The Farm

by Matt Moss

  Four

  A rapping on the door sounds like machine gun fire.

  Getting your ass kicked hurts even worse the next day. It’s not as bad when you’re in the moment because adrenaline takes over and blocks some of the pain. The next day you feel like hammered shit. Can’t even rub the sleep from my eyes without wincing my hand away. I can only imagine what I look like.

  “Let’s go. Rise and shine,” Mr. Red calls and beats on the barn door with a hoe again.

  “I’ll be gah-damned!” Mr. Gibbs cries when he sees me and holds his arm up in front of his face as if to block something that had been thrown at him. “Mr. Red, look at his face!” Mr. Red walks over and leans in for a closer look. “Son of a bitch. What’d you do to piss Larry off like that?”

  Mr. Gibbs interrupts. “Doesn’t matter what happened yesterday, now. What’s done is done. Larry’s being reprimanded for his actions and it’ll be alright from here on out.” He speaks to Red like Red doesn’t know, but it’s just a show. Mr. Gibbs talks out loud because he wants us all to know the consequences for getting out of line. I’m surprised there’s no punishment for me.

  “Where is Larry?” I ask, more curious than caring.

  “He’s in the white house. Don’t worry, though. He’ll be right as rain and back working with y’all before you know it.”

  “I’m not working with that psycho. You heard him; everyone did. Said he would kill me, and I believe him.”

  Mr. Gibbs steps to me, his playful demeanor suddenly turning serious. “I said don’t worry about it.”

  “Fields not going to plow itself. C’mon, grab a hoe and let’s go,” Mr. Red says and begins walking. Ten minutes later, we’re standing in the same field we were yesterday and I feel the urge to vomit after the walk, the sun and the rising humidity taking its toll on my beaten body. Lightheadedness isn’t so easy to shake off; not as easy as one would think it to be. I slog to my row and nearly fall to the ground as my foot catches a pothole. I try my best to push the nausea aside and dig anyway.

  Most of the day was a blur. The farmhands went back and forth to the white house like they always do, taking rounds with one another as they go about whatever it is that they do. The other three have caught up with the pace I set yesterday and have now passed me in their rows. I wonder what the hell we’re even digging for. Food, right? For what? To feed five slaves, two farmhands, and a landowner? All of this for eight mouths?

  Whatever. It hurts to think. Just get this day over with.

  The day does pass despite my body’s contempt the entire time. I see the four wheeler—my would-be chariot—sitting there, waiting on me. Screw you. It’s your fault I’m busted up in the first place. Tempting little four-wheeled whore.

  Mr. Gibbs mounts her and rides away.

  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. Come back.

  Damn, I’m losing it. Talking to a four-wheeler; I’m as crazy as Larry. So what? It makes me laugh. And in this hell, it’s the only thing that makes me feel any better.

  I glance over my shoulder before leaving the field and glare at the rock with swollen, purple eyes.

  You, on the other hand, are still a son of a bitch and I’m not sorry.

  We slog back to the camp in single file. Nobody’s said a word to me all day, and they have made it blatantly apparent for me to stay away from them. Like I got leprosy or something. I don’t care. Who needs them anyway?

  Halfway back and Mr. Gibbs lights up one of his hand-rolled smokes. A plume rolls around the back of his head and I catch the sweet, green smell of it before it fades away. He carries it nonchalantly between his pointer finger and thumb, a certain swagger in his step. He likes his pants tucked into his boots, laces wrapped around the back because they’re too long to tie in the front without looping them around. His shirt’s half-tucked inside, showing off a worn leather belt with the word ‘Michael’ branded on the back of it.

  When we get back to the barn, I ask him if that’s his name. He flicks what remains of his smoke away and points to his hat. I shrug in reply.

  “The Chicago Bulls? You don’t know who Michael Jordan is? The greatest basketball player the world’s ever known? Damn, Cole, where’d they get you at?”

  Funny you should ask. I’m wondering the same thing.

  I’m a sight to be seen, for sure. Swollen face, purple eyes and lips, a deer-in-the-headlight look because I don’t have the slightest idea of who Michael Jordan is.

