The Farm

by Matt Moss

  Screw you, dick.

  Keep stalling.

  “I need to piss.”

  His shoulders slouch and he cocks his head in aggravation. “Really? No, we’re almost there. You can hold it.”

  “I can’t hold it.”

  He shoves me. “C’mon, move it.”

  I take three steps, then piss myself. I flex and cut the stream off, soaking the pants just enough to make the point. A smile creeps across my face as he asks me what the hell I’m doing. I turn around and show him, his flashlight lighting my front.

  “Gah-damnit, Cole!”

  “I told you.”

  “Well go on then you dumb bastard.”

  I stand dumb in front of him, my hands covering my crotch.

  “What the hell’s the matter now?”

  “I can’t go in front of you. I’m nervous.”

  “Then turn around and go over there!”

  I nod and walk twenty feet, away from his light and into the darkness. My eyes adjust after a moment and I contemplate my next move.

  Still no bugs.

  I finish and rejoin my gracious host. “Hey, Mr. Gibbs, I’ve noticed there’s no bugs here. No grasshoppers, moths, even ants. Why is that?”

  In the moonlight, I can see his face twist in annoyance, but one eyebrow raises in surprise at the question. A squint of the eye and a contemplative pause tells me that he knows the answer but didn’t expect me to ask the question.

  He shoves me onward again. “Enough talk. Walk until we reach the barn. No more stops.” He stays behind me but flicks the light off to let our eyes adjust to the moonlight. “And you better hope that everyone’s there when we get back.”

  Damnit.

  I’m pretty sure Benji will be the only one there. He’ll, no doubt, be wearing that deer-in-the-headlights look as usual, and will probably rat us all out. Anything to save his own skin.

  Before I know it, the black shadow of the barn comes into view. Behind it lies the white house; it’s shape discernible from the endless black line of trees that stretches across the bottom of the sky.

  I think about tripping and faking an injury, but what good would that do? It would just piss Mr. Gibbs off all the more.

  I give up and refrain from thinking. My feet carry on and lead the way, begrudgingly and utterly hopeless. Any attempts at delaying this now would be futile.

  Within moments, we’re standing at the big, open door and staring into the darkness within the barn. Gibbs flicks the flashlight on.

  My heart races as it reveals nothing inside but hay strewn along the dirt floor. He stomps inside and lights two of the bunks. I step into the barn and a dread feeling hits me when I see nobody in the beds. Gibbs turns the light and illuminates Benji’s face. He raises his hands to block the blinding light.

  “Who’s there?” he asks.

  “It’s me, Gibbs. Where’s the others?”

  Shit.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Gibbs steps to Benji but doesn’t grab him. He wants to, his hand is straining and ready to wrap around Benji’s neck, but doesn’t. “Donald and Abram. Where are they?”

  Benji points to the other bunks as if annoyed by the disturbance and the ignorant question. Gibbs turns the light to the other bunks. Donald raises his head and shields his eyes. “What’s going on?”

  Like clockwork, Abram rolls over and mumbles something that resembled a string of curse words thrown our way. A weight lifts off me and I feel light as a feather.

  Mr. Gibbs gives a harrumph and spits before turning off the light. As he storms from the barn, I can’t help but laugh out loud and stifle it with a hand as soon as he’s gone. I flick the light switch on.

  “Holy shit, that was close,” Donald says and sits up in the bed.

  “Did you get the stuff?” I ask.

  Abram smiles—answering my question. “Good job, Cole.”

  I shake my head knowing how close we were to getting caught.

  “You assholes almost did it this time,” Benji states.

  I step towards him. “What are you talking about? Seems it went pretty smooth to me. I mean, I probably could have came back sooner as I’m sure these guys have been here for at least an hour.”

  Benji steps in front of my face and I can see how rattled he is. “An hour? Really? They just got back five minutes ago. Do you realize how lucky we are?”

  I raise my eyebrows at how close we came to getting caught.

  Yeah, I know how lucky we got. I saved the day by stalling. I’m good at lying. But I also know that sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good.

  We got lucky this time.

