by Matt Moss
Not bad. If I didn’t know him, I would believe the words.
“Get back in line, Abram,” Mr. Red threatens. The words catch Abram off guard and he tucks his head before taking his place back in line beside me. Did he really think that these guys were our friends?
Mr. Gibbs flicks the cigarette away, raises a cold stare and focuses it on Donald. Slowly, he moves a hand to the right side of his waist and unstraps the bullwhip.
Upon seeing the threat, Donald steps towards Gibbs. “What are you gonna do with that, Mr. Gibbs?”
The whip uncurls from his hand and falls to the ground, like a snake ready to strike. “I’m gonna beat you like your daddy should have,” Mr. Gibbs growls and draws back. Before he can strike, Donald breaks out in a sprint and tackles Gibbs faster than anyone can imagine, spearing him at the waist with his shoulder like a professional linebacker.
In reflex, I move towards them. I don’t know why. I really don’t care what happens to either of them, but something in me reacts. I run as fast as I can. Everyone is in shock at what Donald just did. Even Mr. Red is standing in awe and is slow to react.
Donald raises up from the top position and draws his fist back. Mr. Gibbs’s arm is pinned beneath him and Donald has the other by the wrist. As Donald brings the hammer down, I tackle him before he can deliver the blow and we roll to the side.
We find our feet and Donald looks like he wants to kill me now. “What the fuck, Cole!”
“Let it go,” I tell him, preparing myself for his fury to focus on me.
Like a shadow, Mr. Gibbs looms from behind and wraps the whip around Donald’s neck. He kicks at Donald’s leg and forces him to his knees. Donald’s hands frantically pry at the whip, but Gibbs presses a foot into his back, tightening the choke even more. Donald’s like a dog on all fours now, his teeth bare and mouth slobbering.
Everyone is still in shock and we all watch helplessly as Gibbs chokes the life out of him. I’ve never seen anyone die before. It’s different in real life; the feeling’s different. The sense of death and murder is callused in movies or video games because it’s not real. It’s made up for entertainment. But this is different. This is real and there’s no coming back from it. There’s no walking to the fridge for some ice cream to make you feel better about what you’ve just watched.
Donald’s eye floods red from the strain and he’s beginning to turn blue in the face. I’m waiting on Gibbs to talk or say something, but he doesn’t. He’s quiet, deliberate, and impassive.
“Let him go!” Benji cries out in desperation.
Abram resounds the plea. “C’mon, that’s enough. Let him go!”
Larry stares at the ground.
Mr. Red stands there.
I stand there.
Donald’s dying.
Suddenly, Benji explodes towards Mr. Gibbs with a war cry, and Abram follows him.
BOOM!
Something jumps from the ground near Gibbs’s feet, and everyone freezes in place. He lets Donald go and turns towards the blast.
Mr. Whyte’s holding a smoking gun, the barrel pointed at Gibbs. I’ve never shot one, but I’ve seen enough Clint Eastwood movies to know that it’s a .44 magnum revolver, and powerful enough to leave a leaking crater in someone’s head.
“Enough!” Mr. Whyte commands. “Both of you, inside,” he tells the farmhands. Mr. Red does as he’s told without hesitation, but Mr. Gibbs stands his ground, his face exuding hate and contempt at Mr. Whyte.
The landowner cocks the gun and narrows his gaze down the barrel. “Do I need to repeat myself?”
Mr. Gibbs turns his head and spits, then walks past Mr. Whyte at a safe distance. Whyte keeps the gun pointed at Gibbs until he’s in the house and out of sight. When the door shuts, he places the pistol back into the leather holster on his waist and snaps the strap around it.
Donald’s still on all fours hacking and trying to breathe, his hand placed around the red line that runs across his neck.
Mr. Whyte turns back to us. His mouth is quivering behind the thick mustache that’s failing to hide his emotions. “There will be no work today,” he chokes out, his face pained and ashamed. He looks like he’s about to cry.
