by Matt Moss
He puts a hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be alright, man. You’ll see. The future looks good. Come on, let’s go wash up and get the hell away from this barn.”
Mr. Red comes back on the bike shortly after we all finish cleaning up. “Here, put these on.” He begins laying piles of clothing on the ground, sorting them out. Each of us watch as he meticulously piles bib overalls, plain white shirts, socks and underwear, and old, white pairs of tennis shoes.
“Sizes are all the same, and since you’re all about the same size, just grab from the piles. When you’re ready, come on inside,” he tells us, then speeds away on the bike, behind the fence, beside the white house.
“There’s an extra set of clothes here,” Benji notes after we’re all dressed.
“It’s for Larry,” Abram says. “In case he changes his mind.”
Benji scoops them up to take to Larry. “That’s nice of them.”
Larry appears from around the corner of the barn and gives us a once-over. “Looks like redneck prison uniforms.”
“Feels pretty damn good to me,” Donald says, stretching the top straps of the overalls with his thumbs. “Nice and airy compared to those brown rags we’ve been wearing.”
“Yeah. These will be nice to work in, too,” Abram notes.
Benji hands the clothes to Larry. “Why don’t you come with us, Larry?”
Larry takes the clothes and tucks them under his arm. “I’m not going back there again,” he states.
“Ever?”
He shakes his head.
“What about the meals?”
“I’ll bring them out to him,” I say.
Larry looks at me with a fondness that I’ve never seen from him before. “Thank you, Cole. That would be nice.”
“We’re going to miss you,” Benji says with a quiver in his voice, like he’s saying his final goodbye.
“I’m not dead,” Larry says, then looks at the ground. He looks at his hands. “At least I don’t think I am. The barn is my home and that’s where I’ll be. Stop by anytime for conversation and tea.”
Benji grins as his eyes meet Larry’s. “You have tea? Why haven’t you told us?”
“I don’t have tea,” Larry says.
“Oh.” Benji chuckles and gives Larry a hug. “At least we’ll still see you at work.”
Larry pats him on the back then looks to the rest of us. “Bright and early. All of you, go on now. Be on your best behavior and mind your manners.”
“Larry, I’m leaving the wine out here in the barn. Don’t drink it all,” Abram says.
“No need to worry about that, Abram.”
Donald throws two fingers in the air. “Peace out, Larry.”
Larry returns the gesture. “Peace be to you, boss man.”
The four of us walk across the yard in a straight line heading for the house. Larry stands behind and watches. He knows something bad is going to happen but doesn’t say anything.
I wonder what they did to him. I wonder what he saw inside the house. Over the next few nights, I’ll bring him food and ask him those questions again. Maybe he’ll feel inclined to answer then.
“Here we go, boys. This is our new home!” Donald says, halfway there. All our eyes are fixed on the white house and the great promise of hope that it brings.
“Last one there is a rotten egg,” Benji says and breaks into a run.
“No way you’re getting there first,” Donald says and takes off after. Abram runs, too, and they all reach the porch together, smiling and laughing like kids. I glance back over my shoulder to look at Larry, but he’s already gone. Strange, because he was just there a second ago.
“Cole’s a rotten egg!” Benji shouts and points.
Here we go. This is where it gets real.
My eyes follow my feet through the short grass, my thoughts a blur; endless combinations of ideas and scenarios flashing through my mind so fast that I only get fragments of how things might play out. Nothing is static or known, and I have no idea what’s going to happen.
We’re not ready for this.
“Gentlemen, welcome!” Mr. Gibbs greets us at the door with a smile that’s a mile wide, the smell of his hand-rolled cigarettes thick on his clothes.
“Where’s Mr. Whyte?” I ask, stepping into the foyer.
“Taking a nap. So keep your voices down as it’s best to not wake him.”
“What’s down the hall?” Abram asks, pointing to the smoking room—the room with the guns.