  He shakes his head. “Suppose you wouldn’t know. Sometimes I forget that.” He bites his lower lip and looks away like he’s said too much. “Man, he could really play, though. If only you’d seen him on the court. It was… a thing of beauty. True beauty.”

  I really don’t care. I’ve had enough conversation for today and I’m ready for bed. It’s the only thing I look forward to now.

  “Who gets Meat of the Day?” Donald asks intently.

  “Benji,” Mr. Red says and tosses him a brown paper sack.

  Benji barely catches the bag, and clutches it to his chest, wide-eyed and shocked. He looks like he just ate a bug. He grins from ear to ear. “Thank you, Mr. Red. Thank you, Mr. Gibbs.”

  “That’s bull shit,” Donald protests and stomps away.

  The farmhands begin to pack their things on the four wheeler, making ready to leave for the night.

  Abram approaches them. “Can you leave me that jug of water? I get an awful thirst at night and we don’t have any water in the barn. I’m sure the others wouldn’t mind a drink at night themselves.”

  “What’s wrong with getting it from the well?”

  “It’s dark out and I don’t want to trip on the way there, let alone fall in the well. If that happens, you’ll have to fish my bloated corpse out after I’ve contaminated the water supply. Nobody wants that.”

  Mr. Gibbs tosses the near empty jug to Abram. “Might wanna fill it up before it gets dark, then.” He suspects Abram’s up to something, I can feel it. I guess my little show yesterday put them on edge. Mr. Gibbs sucks the air through his teeth, turns, and throws a brown leather satchel over his shoulder before walking into the mansion. He pulls the key from his pocket and unlocks the door. Mr. Red fires the four wheeler up and rides to the gate beside the white house, enters, and locks it behind him.

  It’s the first time I’ve noticed that the locks are keyed. And those keys are in the pockets of the farmhands. My mind starts to turn again.

  Stop. Don’t even think about it. Probably nothing in there anyway.

  Abram pats the jug. “So, who’s coming with me tonight to pick those blackberries?” he asks now that the four of us are alone. He’s as giddy as a high school freshman who just snuck a bottle of whiskey out of his father’s tool shed. It’s refreshing to see a face so full of joy and excitement.

  “Not me,” Benji states.

  “Go figure, chicken shit. Why don’t you go lie down and let me, Cole, and Abram here do the work.”

  “Lay off him, Donald. We need all the help we can get,” Abram pleads and ushers us into the barn so we’re out of sight.

  Donald stands in front of the three of us and speaks. “He said he didn’t want to. The way I see it, he doesn’t help, he doesn’t drink.”

  Benji storms over to a hay bale and sits down, arms crossed, eyes on the ground in front of him. He’s becoming more aggravated with Donald’s harassment, and I suspect it’s only a matter of time before he snaps. But unlike Larry, Benji’s the type that’ll wait until you’re asleep before he strikes. Sad that a man like that lacks the courage to stand up and defend himself anymore.

  Abram walks over to Benji and kneels down. “Look, Benji. I need you. We all do. If you don’t want to come, that’s fine. But could you at least watch out for us and make sure the farmhands don’t check in while we’re gone?”

  Benji looks into his eyes and thinks about it. Peer pressure’s a bitch. “And what am I supposed to do if they come? Whistle?”

  “Ya, what’s he supposed to do? Not like
he can just take off running to warn us,” Donald says.

  Abram looks around the barn for a minute, then turns to me. “Cole, any ideas?”

  I say what comes natural to me—lie. Like breathing, it’s my first instinct, my survival mechanism. “He could lie.”

  “What should I say?” Benji looks to me for an answer. At least he’s eager to help now.

  “I don’t know. Make something up.”

  “Like what? It’s not like there’s a whole lot of options around here for me to lie about,” Benji notes.

  Nobody’s got an answer. Everyone’s standing around, trying to come up with a lie. Something to tell the farmhands to make them believe that we’re not up to something. An idea hits me.

  “Tell them we went to the first field; the one we worked the first day we arrived. Tell them we wanted to get the job done and impress them with what we could do.”