We stand there and wait for further instruction or condemnation, but it doesn’t come. Mr. Whyte turns and walks back into the house, leaving all of us in a state of confusion. I help Donald to his feet.
“Get off me,” he barks and pulls away.
“I’m just trying to help,” I protest.
His icy glare falls upon me. “Who’s side are you on, Cole?”
“I just didn’t want anyone to get hurt.”
Donald shakes his head and storms back towards the barn.
Abram and Benji following, consoling him as they leave the yard.
Larry starts laughing.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?”
He catches his breath to answer me. “Have you ever noticed that whenever anything bad happens, you’re always in the middle of it?”
“I tried to stop it.”
He starts laughing again and walks towards the barn.
“Cole, come here,” Abram yells. As I approach them, Donald steps out to meet me. “Look, let’s just put this behind us. I know you’re not on their side.”
I nod, his words making me feel better. A knowing grin plays across his face.
“What?”
He pulls a pack of Mr. Gibbs hand rolled cigs from behind his back and smiles from ear to ear.
“Holy shit,” I say and smile back. “How did you get those?”
“Swiped them when we were rolling on the ground.”
“So that’s what the fight was all about?”
“No, I was pissed and wanted to bash his face in. But once I went at him, I figured what the hell. Why not go for it?” We both burst out laughing and he pulls one from the pack.
“I’ve never smoked tobacco,” Benji says, clearly excited to try it. “What’s it like?”
Donald cocks an eyebrow at him. “This ain’t tobacco, Ben.”
Benji frowns. “What is it, then?”
“You’ll see,” Donald says and pats him on the shoulder.
“Now we just need something to light it with,” Abram states. “I can make liquor, but haven’t the slightest clue about fire. Can’t be too hard, though, right? I mean, a caveman figured it out so surely we can too.” He looks to me and Benji and waits for one of us to speak up. “Damn, nobody knows how?”
“We don’t need to,” Donald says and pulls something from his pocket. “I stole his lighter, too.”
Benji's eyes light up. “How the…man, you’re good, Don! If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were an expert thief in a past life.”
Abram and Benji are excited as Donald leads them into the barn.
“Hey.”
They turn back to me.
“Aren’t you worried about Mr. Gibbs and what he’ll do when he finds out that you stole his smokes?”
Donald half-grins.
“Fuck Mr. Gibbs,” Benji says, boldly.
“Yea. And fuck this farm,” Abram adds.
They converse with each other and enter the barn without a worry in the world. Either they don’t care about the consequences, or they know that everything will be fine and there won’t be any need to worry.
Everything will be fine.
It’ll all be alright.
That’s what I keep telling myself.
The rest of the day is a blur and night falls suddenly. It wasn’t long after the four of us smoked the first joint that we lighted up another. We even talked Larry into taking a hit. He loosened up and we ended up bonding pretty well despite our differences.
But mainly, we just laughed. We laughed about Mr. Gibbs, the farm, the barn, and other random things that made no sense.
It feels good to laugh. Best medicine there is, they say.
Seems cannabis is pretty good medicine, too. The stress and worries of our lives melted away over t
he last eight hours, and the sunset tonight has never looked so brilliant and promising. I feel the hope of a new day and a fresh start that will be waiting for us come the morning. My daze shifts and I see Benji sitting on the ground, propped up against a post, staring at his feet, looking like Larry. Larry, on the other hand, is captivating Donald and Abram with a grand tale about how he used to know of a guy who was a worm farmer.
“A worm farmer? C’mon Larry.” Abram’s speech is slowed, a fixed grin sits comfortably on his face, and has for the last thirty minutes or so.
“A worm farmer,” Larry says. “Makes a killing, too. You know how much money people will pay for organic fertilizer?”
“Organic shit?” Donald questions. “Fertilizer is made of shit and shit is already organic. Why would they label it organic worm shit?”
Larry answers him in all seriousness. “There’s no government chemicals in it that some cue ball cooked up in a lab somewhere.”
“Say that three times fast,” Abram notes.
