by Jeff Vrolyks
Chapter Four
Of the nine-hundred residents of New Plains, Nebraska, the majority were farmers, and better than half the crops were corn. In the north-eastern quadrant of New Plains was the town’s largest farm, belonging to the Lindmen’s—a hundred-and-twenty acres of white corn. The Lindmen’s were a family of six, Eddie being the eldest of three sons (the only adopted child of the family; Edgar Verboom was his God-given name) and a daughter of eighteen. Fred Lindmen ran the farm with the help of his sons and two illegal aliens Jose and Alfredo. Jose and Alfredo were twin brothers from Guatemala, had been in the states for two years now, and lived in a Lindmen outbuilding converted into an apartment. Jose (whom Eddie called Tall-Brown) studied English at a no-charge adult school in the next town over, picked it up quickly, whereas his brother Alfredo (Short-Brown) had no ambition of learning more than what little he already knew.
After a long hard day of shit work, Eddie would occasionally visit the Guatemalan’s. Not that he gave two shits about them, but they always had good weed. When asked their source of the weed, Jose was vague and gave a few different versions of the same bullshit story, leading Eddie to believe that they grew the stuff themselves, the plants likely somewhere on the Lindmen’s vast property. That was fine by Eddie. If and when the plants were found, the authorities or his folks would be quick to place blame on the illegals and they’d likely be deported or at least fired and arrested. That was their damn problem, not Eddie’s. Eddie made out great, got the weed for a quarter of the cost that a dealer would charge, and it was some great weed. He figured if he really wanted to, he could demand it free of charge, using blackmail as the tender. He’d probably do just that if he was low on funds and craving a joint. Being an eternal optimist, he reserved hope that he’d find the plants eventually, and then he’d never pay for it.
It was early Friday evening, the sky an infinite expanse of gorgeous pink and orange with a band of glowing red over the western horizon, the sun a burnished copper disc just minutes from setting. Being that it was the kick-off to the weekend, Eddie strolled over the Guatemalan’s with a six-pack of Bud and rapped on the door. Alfredo answered and let him in.
The place was sparsely furnished, had a permanent aroma of refried beans, but it was clean, with two bedrooms and a modestly sized living room with an old piece of shit TV perched on a pair of dairy crates; it was tuned to a Mexican station, picked up by rabbit-ears. Jose lowered the volume and smiled at what was in Eddie’s right hand.
“Sup, amigo?” Eddie said spiritedly.
“I thought you might stop by this evening,” Jose said with a sidelong grin. “Getting low, eh?”
“I’m all out.” He jerked two cans out of the wax ring and tossed them to the Guatemalan’s. “A problem I’m looking to remedy.” He helped himself to the recliner seat, opened a Bud for himself, set the remaining three beers on his lap.
“No problem, amigo,” Jose said. “Es no problema at all.” He walked to the kitchenette, opened a cupboard, pulled out a box of Raisin Bran and removed the large Ziploc baggie of weed from within.
Alfredo took a seat on the couch, looked stupidly at Eddie. Maybe it wasn’t that Alfredo didn’t wish to learn English but was too stupid to. That was probably it.
“When are you going to learn English, for chrissake,” Eddie asked him.
“Who, me?” Jose asked from the kitchen.
“No not you,” Eddie said thickly. “Short-Brown.”
“When you habla Español,” Alfredo returned with a grin.
Eddie flipped him off with a grin of his own. “This is America, I don’t have to learn that shit.”
Jose returned to the living room, took a seat beside his twin brother Short-Brown, placed the bag of weed on the coffee table with a smaller empty baggie for transfer.
“Oh hey, Tall-Brown,” Eddie said, “I got some bad news for you. My dad found your pot plants and is pissed you’re growing weed on his farm.”
Eddie gauged Jose’s reaction carefully. Jose laughed, shook his head, and said, “No he did not. I told you, I don’t grow it.”
“Then where do you get it? It looks home-grown to me.”
“It is good, no?”
