Swallowing a Donkey's Eye

by Paul Tremblay

  12

  HATE BEING WRONG

  Hours pass. Then without pomp or circumstance, a print-out emerges from a slot in the mahogany table at which I’m sitting. First forty-three pages are a line-by-line description of the case, then a detailing of the legal fees that goes on for forty-three more soul-numbing pages, then seventy-six pages of legal mumbo-jumbo in a font so small I can only make out a few words per page, and finally, on the last page and in large block letters, her Solomon-like decision (to keep the Christianity-vibe going):

  —FARM IS TO GARNISHEE YOUR LIVING-WAGE FOR THE PRICE OF THE APPLE.

  —FARM IS TO GARNISHEE YOUR LIVING-WAGE FOR THE WASTED CIGARETTES IN THE HOLE.

  —FARM IS TO GARNISHEE YOUR LIVING-WAGE FOR THE COST OF THE PSYCHIATRIC APPOINTMENTS NECESSARY FOR YOUR CO-WORKER AND ROOMMATE, EMPLOYEE NUMBER 34-4RT44-G.

  —FARM PLACES YOU UNDER PROBATION FOR THE DURATION OF YOUR EMPLOYMENT.

  —FARM ADDS ANOTHER FIVE YEARS TO THE DURATION OF YOUR EMPLOYMENT CONTRACT IN LIEU OF LEGAL FEES.

  Can’t be worse than death?

  I hate being wrong.

  13

  SPITTING IN THE SHAFT

  Just like that I’m back in my room, lying on my bed, my eyes open; position assumed. Might as well be back in the Hole.

  I wait for Jonah to come back from wherever he is. Dinner isn’t for an hour, so he might be with his goddamn paid-for-by-me therapist. I’m putting a quick end to that party. But I have no idea what I’ll say to him, or do to him, other than blame him. I blame him for all of this. I need to blame somebody for my mistakes.

  My father used to say, “Don’t dwell on past mistakes, go on to make bigger and more expensive ones.” What an asshole he was. Mistakes aren’t trifling little things to be patted on the head. Mistakes need to be isolated and corrected before they become infinite in number and effect. Example: me coming to Farm. Muy mal mistake, right? We already know my life sucks and my mother is likely homeless, hiding from the street sweeps, or worse. But let’s think bigger picture. If I hadn’t come to Farm and instead got a job in City that helped people—some environmental gig or social service, not that I was ever afforded the opportunity to training for such careers, but let’s pretend for a moment that anything is possible—then I could be out there pushing for reform and helping and inspiring others to do the same. I could’ve made the world a better place in a million-million possible ways. Instead I’m here, inspiring no one, and ruining people’s lives. I’m a contributing cog to the dehumanizing, environmentally toxic mega-conglomerate. My complicit choice to smile and wave during tours will no doubt result in future success in Farm employee recruitment. I ruin all those lives just by being here and playing along. There’s also the subtle effect of my recent insubordination: BM’s future judgments concerning employees will likely be more strict and unbending, ditto with the Arbitrator and lawyers, because you know those lawyers don’t like their recommendations overturned. Future employees will be that much more miserable because of me, and it’ll perpetuate itself: a perpetual motion misery machine.

  So okay, blame it all on me. I can take it.

  When I think about all my stupid decisions, all my little embarrassments, all my idle cruelties that might’ve changed someone’s path, I attempt to place the scenes in order of severity of regret. It’s crazy, but there’s this one little scene I keep replaying, the mouth sore I keep poking with my tongue. And it’s not what you think.

  There’s a jangle of keys then some clicks and clacks. The door opens. Jonah is home.

  He says, “Hey, welcome back.”

  I hop off my bed and walk across the room. He closes the door and walks a wide path around to his desk like there’s some force-field pushing him away from me. We’re the opposite ends of a magnet.