  Five

  Days pass by on the farm like mud through an hourglass.

  By my best guess, we’ve been here going on a month. It’s definitely summer now and, when you’re working the field, hotter than a sunny Florida day in August. So far, the four of us have tilled five fields; some the size of a football field, others more like the size of grand central park. I still don’t know what’s to be planted and, frankly, could care less. We eat the same food everyday in some variation or sort, mostly comprised of potatoes and a type of bean. Every now and then we get corn.

  And who can forget the Meat of the Day! I had it a couple times. Still doesn’t take the sour taste out of my mouth.

  Mr. Gibbs says that Larry’s coming back today. Says that he’s all better now. Just so happens that Abram says his wine’s ready now and we’re gonna drink it tonight.

  Today should be interesting.

  Lunch break rolls around and I hear the four wheeler whining towards us from across the farm, the sound no longer music to my ears like it used to be. It comes into view with Mr. Red driving, Larry riding saddle behind him with his arms wrapped around the farmhand like some fifteen year old girl going on her first adventure.

  I hope Mr. Red is wearing a shirt that says ‘if you can read this, the bitch fell off.’

  They pull to a stop and dismount as me and the guys gather around. Larry keeps his head down and I can already tell he’s different by the way he holds himself. There’s a vacant look in his eyes and he doesn’t stand the same way.

  “Go on now, Larry. Say hello. It’s been a while and I’m sure they’ve all missed you as much as you’ve missed them,” Mr. Red says.

  Mr. Gibbs flicks the Zippo and lights a cigarette, his eyes narrowing on Larry as he draws a lungful of smoke.

  Larry takes timid steps towards the group and keeps his eyes cast down. “Hi, guys.”

  Mr. Red clears his throat. “And? Don’t you have something else you wanna say?”

  Larry gives three quick nods and speaks in monotone, his words seeming like something he memorized. “I’m sorry for my actions. It won’t happen again.”

  Donald looks to Abram in disbelief, then looks to me. I shrug. It doesn’t feel genuine, let alone normal. Something’s off.

  Larry twitches his head ever so slightly, but otherwise stands still as a statue.

  “It’s okay, Larry,” Benji says and walks to him. He places a comforting hand on Larry’s shoulder. Larry doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink an eye. Benji, awaiting some sort of response, leaves it there for a moment before he realizes that one’s not coming, and removes his hand slowly before backing away.

  “So, what’s for lunch today?” Donald asks and walks towards the back of the ATV where the large cooler rests. “Let me guess, boiled potatoes with a side of boiled potatoes.”

  “You should be thankful for what you get, Don.”

  “Ain’t saying I’m not, Mr. Gibbs. Just offering up my best guess is all. Besides, I love potatoes.” He opens the cooler and his eyes go wide.

  “What is it?” I ask and walk towards him, consciously making an effort to ignore that Larry is even there. Donald pulls out a watermelon twice the size of a man’s head and beholds it like it’s some relic of old that he just unearthed from a treasure chest. He places it on the ground gently, reaches into the chest, and
pulls out two glass jars. He turns them in his hands for inspection.

  “Tomatoes and pickles!” he exclaims. The four of us gather around the cache in wonder. I know that I love pickles even though I can’t recall ever eating them.

  “Let me see,” Abram says and takes one of the jars. Donald hands the other to Benji to behold. He admires the contents, holding it up to the sky before reverently placing it on the ground next to the watermelon.

  We look like four little kids on Christmas morning gathered in front of the tree with presents piled around us. The only one not with us is Larry. He’s still standing in the same position and hasn’t moved an inch despite all the excitement.

  Mr. Gibbs laughs out loud before putting the smoke to his lips.

  “Well go on then. Eat,” Mr. Red says, smiling. “Today’s a good day. One worth celebrating, I’d say. It’s not everyday that a lost sheep returns to the flock.”

  For a split second, I recognize the slight comment—referring to us as sheep—but it rolls off my ear and out of mind through all the buzz. I can imagine the sour bite of a crisp dill pickle on my tongue and scoop the jar up in my hands, unable to wait any longer. I grasp the lid and twist—the unmistakable sound of a mason jar popping open igniting the strongest nostalgia.