“Yeah, it’s superb. Grade fucking A. Come on, man, tell me, where do you score it?”
“Why does it matter?” Jose said and began removing clumps of green buds from the larger baggie, dropped them into the smaller. “The usual amount?”
“Yeah, that’s fine. I’m just curious. I don’t know anyone in town who sells, and I know a hell of a lot more people than you.”
“I have a friend who has a friend. That’s how I get it. Sorry but I can’t tell you who. You understand.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie said peevishly and sipped his Bud. “So what are you two up to this weekend?”
Jose faced his brother and spoke rapid Spanish at him amusedly. He then said to Eddie, “Two girls are visiting tonight. I’m sort of dating one; the other is her sister.” Sister sounded like sea-ster. “We haven’t met her yet, but if she looks like Maria she’ll be muy bonita.”
Eddie was agape. “Are you shitting me? You got a chick? How’d that happen?”
“I have a life outside of work, amigo. Maria lives in Bridgewater. I met her when I painted her padre’s home a few weekends ago.”
Jose sealed the baggie and got off the couch, handed it to Eddie, who then pulled out a twenty-dollar-bill from his jeans pocket to trade. Eddie scrutinized the baggie’s contents, took a long pull from his can of Bud before groping a pack of rolling-papers out of his pocket.
“If I give you some money,” Jose asked, “could you buy me beer?”
“Buy it yourself, Tall-Brown. Sunset Liquors sells to minors.”
“Oh yeah? Good to know.”
Eddie got to rolling a joint, crumbling buds onto the leaf. “You can have the other three beers. Actually, I want one for the road. The other two are yours.”
“Gracias, mi amigo.”
“De nada.”
Alfredo repeated “De nada” impressively. “Tu hablas Español, es muy bien.”
Eddie ran his tongue over the edge of the paper, twisted the joint, stood from the recliner after peeling a beer from the ring. “Learn English already, mother fucker. Thanks for the weed. See you guys later.”
“Want to smoke it here? I can match your joint,” Jose offered.
“Nah, got plans. See-ya, Tall and Short.”
Eddie closed the door behind him. It had darkened a bit in the ten minutes spent at the Guatemalan’s. The sun was invisible, the red band on the horizon had dulled and narrowed, the sky now purple, a spangle of stars dotting through. He snatched his backpack from beside the door and slung it over his shoulder, headed due west to the vast corn field, followed a two-foot wide rough dirt path between seven-foot stands of corn that swayed and rustled with the evening breeze. He was a nature lover, enjoyed the earthy smells, the droning hum of insects. A droning hum sounding like electricity coursing through power-lines, which seemed to intensify the hotter it became. He loved it out here, loved the feeling of being absolutely alone. He even loved that it was somehow spooky, wonderfully spooky. He supposed the reason he felt that way was two-fold: the movie Children of the Corn, and a Twilight Zone episode he watched a few times as a kid; the one with the boy who wished his enemies into the corn field.
He strode along the path until it intersected with another wider path, one with tractor-made wheel ruts, and turned left. There wasn’t a hill or even a slight elevation in terrain as far as the eye could see in every direction, making the sky appear a million miles wide. He took a deep breath of cooling evening air that smelled sweetly organic. He put the joint between his lips and lit it with a silver Zippo, having to shield the flame from the gusting wind to keep it alive. He pocketed the lighter and puffed furiously until the tip of the joint glowed a fiery orange.
Ahh, what a way to kick off the weekend.
Eddie spotted his recently-contrived mark
er up ahead: three conspicuous stones in a line. He parted the corn stalks beyond the stones and trod into the field. Fifteen yards into it was a small clearing ten feet in diameter, a matting of flattened cornless stalks. Centering the circle was a fire pit environed by stones, a bare-earth concavity not yet lined with ash. He had made it yesterday evening with the intention of bringing wood here on his next visit; its christening would be tonight.