Gibbs turns to Abram and his face goes hard. “We talk a lot about rules on this farm. Well, there’s only one rule in this house.” He points down the hall. “That room is off limits. You hear me?” His gaze and tone is firm, his point clear. “If anyone steps foot down that hall, they will be banished from the house forever.”
“Got it. Stay the hell out of the hall. No problem,” Abram replies.
“What’s that enticing smell?” Benji asks, his nose sniffing at the dining room to the right.
Mr. Gibbs grins. “Meat of the Day.” A low chuckle comes from him after he says the words and it sounds different than normal. He invites us in. “Come on. It’s almost ready.”
We gather around the table and, without saying a word to one another, take the same seats as the night before. I find it strange that people do that—return to what’s familiar or customary. Just another take on the human psyche and how we get so comfortable with what we know; cruise control with our daily routines. Most people are afraid of change. It’s uncomfortable. Even hard at times. And nobody likes to be out of their comfort zone. I sure as hell don’t.
So I find comfort in my seat. I call it my seat because I sat in it yesterday, so it belongs to me and no one else.
I shake my head, realizing that my thoughts are running away again.
Shut up.
Mr. Red walks in with a steaming dish. “Dinner is served.” He sets it on the table and we all sit taller in our seats to look over the meal. It’s a large roast with potatoes, carrots, and celery—all the ingredients bathing in an aluminum tray, brown-sauce swimming pool.
“Wow,” Donald gasps, his eyes and mouth open wide. “Can we say grace now and commence with the eating part? I don’t know how much longer I can look at that, let alone smell it, without going crazy.”
Mr. Gibbs takes the seat at the head of the table. “Make your plates,” he says with outstretched arms.
He’s sitting in the wrong seat. “Won’t Mr. Whyte be joining us?” I ask.
His eyes dart, locking onto mine. “Mr. Whyte likes long naps. Sometimes, he’ll even sleep for days,” he says and shoots me a grin. “You’ll see the routines the longer you stay here. No worries, though. I’m sure he’s with us in spirit.” He chuckles to himself as his hand moves in an instinctive motion to pull a smoke. But he doesn’t.
Donald begins tearing off a sizable portion of meat with the cutlery, brown juice spotting the table around the dish as he works at it. “Dear creator, thank you. Hope you’re having as good a day as me, amen.”
Mr. Gibbs claps sarcastically. “Very good prayer, Donald. I like that.”
Donald slaps the meat on his plate and shrugs. “Well, you know. I’m a fast learner.”
“I know that,” Gibbs says, then locks eyes with me again. “Fast learners do well around here.”
“I’m a fast learner,” Abram states and takes a serving for himself.
“I know you are!” Mr. Gibbs agrees wholeheartedly.
Donald mumbles with a mouthful of food. “This is the best food I’ve ever tasted.”
“Agreed,” Abram adds. “Hard to beat a homemade meal.”
Gibbs shifts in his seat. “How about a little homemade wine to go with it, eh? Did you bring it?”
Abram shakes his head, keeping his attention on his food. “Mr. Whyte said not at the dinner table,” he says, as if everyone didn’t just drink at this same table last night.
“Mr. Whyte ain’t here. Go get the wine,” Gibbs tells him. It’s
not a request.
Abram sets the fork down. “Alright. Don’t gotta tell me twice.” He’s back within minutes and breaks the awkward silence at the table along with Mr. Gibbs’s wandering eyes.
“Here, allow me.” Gibbs takes the jug and begins to pour, handing Abram the first glass. “Brewmaster gets served first.” He begins passing glasses around, uncaring as wine sloshes and spills on Mr. Whyte’s fine wooden table.
We toast to the future.
I’m hesitant to drink out of respect for Mr. Whyte, but it’s hard to say no when you’re looking into your cup and you’re in the mood to drink. Just a smell, I say. Just a taste. The glasses keep pouring and it doesn’t take long before everyone starts to feel it. Benji’s already made three runs to the barn and back to retrieve more wine.
I feel fantastic. I relish the feeling and the moment—living in it for once, instead of spending most of the time with my thoughts. It feels good to turn my brain off.