“What?”
“Never mind.”
Larry shakes his head. “Anyway, organic farmers pay big money for it to be organic because they’re under stricter regulations.”
“Organic,” Donald repeats and makes quotation marks with his hands. He pulls Gibbs’s zippo lighter out and flicks it open and close, back and forth. “Sounds like a pyramid scheme.”
Abram turns to Donald. “Do you even know what a pyramid scheme is? What Larry’s talking about sounds nothing like a pyramid scheme.”
“Sure I know what one is. Do you?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact, I do. It’s where someone makes money off someone else.”
“Like an employer and an employee?” Larry asks.
“Sort of.” Abram scratches his head and looks at me. “Cole. You know what a pyramid scheme is?”
Sure I do. They blew up on social media shortly after social media was invented, and everyone was trying to sell something—anything from beauty products to embroidered bags. Work from home, make tons of easy money, and live the luxurious life in a matter of months! People went broke trying to show how much money they didn’t have; bought brand new sports cars and all-inclusive vacations in some beautiful part of the world so they could take the pictures. And then they tell you the best part about how they don’t even have to work to make money. Give me a break.
I join the conversation. “Say for instance, I commission you. You are your own boss but because you are under me, I take a small fee from whatever you sell. Then say you commission someone else and they make a sell. You take a fee and I take a fee because he is under you and you are under me. Then those people commission other people and so on and so on.”
“That’s damn genius,” Donald says and slaps the lighter shut.
“That’s damn bull shit is what it is,” Abram replies. “Whoever does that is looking to get rich quick, and I can attest that there isn’t such a thing unless you hit the lottery or rob a bank.”
“And either one of those will get you killed. Your body goes missing somewhere and with no explanation,” Larry adds.
Donald looks at Larry like he’s crazy. Larry’s sanity is still very much up for debate. “Whatever. Why are we talking about money anyways? Not like it means anything to any of us. Hell, let’s go back to talking about worm turds made out of gold.”
“Organic fertilizer.”
Donald throws his hands up. “Whatever, Larry.”
From the ground, Benji looks to us and poses a question, interrupting our serious conversation. “Why aren’t you talking about the gun that Mr. Whyte has and why we haven’t been served any food today?” He stands up and walks to the center of the barn, his back to us as he looks through the open door. “It’s almost dark and they always bring us dinner before dark. I just thought that they forgot about lunch.”
There’s that feeling again. The tone of dread and futility settling over us—a constant gray cloud of despair. But Benji makes a good, sobering point. The cold reality of our situation settles back in, and is reinforced with an immediate hunger pang in my stomach.
“So we don’t eat for a day. No big deal,” Abram says. “Not like they’re going to starve us. They need us.”
“For what?” Donald asks. “Why in the hell do they need us? Most small farmers have sold out due to big business taking over. Can’t afford cheap labor anymore ever since the immigration reform took place. So who’s gonna work then if they don’t?”
“Robots,” Larry says as a matter of fact. Everyone gives him that familiar look. He looks at us like we’re all ignorant.
“Maybe in another fifty years or so,” Abram says.
Donald waves them off. “My point is, what is Mr. Whyte doing on this farm, and why does he need us? It doesn’t make sense. I mean, shit, it feels like we’ve time traveled back to the 1800’s for God’s sake. The house, the solidarity, the farm, the way they dress.”
Benji turns around and joins the group. “You might be onto something. I haven’t seen an airplane or any signs of contrails in the sky.”
“Chemtrails,” Larry corrects.
Benji ignores him. “I remember flying across the Midwest and seeing all the farms sectioned off in various colors and shapes, so I know we should have seen a plane by now. Maybe we did time travel.”
Larry cocks his head funny. “Now that’s just crazy. Time travel isn’t real.”
Abram steps into the space between all of us and holds a hand up. “Back to the matter at hand. What are we going to do?”
Benji shrugs. “What can we do? Starve it out for tonight and hope for better tomorrow.”