  My fingers greedily lock onto a green spear, and I put it in my mouth, biting the thing in two with a crunch. It’s the crunch that lets you know it’s a good pickle. Eyes roll back in my head as the taste of vinegar fills my mouth and I sigh in complete bliss. The two jars pass between the four of us and not a word is spoken other than a chorus of moans that only the act of eating good food can deliver.

  Mr. Gibbs joins us with a bowie knife in hand that I didn’t notice him having before. He holds it ready at his waist, like he’s about to carve one of our skulls open. The smile that once played across his face is now gone.

  I regard him and pause mid-chew, gulping down a lump of juicy tomato. My only defense lies in my hand in the form a glass mason jar. I bet he’ll never expect it if I throw it at his head like a fastball. I used to pitch in little league.

  “Who’s ready for some watermelon?” Gibbs says with his eyes locked on me. He brings the blade down and halves the green skull in two, leaving its bloody brains open for everyone to see. It glistens in the sun and my mouth waters at the sight. He picks one of the parts up and begins working the blade back and forth against it. He spears a piece on the knife and offers it to me with a grin. I take it. He does the same for the others as they silently wait their turn. “Larry. You want a piece of this juicy melon?”

  “No, thank you,” Larry replies to the ground in front of him. He still hasn’t moved. “Alright, then. Your loss, Larry.” Gibbs places what’s left back in the cooler and slams the lid shut. “Let’s go, party's over. Back to work.”

  “But we’re celebrating. That’s what Mr. Red said,” Donald retorts with a mouthful and looks to Red to back him up. Mr. Red looks away.

  Gibbs steps to Donald and holds a finger up. “Rule one. Do you need me to remind you of what that rule is and the consequences that come from breaking it?”

  Donald’s anger flares. He turns his head and spits the food from his mouth before stomping away, leaving an array of muttered curses behind him.

  “Party’s over, Abram, let’s go,” Gibbs says and motions him along.

  Abram grins. “Nah, Mr. Gibbs. The party’s just getting started.” He walks away and I see the scowl creep across Gibbs’s face.

  “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing,” Abram replies as he walks.

  Mr. Gibbs narrows his gaze on Abram’s back and takes one last draw from his cigarette before flicking it away.

  Stupid Abram. You just gave him a reason to keep a tighter watch on us. And after all the good rapport we’ve built with the farmhands over the last month. I don’t know if it’s Larry or what, but Gibbs is on edge today for some reason, and you just made it worse.

  I return to the field and, to my surprise, Larry takes the row next to me and begins to dig. His proximity makes me nervous and to add to it, I can’t get a read on him anymore—not that I could to begin with. He goes to work like a machine, like nothing else matters but the task at hand. Whatever. As long as you don’t mess with me, I won’t mess with you and everything will be fine. I do wonder where they took him and what happened to him while he was away, though. Maybe I’ll ask him tomorrow.

  The five of us make good progress throughout the remainder of the day, and the work doesn’t stop until the sun begins to drop low in the sky. The blinding rays catch my eye, and for the first time I see clouds in the distance. They’re not the white puffy clouds that you’d imagine turning pink and orange in the evening light. They’re black and menacing, rolling over the horizon with flashes of lightning. Suddenly a wind blows and the smell of rain fills my senses.

  “Let’s pack it up. Gonna be a storm tonight,” Mr. Gibbs says as we gather around the ATV. Mr. Red fires it up and tears over the ground as he roars back to the barn. Mr Gibbs leads the way, his steps more urgent and deliberant than normal.

  Abram walks up beside me. “You ready to get fucked up tonight?”

  Sure. I guess. “Hell yeah.”

  “Good. Me too. In a few more hours, we’ll know what it’s like to be alive.”

  Alive. To be alive. Such an odd concept and one that seems to vary depending on the individual.