“I want to eat more, but I can’t,” Benji says and leans back, holding his stomach. He attacks the plate of food again and takes another bite. “It’s so good, though, that I can’t stop.”
Mr. Gibbs works at a stuck piece of meat with a toothpick. “Wine enhances the taste of food. That’s one of the reasons why people like to drink it with their meals.”
“Anybody want more?” Mr. Red asks, standing away from the table. “No? Alright then.” He begins taking the dirty dishes to the kitchen. I offer to help, but he declines. “I got it, thanks Cole. You’re the guest and guests don’t do chores.”
“What about dessert?” Abram asks.
“Oh, it’s your birthday today. I didn’t know,” Mr. Gibbs replies to him, getting excited.
“It’s… not my birthday.”
Gibbs stares blankly at him, his face dropping in disappointment. “Then you don’t get no fucking dessert.” He stands up, suddenly pissed off and looking at everyone else. “Can you believe this guy? We take him in, give him clothes, feed him, and what does he do? The motherfucker asks for more.” He snaps towards Abram. “Nothing is ever good enough, is it?” He points at the door in anger. “I can’t stand to look at you. Your face is the epitome of disrespect. Get the fuck out of here.”
Everyone’s in shock, but none more than Abram. His jaw clenches and he looks like a deer caught in headlights. “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“I said get the fuck out!”
Abram looks to us, confused and in dismay, searching for help. He slowly stands to leave, his head down in shame. Before he can take a step, Gibbs starts to chuckle and draws a hurt look from Abram.
“I’m just messing with you, man!” Gibbs doubles over in laughter. He points at Abram. “You should see your face right now. Priceless.”
The tension smooths out, and confusion is replaced by slow sighs of relief and widening smiles around the room. Abram finally cracks a grin and wags a finger at Gibbs. “You had me going there for a minute.”
Gibbs hops from his seat and springs towards Abram, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Loosen up, Abe. Come on, my man. Let’s take this party into the living room. Donald, bring the wine.”
We go back into the foyer and follow Gibbs towards the hall that lies straight ahead of the front door. Before Gibbs can make it past the staircase, Benji stops him with a question. “What’s behind those three doors up there?” he asks, pointing to the second floor. “Are those our bedrooms?”
Gibbs puts his hands on his hips and turns to address the group. “Remember when I told you there was only one rule in the house? Well, I lied. There’s three rules. Maybe four. One of them being that those three rooms are off limits. Period.”
“Got it,” Benji says and gives him a thumbs up.
I was interested in those rooms before when I asked Mr. Whyte about them, but now I’m even more intrigued. From down here, the doors look thicker than normal doors—well made with heavy-duty forged hinges. And if Gibbs is so adamant about staying away from them, there must be something important inside.
“But all of the bedrooms are upstairs,” Gibbs states as he escorts us through the foyer and under the balcony. “We’ll show you to your rooms later.”
The hall to the living room isn’t long. Priceless paintings hang from the walls; Monet, Picasso, Da Vinci. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do.
The living room is dark, lit only by a small fire that burns in the fireplace. It’s the focal point of the room as it’s set in the back with its grand mantle, the bricks painted white to match the walls. More paintings surround the mantle and hang on the wall. Leather furniture is scattered about, adjoined by tables both small and large. There’s seating room for twenty, though there’s only eight of us on the farm. Minus the possibility of one more.
Deer antlers and ram horns rest on the walls amidst the gallery of paintings. Gibbs walks around to light some candled sconces with a pack of matches lying nearby. Overhead, a large chandelier made of elephant tusks and vine looms; orange lights dimly burning around the edges.
When finished lighting the room, Gibbs speaks. “Have a seat wherever you like,” he says as he strolls into the center of the room, arms wide with a glass of wine sloshing in one hand. Mr. Red makes sure we all go into the room before he slides the door shut behind him.