  Donald rubs his chin. “Not bad. Shows initiative. I think it might work.”

  “It will work,” Abram agrees. “Nice idea, Cole.” He smiles at me and empties the remaining water out of the jug.

  Benji stands up. “Alright, let’s do it.” He looks down and holds a finger up deep in thought. “Wait. What if they go looking for you all and you’re not there? What then? They’ll catch us in a lie.”

  “One of us will work the field while the other two get the goods,” Donald adds. “That way we won’t get caught with our pants down. If they do come, we’ll need a good story of where the other two are.”

  “Cole, you’re pretty good making shit up on the fly. How about it?” Abram suggests and nominates me to work the field.

  Donald casts his vote. “Sounds good to me.”

  Fine. I’d rather be by myself, anyway. “Sure. Probably won’t see them, anyway.”

  Donald claps his hands one time in excitement. “Let’s do it.”

  Benji chuckles and shrugs his shoulders. “Alright. Let’s do it! What do we got to lose, right?”

  What do we got to lose? I’d rather not find out. The rich, the powerful, the fortunate ones. The broken, the starving, the homeless, the slaves… it doesn’t matter who you are or what you got. Every man’s got something to lose.

  Half the night goes by in a blink because, for some damn reason, I started digging. I don’t know why I did that. All I had to do was be in the field with a tool in hand while Donald and Abram were picking the berries. You would think that I would use the opportunity to sleep or relax by myself, content with my own thoughts; without the noise and distraction of everyone else.

  But for some damn reason, I went to work.

  Suppose it was the nerves and the thrill of it all. Maybe that’s all I’m looking for. Maybe I’m looking to break the rules, have something that I can call my own, win my freedom. All the while sticking it to the man.

  Fuck your rules and telling me what to do.

  I’m tired of being told where to be and how to live my life. What kind of existence is that?

  These thoughts fueled me throughout the night and, by my best guess, I tilled about a hundred yards of earth.

  The hoe falls from my hands and I stretch my back. “Damn, why’s it so hot for spring?” Sweat beads on my brow and I know that a night like this should be cooler. Maybe it’s closer to summer and the farm is late for sowing? I don’t know. It feels like the heat of summer is fast approaching, if not already here.

  The moon still sits full and bright in the sky, and the land is lit brighter than I can ever remember. Even the branches on the trees can be made out in the distance where normally it would just be a jagged, black silhouette of a forest.

  In this moment, and for the first time, I know something is wrong. Bad wrong. Everything before was suspicion about myself and the past. But this feeling of dread that I’m experiencing right now is about the world as a whole.

  It’s not a gut feeling that something is wrong, like when you’re having too good of a day and your boss tells you that he needs to see you in his office. Or when the doctor walks into the waiting room with a frown when you’re waiting on the blood work to come back. No, this is something else; something tangible.

  There’s no bugs here.

  No chirp from a cricket. No croak from a frog. No mosquitos biting my skin. Not even a damned dog-pecker gnat to fly in my eye.

  Come to think of it, there’s no birds. No rodents. I’ve seen no signs of deer or bears or rabbits or anything. Something is wrong. Really wrong.

  My mind races and I start to get carried away. All those thoughts disappear when I see a shadow walking towards me out of the corner of my eye. Instantly, I freeze. A beam of light cuts through the darkness and blinds my eyes.

  “What in the gah-damned hell do you think you’re doing out here, Cole?” Gibbs’s tone is more than serious and he demands an answer.

  Think.

  Damn, I got nothing.

  What the hell have you been thinking about all this time!

  Been trying not to.

  …well you better come up with something fast.

  “Couldn’t sleep, sir. I, uh, just wanted to make up for messing up the other day is all.”

  Mr. Gibbs shines the flashlight around where I’ve been working, and up and down my body for inspection. “Benji said you were out here. Where’s the other two?”

  “The other two?”

  Gibbs turns the light off and steps closer. Close enough that I can smell the smoke on his clothes. “Ya. The other two. Where are they?”

  Think.

