly peeps, as he pets her.

  He walks to the side of the barn, out of view of the others. The stainless steel cone is attached to a tree, with a bucket filled with straw underneath. Matt gently turns her upside down. He can feel her heart beat faster. She struggles and peeps louder now. He places her headfirst into the steel cone. He takes his razor-sharp knife from the scabbard attached to his belt. He grabs her head, peeking out of the bottom of the cone, and pulls it down, so her neck is exposed. He lines the knife up under her ear, and makes a long deep cut on one side of her neck and another on the opposite side, severing her carotid artery. Warm blood pours onto Matt’s left hand. She’s quiet at first, but then begins to squawk, a shrill noise. After twenty seconds or so, her body starts to convulse. A few minutes later, she’s limp, her blood and life exsanguinated.

  By noon the bodies are piled in his cart twenty-five high. He cut out the breast meat, but did not have time to fully process the birds. He pushes the carcasses out to the woods and dumps them for the coyotes. He looks down at the lifeless bodies and empty expressions. He closes his eyes. He can still hear the squawking. He can still see the blood gushing from their necks. He can feel the warmth running down his hand. He remembers the hopeful peeping, as he picks them up one by one. His chest and throat tighten.

  Matt retrieves the rusty gas can from the barn. The can is three-quarters full with stale gasoline. He shoves matches in his back pocket. He pulls the garden hose within striking distance of the beehives. He puts on his one-piece bee suit with attached veil and elbow-length gloves. He tightens the cuffs at the wrists and the ankles. He moves with robotic precision. He opens the top of every hive. Bees circle the air above their homes in mass. The buzzing is deafening.

  He splashes a little fuel on the bottom of each hive, using every last drop. He lights a match and tosses it at the first target. The hive is engulfed in flames. There’s a popping sound from the bees being cooked. More bees exit the hive, as the smoke and heat force them out the top. He lights another match and throws it at the next hive, then another, then another, then another. The survivors are confused. Matt stands back, watching them burn, hearing the pops and crackles. The fires are almost beautiful, if it weren’t for the three million homeless or dead honeybees. He drops to his knees.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do,” he says.

  Matt enters the cabin. His eyes are puffy, his face worn, and his head hangs. The smell of baked chicken and apples stimulates his stomach that’s been neglected for more than a day. Uncle moves in front; Matt sidesteps him, headed for his bedroom.

  “Matt, talk to me, please,” Uncle says.

  Matt slams his door.

  Half an hour later, Uncle taps on the bedroom door. “Your dinner’s ready. I know you haven’t eaten in almost two days. You need to eat something.”

  Matt is lying in his bed, facing the wall, unresponsive.

  Uncle knocks again. “I’m leaving your plate by the door. You don’t have to talk to me, but I want you to eat. I’m sorry that you had to do that.”

  In the dawn hours Matt places his empty plate in the sink and exits for the outdoor shower with fresh clothes in hand. Upon reentry, Uncle is cooking eggs and heating the teakettle on the wood stove.

  “Matt, sit down please,” Uncle says, as he motions toward the table.

  Matt stands firm. “I’d rather not.”

  “Bill’s gonna cut the field today, so we should be in compliance for the inspection tomorrow.”

  “Great, we can kill more wildlife. I doubt anything lives in ten acres of mature meadows.”

  Uncle takes the scrambled eggs off the burner. He looks at Matt, pleading. “I know I messed this up, and I made you clean it up for me. I don’t know what to say, but, if there’s anything I can do to make it up to you, I’ll do it.”

  Matt looks up toward the ceiling, and pauses for a moment. “I want you to answer my questions with total honesty.”

  “Let’s be reasonable.”

  “The truth isn’t reasonable? It’s the only thing that’s reasonable!” Matt starts for his room.

  “All right,” Uncle says. Matt stops in his tracks. “What do you wanna know?”

  Matt takes a seat at the table, crossing his arms. “I wanna know what you did before coming here.”