“Let’s get a few things straight first,” Gibbs tells the group. “You are our guests, but this is our house. You will respect it, or you will be cast out. Understood?”
“Is that another rule?” Donald asks, easing into a chair, admiring its quality.
“It’s a fact,” Gibbs promises, his eyes narrowing in truth. The way he stands — the way he commands us as the light of the fireplace softly lights the side of his face — I realize that in this moment, he looks larger than life. He pulls his pack of smokes from his shirt pocket and draws one between his fingers. He holds it up for everyone to see. “Did I mention that, here in the white house, we party every night?” He lights it up and takes a drag. “That’s a rule, by the way.”
Donald jumps up and is the first to take it from Gibbs’s offering hand. “Now that’s a rule I can live with.” He breathes deep, too deep, and chokes on the weed. Gibbs smiles, and the joint passes from one hand to the next until it comes to me. I smoke it because I like it. And what the hell, it’s already weird anyway. Why not?
“Some good shit, right?” Gibbs asks as it comes back around to him.
“Best I’ve ever had,” Abram states and closes his eyes as he begins to dance. I entertain myself with watching him move, and find myself envying his confidence. I could never do that, especially in front of people.
Benji nudges my arm and passes the joint. I hit it deeper this time, exhale, then hit it again. I blow smoke in front of my face, and focus on it filling the air as it rolls up my head. Through the haze, I see Mr. Gibbs with his arms up like a boxer, dancing and bobbing back and forth with Abram. My vision is blurred as it tries to focus in on Donald who’s taking a drink of wine that seems to be never-ending. My head slowly turns to the left to find Mr. Red hitting the joint now, which isn’t like him. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take so much as a full glass of wine before, other than the first time in the barn. He finishes what’s left of the weed and fills his jaw with tobacco, keeping his peace in the corner and away from the rest of the party.
“Holy shit, that’s some good smoke,” Abram says as he stops dancing to reach for his drink.
“I only smoke the best,” Gibbs states. “I’m glad you like it, because there’s more where that came from.”
Donald practically hugs Mr. Gibbs. “You know, I could get used to this kind of life,” he says, his speech beginning to change. Gibbs pats him on the back. “Me too, Don. Me too. Now, let’s get it started.” He walks to a vintage record player and drops the needle on a track. The lively sounds of Men At Work begin playing.
“Woo!” Abram yells when he hears the beat. “I love this song.”
Gibbs enact
s the scene like a girl looking for Mr. Right in a honky tonk bar, turning to us from the jukebox as he sings along with the song. He’s singing their hit, Down Under, and I find his choice selection odd for the moment. When the chorus hits, his voice raises with it. It’s not the music that hits me wrong—it’s the words and the situation that we’re in. It’s Gibbs and his passion towards it.
Odd how a song about another place can make you unite with the meaning.
Still, it’s a good melody and it’s nice to finally hear some music.
When the song ends, Gibbs lights another joint and passes it around. Shortly after, bodies are strung out across the room; some moving, some not. I’m lying on a couch about to pass out, but not giving in to sleep because I don’t want to miss a minute of this feeling.
The room spins and moves—like it’s alive and partying along with us. I look at my half-empty glass wanting to finish it, but lacking the motivation.
I wonder if everyone else feels the way I do.
Overhead, the chandelier spreads its tusks and I can practically hear the death throes of a dozen elephants. Nobody else can hear them. They’re decoration.
My head beads with sweat and, in a moment of clarity, I sit up to wipe it away as I hear a song play in the background; one that I hadn’t even noticed before. I thought the music had stopped.
It’s sometime during the night. My groggy head turns, my eyes attempting to search for the others through the blur. I find every one of them passed out cold. My eyes wander and lock onto Mr. Gibbs over by the record player. He sings along—quietly and to himself—but I can see his lips move as he whittles a stick with a pocket knife. The record plays the haunting song, Hotel California by the Eagles.
Gibbs turns his face in my direction.
My heavy head tosses back on the couch and I close my eyes in exhaustion.
So much for showing us the bedrooms.