  I say, “There was a glorious three-month stretch when the elevator in my old apartment building worked. We lived on the third floor and there wasn’t much to the walk up the stairs, but I loved that elevator. The adults hardly ever used it. I’d ask why and they’d tell me that they didn’t trust it, or they didn’t want to break it, or they wanted to keep it nice, it was so hard to keep things nice in our building and neighbourhood. There was old Mr. Lopez—he was all hunched, and kind of looked like peanut shell—he told me he would only use the elevator when he absolutely needed it. ‘Best not to waste it, boy,’ he’d say. He always called me ‘boy,’ but that’s what he called all the kids in the building, so it never bothered me. He used to tell us bad puns if we saw him on the sidewalk or in the hallway. He’d leave a bag of Tootsie Rolls at our apartment door for my birthday. Nice guy that Mr. Lopez.”

  Jonah sits at his desk. He doesn’t look at me. All I get is tattoo-face. He asks, “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Now, I used the elevator. I used the shit out of it. Before school I woke up extra early so I’d be the only one awake, the only one riding the elevator. I’d ride it to the top, tenth floor, then back down, savouring the dropped stomach feeling and that instant of jellied legs. When the sliding doors opened on another floor I’d step off and pretend I was walking into another city. One better than mine.

  “Then I started doing this: I waited for the elevator to rumble up to my floor, clanging its pots and pans ride through the guts of our building. I crouched low onto my hands and knees in front of the doors and when they opened I watched the elevator rise that last spastic hitch up to be level with my floor. I stared into that empty space, maybe half an inch wide where the elevator and my floor didn’t meet; kinda like a slice of elevator shaft. Still on my hands and knees, I hovered my head carefully above the thin line between floor and elevator, then bombed away with spit. I spit into the shaft and listened, hoping to hear it hit bottom, but I never did.

  “One morning, there I was in full crouch, my ritual pose, and the doors opened, and I did my spitting routine. When I looked up, there was someone already in the elevator. It was Mr. Lopez. I quickly stood up like I was caught with my pants around my ankles. His face was all folded up and he said, ‘What are you fucking retarded, boy?’

  “I froze. He shook his head, laughed a little bit, and breathed real heavy, like breathing was a chore. Then the doors shut just inches from my face, and the elevator took Mr. Lopez away.

  “That was the last day I used the elevator. It broke a month later anyhow. After getting caught spitting, I avoided Mr. Lopez whenever I could. I was so embarrassed to be caught doing my harmless, weird, little thing. My next birthday there was still a bag of Tootsie Rolls at my doorstep, but I didn’t eat them. I gave them all away.

  “That whole elevator scene seems kind of funny now. And I can’t tell you why I was spitting. Just seemed like the thing to do, you know? But I was so goddamn horrified at the retarded crack and at myself. And whenever I think about that morning, all the old embarrassment and shame returns, full force. Crazy, huh? Of all the stupid things I’ve ever done—and that list is quite long and getting longer—I wish I could take that one morning back.”

  Jonah swivels on his desk-chair, giving me a side-long glance with both faces. That fucker squirmed throughout my whole little spiel, and I loved it.

  Jonah says, “You’re not helping me by telling me these things.”

  I say, “Just thought I’d share. Since you just came from your shrink, I thought the sharing would make you feel more comfortable.”

  “Shrink? I was working out.”

  He’s twice my size and could kick my ass from here to the infirmary but I don’t care. Besides, he’s already wilting like an over-watered flower. “I know about it, Jonah. I know because Farm is making me pay for it.”

  He melts deeper into his chair. “Oh, I didn’t know that, man, I’m sorry.”

  “Of course you knew.”

  “No, really I didn’t. They told me it was covered under our medical insurance.”

  “Fine. But know this: you’ve just gone to your last appo
intment,” I say and stick a finger in his face.

  He sighs, then says, “You yelling at me isn’t helping me cope.”

  Has he always been like this and I just didn’t notice? “I just spent five weeks in the Hole, my mother might be homeless, they sentenced me to another five years at this fucking place and you’re the one who needs to cope. So what does shrinky tell you to do? I’d like to know. Give me some free coping advice, Jonah. You’re always so easy with all the other Farm advice. You’re lousy with it. Now let me benefit further from your wisdom. Lay it on me, brother. I’m ready and waiting.”

  “This is exactly the kind of stuff Dr. Dale wants me to avoid.”

  “Dr. Dale? That’s cute. I bet that’s the shrink’s first name.”