Donald claps his hands. “Sounds good. It’s pretty much dark now anyhow, so… who’s ready for a nightcap?” Another hand rolled cigarette appears from his shirt pocket and rolls back and forth between his fingers.
Abram walks to him. “Now that sounds like a plan. Light it up and let tomorrow worry about itself.”
Donald flicks the lighter open. “Damn, Abe. Waxing the stoicism down on the farm. I like it.” He strikes the flame and puts the weed to his lips, the ember softly lighting his face as the smoke curls around. He passes it to Abram and speaks, his tone deep and choked from the smoke. “To tomorrow.”
Abram raises it in appreciation. “To tomorrow.”
It passes to me. “What’s stoicism?”
“Remind me to tell you in about thirty minutes, Cole,” Donald says and begins shuffling his feet in a clumsy dance. “Alright. To tomorrow,” I say and inhale, my hand offering it to Larry after I’m through. We all smoke and pass it around one more time before it’s gone, and offer up one last salute to a new day come the morning.
The rest of the night went up in smoke.
Seven
The rapping comes from the door and I spring from my bed finding comfort from the familiar sound and routine of the morning.
“Get up and let’s go to work,” Mr. Red calls from the doorway, the dawn’s light nearing on the horizon.
“Ah, Cole’s the first one ready to go this morning,” Mr. Gibbs says and greets me with a smile. “Already working on that Meat of the Day reward.” He begins gathering the tools that lie scattered in front of the barn, whistling merrily like nothing ever happened. In fact, I’ve never seen him so happy. Something’s not right. “Gonna be a good day,” he says after laying the shovels, picks, and hoes into a pile, then walks off to get the four wheeler.
“Here,” Mr. Red says and tosses me a large chunk of bread. He calls to the rest of them as Donald comes stumbling out. “I got breakfast, so come get it and let's go to work.”
I walk over and pick up my familiar hoe. I know it’s mine because we’ve spent many hours together; I can speak for every blood and sweat stain soaked into the handle, and the chips in the blade from where it’s hit the rocks.
“Not you, Cole,” Mr. Red says. “Mr. Whyte wants to see you.”
“Do what?” I heard him, but can’t believe it. Why would he
want to see me?
“I said Mr. Whyte wants to see you. He’s waiting inside, so it’s best you go on and not keep him waiting. Mr. Whyte can be a bit,” he pauses and looks at the house, searching for a word. “He can be testy at times. If I were you, I would keep my mouth shut as much as possible.”
“What does he want?”
“Don’t know. Hey, last call! If you don’t come on out, it’ll be another day without food.”
Donald looks at me and he’s in as much shock as I am. He nods for me to join him as he leads the way around the side of the barn. We’re clear from the farmhands now and can talk privately. “Cole, this is huge. If you can get that gun…” My eyes narrow and I shake my head. “Listen to me,” he urges. “If you can get that gun, it will change everything.”
“Just like that, then? How about I just ask him for it. I’m sure he’ll just hand it right over.” I take a bite of bread.
“Damnit, Cole, I’m serious!” he whisper-shouts.
“What are you two doing over here,” Mr. Red says from behind our backs like a phantom, sending chills up my spine. Quick as a cat, Donald unzips his pants and turns ninety degrees. “Taking a piss,” he says.
“You guys always piss together?”
“Maybe. What’s wrong with that? Here, you wanna watch?” He commences with urinating on the barn wall, then shifts his hips in Red’s direction. The farmhand’s eyes shift south in reaction. Donald puckers his lips and sends him a kiss.
Mr. Red shakes his head. “Hurry up,” he says and walks away.
Donald gives me a look of relief, but I don’t know if it’s from draining his bladder or from how close Mr. Red came to catching us talking about stealing a gun. “That was close,” he says and zips his pants up.
“Yeah. It’s a little too spur of the moment to do anything stupid, don’t you think?”
“You’re right. Look, just go in all chill-like and scope the place out. Take a mental picture of every room, every door, every detail. We need to know what the inside of that house is like.”