  “They were here.” I look around, searching. “To be honest sir, I’ve dug about a hundred yards tonight and didn’t really pay attention to their whereabouts.”

  He shifts his weight to one side. “But they were here?”

  “Yessir. Everyone felt bad about how the other day went and wanted to show some good faith and initiative.”

  “What the hell for?”

  I shift my weight and rub my head to ease the tension and be more relatable to him. “It’s silly, really.” He doesn’t ask why and regards me with a stern look. I continue. “We just wanted to make it up to you in hopes that you would give us some favor. Put ourselves in a better light, so to speak.”

  Mr. Gibbs turns his head and spits. “That’s a real fine thing there, but it doesn’t smell right, you feelin’ me? You’re up to something, and I’m gonna find out what it is.”

  I hold my hand up like I’m a twelve year old boy scout. “Swear it. There’s no intentions here other than trying to make you, Mr. Red, and Mr. Whyte proud. That’s all I want.”

  Gibbs looks around and moves his hand to his hip. In the darkness, I can’t see what’s there. Could be a whip or it could be a gun. “When’s the last time you seen the other two?”

  “Couple hours ago, maybe. I don’t know. Time passes so quick when you’re busy working. You ever till the fields here?”

  Even in the middle of the night, I can see that he gives me a shut-the-hell-up look. “Let’s go,” he says. “I don’t ever want to see you or anyone else out of the barn at night again. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Crystal, sir.”

  My heart’s racing the entire way back to the barn and I can’t slow it down. As we walk through the dark, I think about jumping Mr. Gibbs and choking him out. He’s bigger and stronger than me, but I think I can do it. He’s going to be royally pissed when we arrive at the barn, and finds that Donald and Abram are still missing. Who knows what he’ll do. I should take him out before we get there.

  My fingers flex in anticipation and I steel my nerves. Mind’s made up.

  Now.

  “Cole, quit lagging beside me and get your ass up in front,” Mr Gibbs commands and flashes his light back and forth ten feet in front of us. “If you can think of where your friends are, lead the way.”

  I stop walking and stand in shock at the timing. What in the actual hell? Is this some kind of a joke? Did he know I was about to jump him?

  “Let’s go now. Up in fron
t.”

  I shake my head and lead the way. Behind me, the unmistakable sound of a zippo lighter breaks the silence as he lights another one of his hand-rolled cigarettes. I walk slow, giving the others all the time that I can in hopes that they arrive back at the barn before we do. My gut’s telling me we’re screwed.

  Gibbs takes a drag and speaks, his voice lower and full of smoke at first. “You know something, Cole, I can see through you.” He exhales, I pause for a moment, and the plume from his mouth catches up to me and fills my nostrils. “You’re a smart son of a bitch, and you know it. But here’s the thing…” he takes another drag, “I know your type. I know you better than you do.”

  Normally, I would come up with some clever response or bull shit lie, but this time I don’t. He can see through me. I can feel it just as much as he can feel it. I’ve never met anyone so confident or self assured as Mr. Gibbs. I know that’s not saying much since I can’t remember anyone before the farm. But if I haven’t experienced more than the last couple days, how the hell do I know certain things? I can sing songs by memory, recall infomercials, interact with others naturally, discern this shit existence from what I feel deep down is something better out there. If I can’t recall my childhood, how did I learn to walk? How did I learn to speak English and curse for fuck’s sake?

  He walks beside me. “What do you think about that, Cole?” His breath smells green, earthy, sweet. His clothes smell good, too, and I realize how much I smell of rancid odor and soiled rags. I’m like a forgotten junkyard dog left to his own.

  My mind suddenly wakes up and I can form a reply that makes sense. “I’m glad someone knows who the hell I am. Hey, why don’t you tell me about me… that way, whatever dumb decisions I make will make more sense.”

  He laughs as if the question is obvious and I’m the sucker who doesn’t get it. “You’re nobody,” he states. “You think you are, but you’re not. Clever, maybe. Ballsy, perhaps. But still a nobody. The sooner you get that through your head, the better off things will be. For all of us.”