  “Look, I just want to keep my head down, do my thing, and let everything else happen around me. I just want to be. I resent you trying to push your mother or spitting problems onto me. Why do I need to know your or anyone else’s miseries? I’ve got my own.”

  I leave him at his desk, and I pretend to inspect our white walls with our three Farm-approved paintings, each landscapes of the outskirts of Farm, places I’ve never actually seen during my time here.

  I say, “My mother’s bank account has been terminated.”

  Jonah nods, and says, “I’ve been here for twenty-two years. I’ll probably be here for another twenty-two. And it’s all been my choice.” His voice sounds far, far away.

  “Why?”

  Jonah gets up and shrugs. And that’s it. A shrug. A shit-happens gesture to give reason to why and how he’s spending his life. Maybe it’s an honest response. Maybe he really can’t explain it to me, or to himself. Maybe he’s just spitting down the elevator shaft. Maybe if I just accept his shrug as the end-all-be-all answer to everything, I’ll be happier too.

  He unbuckles his overalls and changes his shirt. I still marvel at his size and physique given his age and that eroded face.

  He says, “Let’s go to dinner. I’m hungry. I bet you’re ready for some good food, right?”

  “Damn it, actually, I am.”

  He slaps me on the back and says, “Just make sure we don’t sit with the Chicken, that feathered-fuck has been stalking me while you were gone. He even asked me to be his roommate if you didn’t come back. Do you believe that? We should pluck his ass.”

  And just like that he’s the old Jonah. The pre-Orchard Jonah. The Duck-Chicken-Farm-tour-hating-and-tough-talking Jonah. Like all things and beings related to Farm, he’s depressing the shit out of me.

  14

  A CUCKOO IN THE CLOCK

  Back at the stalls. I’ve never left, really. Here comes the Chicken again. This time he’s with BM and they’re driving an ATV with a trailer. They pull up next to our stall.

  BM says, “Hey, guys. Working hard or hardly working? Ha!”

  His joke is almost as funny as the note he left me last night. This is what it looked like:

  I’m sorry to report that you missed your telephone-night while in Farm’s custody. I tried like heck to get a co-worker or dorm-mate to switch a turn with you, but no one would budge. Sorry, kiddo. The call home will have to wait until your turn comes around again. Which is in three plus weeks.

  B. M.

  P. S. Welcome back to the fold.

  P.P.S. You’re still my guy, buddy.

  P.P.P.S. Don’t be late tomorrow.

  Remember, you are on probation.

  The jerk actually signed the note with “B. M.”

  The killer is that if I think about all the previous phone calls and visits I’ve had with Mom, there’s really nothing there, nothing of any consequence. I get only a blurry collection of fragmentary chit chat: how are you? and you look good and I’m fine and oh, about the same. Everything very safe and very forgettable. On the first visit she brought a care package of cookies, meatballs, underwear, and other motherly kind of stuff, stuff that she didn’t really do when I was a kid. I do remember she seemed a little embarrassed by her gesture, even put off that she felt like she had to do such a thing. I told her she didn’t need to go to the trouble. She didn’t on her next two visits, which was fine because her cookies were hard, meatballs fell apart, and underwear wasn’t Farm-approved. And that’s just it. All those phone calls and the three visits: they were fine. I’m not trying to put this all on her. I was just as reserved and distant as she was. When the calls or visits happened, I’d get real quiet, say a bunch of nothing, and hurry myself out of the visitors’ tent or off the phone as quickly as I could, like I hadn’t been sitting in my room looking at family pictures and counting the days, hours, minutes.

  “Good morning, gentleman,” Chicken says and climbs out of the ATV.

  Jonah and I mumble greetings back at him.

  Chicken nods and walks to the Barn entrance. He bobs his head, clucks and bucks, and he perches on the motionless slaughterhouse delivery conveyor belt. Jonah and I stand at ease with our pitchforks. Animal sounds kick in. A tour is only minutes away. Jonah puts on his hat.

  BM says, “BM needs you guys for a special job.” He refers to himself in third person, now. “Security has some vid of an animal carcass up against the perimeter fence in the Free Range Field. The Free Range workers are busy with the quarterly inventory and we need you guys to go get it, clean up the fence if necessary, and whatever else you can think of while you’re out there. BM appreciates it. But let this tour go by first.”