  Back at the barn, Mr. Gibbs starts barking orders. “Get inside and close these doors up tight before the storm hits. Don’t be going outside and don’t, I mean don’t, make me come out here for any reason. If I see the lights on past curfew, there will be hell to pay. Is that understood?”

  “Sir, yessir,” Donald mocks and salutes like he’s in the military. Gibbs holds a finger up in warning before marching off towards the white house.

  “What’s for supper?” Benji asks, looking to each of us for an answer. “We can’t go all night without eating something.”

  “Shoulda ate more earlier,” Donald notes. Benji snorts and looks to Mr. Red.

  Mr. Red places the cooler on the ground instead of taking it back inside the house. “Here.” He doesn’t say anything else and regards us with a pitiful look before firing up the bike, as if he knows trouble is coming our way.

  Maybe it’s because we’ll be stuck in a barn during a thunderstorm that he feels sorry for us. I’ve never been through one, but I remember seeing storms on the news so intense and violent that hail the size of baseballs fell from the sky.

  And then there’s tornados. I’ve seen the Wizard of Oz and Twister. This barn wouldn’t stand a chance. And we could be in Kansas for all I know—smack dab in the middle of tornado alley.

  Maybe I could click my heels three times and wish I was on a beach somewhere.

  “Cole, quit daydreaming and get in here.” Abram’s fired up about his wine and, according to him, it should be about the best damn wine anyone’s ever had. Donald flicks the light switch on that barely lights the place now that only one bulb burns in the back, and I look at the dark, menacing sky one last time before I go inside. Benji closes the doors behind me and cuts off the last fading light of day.

  “Over here, Cole. Donald, Benji, come check this out.” We gather around the five gallon bucket that Abram found lying behind the barn awhile back.

  About a month ago, and after a good scrubbing of the bucket, he placed the blackberries within and began smashing them with his hands. “You have to break the skins apart and let it all open to the air. And it’s as simple as that,” he had said after I asked him what he was doing. “The natural, or wild, yeast takes care of the rest.”

  “That’s it? Then you have alcohol?”

  “For wine, yes. The yeast that’s all around us feed on the natural sugars in the berries and, through fermentation, produces alcohol.”

  “Sounds like a lot of chemistry,” I note.

  “It’s not that complicated. Man figured this shit o
ut a long time ago and has been getting drunk ever since. I’d about say he found out how to make alcohol before he made fire. Hell, who knows…maybe a caveman got sloshed one night and discovered fire!”

  “So alcohol is the father of invention.”

  Abram put a hand up to his head as if he was tipping an imaginary hat—like some regal eighteenth-century scholar would do after someone just understood his logic and gave an appreciative nod of his genius.

  Now the four of us are standing around man’s so-called greatest invention, waiting for its unveiling. I say four because Larry already went to bed and didn’t speak a word to anyone beforehand. It’s strange having him back.

  Donald sees me looking at Larry. “It’s alright, Cole. The three of us got your back. He’s gotta earn trust back, and that’s not an easy thing to do.”

  “Yeah. I’m not worried, just thinking is all.”

  “You gotta quit doing that.”

  “I got something to help take your mind off things,” Abram says and crouches by the bucket. “I added water to it the other day, so there should be plenty for all of us. And it shouldn’t be diluted that much.” His hands reverently remove the thin handkerchief that covers the bucket. He had asked Mr. Red for one at around the same time we picked the berries, but I’ve never saw the red cloth since. Now I know where it’s been.

  “What’s the hanky for?” I ask.

  “Keep bugs and dust out.”

  “Oh. I thought it would be part of the fermentation process somehow. Trap heat or something like that.”

  Abram shakes his head and grins. “Not everything’s as complicated as you’d make it out to be, Cole.” He pulls the cloth away and we all hunch over to get a better look at the dark, purple liquid resting within. Abram puts his nose close and breathes it in.

  “Damn, boys. That smells delicious.”

  Benji looks to the door, nervous. “What if they come back. Maybe we should wait a little while and give them time to get into a deep sleep.”

  “Screw them,” Donald says.

  “I’m serious, damnit!” Benji says in a hushed voice. “If they find out, we’ll end up like Larry or worse.”