  Uncle rubs his chin. “I was a hotshot Wall Street stockbroker, back in the sixties and seventies. Well, maybe not such a hotshot, but I was fairly successful for a while.”

  Matt uncrosses his arms, his eyes wide open. “What happened? Why’d you leave New York?”

  Uncle places two mismatched plates on the table and plops a helping of eggs on each with his spatula. “I was a commodities trader, mostly precious metals. I actually worked in the pit, right there on the trading floor. Anyway I wasn’t just a metals trader. I learned everything I could possibly learn related to precious metals that might give me an edge. I had some connections that went pretty deep into the Treasury Department and the Federal Reserve.

  “Through the sixties with the Great Society programs and the Vietnam War, our government was overspending. At that point we were still on the gold standard, but France was concerned because they thought our deficit spending would devalue the dollars they were holding. So they cashed in their dollars for gold. Quite a bit of gold was draining from our vaults, so Nixon stopped dollar convertibility. Our government no longer had to limit their spending. In 1971, when Nixon took us off the gold standard, I knew what was coming, and I knew what it meant for our money.”

  “So you went out and bought gold, right?”

  “Actually I mostly bought silver. I had started to stockpile it in 1964, the last year our coins had silver in them. At the time it was just common sense.”

  “You must’ve done pretty well through the seventies?”

  “It was a whirlwind, but I didn’t handle the money or myself appropriately. I thought I was invincible, and, for almost twenty years, it seemed that way. I spent the early seventies blowing the money I earned on heroin and women. The more money I made, the more I spent.”

  Matt frowns. “So you blew everything on drugs and women?”

  “No, not exactly. By the midseventies I finally settled down. I met a good woman, and she helped me get clean. Anne …” Uncle closes his eyes, savoring a thought. “We met at a trendy bar that her friends had dragged her to. She was smart as a whip and the most unselfish person I had ever met. Most of her friends were big-time lawyers or worked on Wall Street, but she just wanted to help people. She was a social worker. Worked in places that I was afraid to go to.”

  Matt smiles. “Did you guys get married?”

  Uncle hangs his head and shakes it slowly. “We had been dating for a few years, and I did ask her to marry me. I asked her in Central Park. She said yes and jumped into my arms. We were so happy. This was the late seventies now, and things were getting out of control with inflation and the stability of our monetary system. Some people pretty high up thought our system was gonna collapse to the point where a dollar was worthless, and you couldn’t get money out of the banks. Mathematically I knew it was gonna happen sooner or later. In 1979, when silver rocketed from six dollars to forty-nine, I thought, ‘This thing is going down.’ I had made some seriously leveraged bets all the way up to forty-nine. At this point I was a mult
imillionaire a couple times over.”

  “I guess this is the part where it goes bad?” Matt asks.

  Uncle nods his head solemnly. “Oh, it certainly did. I purchased this property in ’78, because I wanted to be able to get away from the impending chaos. I had this crazy idea that Anne and I could live off the land, while the rest of the country burned. Plus I was banking on ten tons of silver to ride out the apocalypse.

  “Then in early 1980, the Commodity Exchange placed some heavy restrictions on buying silver on margin. The Feds actually halted all buying in silver, so people could only sell. I had leveraged long bets that went sour pretty quick. I had to use a lot of cash to cover them, but I was so confident that I simply doubled down. Then on March 27, 1980—I’ll never forget that day—silver crashed from $20 an ounce down to around $10.

  “I was beyond broke at this point. My broker called in my margin, and I didn’t have the cash. The Feds busted the Hunt brothers for cornering the silver market, and I was fired because my bosses thought I was trying to ride their coattails. The rub was that the Hunts weren’t trying to corner the market. They were billionaires who were worried about their money, same as me. They bought up as much silver as they could, because they thought it was the best way to protect their wealth. Hell, they even sent jumbo jets to Switzerland, loaded down with silver, protected by the fastest gunslingers in the West.”

  Matt laughs. “Come on, Uncle. That’s ridiculous. Gunslingers and jumbo jets going to Switzerland?”