  Chicken hops onto the tram and becomes the tour leader. The kids wear straw hats and carry plastic pitchforks. The adults wear oversized Farm tee shirts, baseball hats, and sunglasses. Jonah, BM, and I stand, smile, and wave. Chicken asks the kids for a chicken-salute to us workers. His tinny voice crackles with microphone feedback. The tourists all cluck and wave. As the tram passes, two boys pretend their pitchforks are guns and shoot us. BM puts a hand over his heart and feigns death. We’ve all done this before. Even those kids. This isn’t their first tour, and it won’t be their last. The kids keep shooting and BM wraps an arm around my shoulder and laughs like I’m his long lost son. Only, I know I’ve never left. I’ve always been here. Just like Jonah, I’ll always be here. I’ll always do the same thing like the cuckoo in a clock who shrieks the same shriek at the beginning of every hour.

  BM, still smiling, says, “So what do you guys say? You up to this special job?”

  We nod.

  “Great. BM knew he could trust you guys to help out.” He tosses Jonah the ATV keys. “Jonah, you’re in charge.” BM rolls his eyes and nods his head in my direction. He’s as subtle as a kick in the shins.

  Jonah’s shoulders sag. I’m his burden. Being in charge of me is the last thing in the world he wants. Can’t say I blame him.

  BM ambles away. I hop into the ATV passenger seat. Jonah crawls slowly into the driver’s side. His head is on a swivel, looking all around, looking for help, maybe. He’s not going to get it.

  He starts the engine and I say, “Are we there yet, Daddy? Huh? Are we there yet?”

  Jonah says, “You’re not going to do anything crazy or stupid while we’re out here, are you?”

  Crazy and stupid are both good ideas. We’re going to the perimeter fence and I’m going to look for a me-sized hole and dive through it. It’s my new, simple plan.

  I say, “Nope. I’m done with crazy and stupid. You can probably take off your hat now.”

  He does, resting the hat on the gearshift. We start on the long trip out to the Free Range Field and perimeter fence. Outside the Barn it’s overcast, sky the colour of a wasp’s nest. Shovels and other tools clank and clink in the trailer behind us. We drive out past the row of Barns, then into the Free Range field, driving past cows, llamas, turkeys, pheasants, horses, donkeys, cattle, goats, and sheep. All those animals open their mouths at me, but nothing comes out. I wonder if they want to say something, if they feel like they should have noises coming out of their hairy faces, or if
just opening their mouths is enough for them.

  As we drive, the animal population thins out, and eventually we’re by ourselves in the field, but still with miles to go before we hit the perimeter fence. I take Jonah’s hat off the gearshift and pull it over my eyes, looking for a quick nap, and perchance to dream of my vainglorious escape.

  I say, “Remember, you’re in charge.”

  15

  SWALLOW THE DONKEY’S EYE

  “We’re at the fence,” Jonah says and whacks my shoulder.

  This is my first time out here. I wake, unslouch in my seat, and put Jonah’s hat back on the gearshift. To our left is the perimeter fence; twenty-foot tall picket-fence, whitewash and all, supposedly tour-friendly in its gargantuan but quaint appearance. It’s just another engineered mutant, or freak.

  City and my mother are somewhere behind that fence. I say, “See anything yet?”

  “Nope. But we should be getting close.” He downshifts, and we slow to a roll.

  “I think I see it.” There’s a brown lump against the giant white fence, just past the next swale, maybe one hundred yards away. As we get closer, there’s a terrible smell, like a burnt rug. “Oh man, what’s that?” I cover my nose and mouth.

  “Toasted animal, I’m guessing.”

  “Toasted from what?”

  “The fence is electrified. You can’t really see it, but thin filaments cover the fence and weave between the pickets and posts. The animal must’ve touched the fence and zap.”

  “They must lose a shitload of animals this way.” I want to tell Jonah he’s full of shit with his invisible filaments story, but the zapped-animal aroma is compelling. We pull up next to a steaming carcass. The smell of burnt hair and shit is overwhelming and I put my arm across my face. Jonah seems unaffected.