He rolled the backpack off his shoulder. It had been left unzipped due to the length of split cypress logs he had taken from his folks’ wood pile earlier that day. He constructed a teepee in the center of the pit, fashioned a wisp of corn silk to place under it. Satisfied with his industriousness, he took another hit off his joint, held it, exhaled the blue-white smoke. There was a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey that he had brought out yesterday. He spun the top off and took a swig, opened his can of Bud and chased the whiskey with it. He took another pull off the Wild Turkey and spat it at the wood teepee.
Eddie sat the beer and bottle down, knelt before the fire pit. With his Zippo he lighted the corn silk. The flame grew rapidly over the alcohol-doused cypress. Satisfied, he stood and backed away, took another rip off his joint. He gazed up at the purple sky, eyes heavy from the weed, but he wasn’t sleepy. Thirsty, he was that. And high. He took a long drink from his tepid Budweiser, burped loudly. The electric drone of insects had become chirping crickets, and somewhere in the distance a bat screeched. All beautiful sounds, as was the sound of wood crackling, occasionally popping.
He watched the hypnotic fire, lambent flames dancing and licking up around the cypress. It smelled like camping, a nostalgic aroma. He sat down with his legs extended forward, leaned back against his locked arms, his marijuana cigarette pointing up between two fingers.
“I’m having trouble trying to sleep,” he sang. “I’m counting sheep I’m running out.” He loved that Green Day song. “As time ticks by, still I try…”
A gust swept up a glowing orange cinder out of the fire pit. Eddie watched it glide and zigzag with the wind before it gracefully drifted down to the corn-husk carpeting. He brought the joint up to his lips and puffed. Holding his breath he snuffed the remaining half-joint out on his shoe and dropped it in the breast pocket of his flannel shirt to enjoy later, exhaled the sweet smoke.
“My mind is set on overdrive,” he sang.
He took another swig of whisky, screwed the cap back on and rolled the bottle away from him.
I should bring a chick here someday. That’s what this place needs, a chick. That’s all this place needs.
Eddie was lost in reverie staring at the Wild Turkey label, when through his peripherals he became aware of fire not in the fire pit. It was minor, but wouldn’t be for long; it spread quickly over the dry corn-stalk floor. He sprang to his feet and began stomping it out frantically, rolling his ankle on one such stomp. Not enough to evoke pain, but substantial enough to indicate that something hard lay under this burnt carpeting. A rock, probably.
The crisis was over, the fire was out. He used his foot to sweep the charred debris away from the spot where he had felt something. He saw nothing but dark dirt in this little one-foot gap. On his haunches he touched his palm to the dirt, testing the temperature: warm. He raked a few fingers along the dirt, felt what his ankle had rolled over, something mostly buried. He pried it loose and stood, brushed away the dirt caked to it. He stepped nearer the fire to get a better look. It was a figurine of sorts. Green stone. Was it jade? It was hard to tell what its sculptor had aimed for when creating it. There was a face, that much he could say with certainty. A big mouth stretching an eternal silent scream. Big warped lips and pointed teeth standing out in relief from its mouth cavity; teeth sharp enough to prick his finger. It had wide maniacal eyes. He didn’t think it was a man, but perhaps demon. Or some Aztec or Mayan god. Yes, probably a god. That led Eddie to wonder just how old this damn thing was. And what was it doing here? Native Americans. That had to be it. Maybe it was worth something. That would be cool. Maybe he found some ancient artifact that could be used to line his pockets with cash. He pocketed it and decided to celebrate a little, fetched the sideways bottle of whisky and had a drink, chased it with the last of his can of Bud.
He sat back down facing the fire with his legs before him once again. He spit the nasty whisky taste out of his mouth: it landed and sizzled in the fire. Eddie frowned. Something was… different. It had to do with the fire. The orange and yellow flames now had a green tint to them. It was so subtle that he dismissed it as an effect of the weed. Odd though. The tint persisted. And there was something else about the flames streaked with green: they were a little hazy, as if he were watching the fire through a filmy windowpane. It was minor, though.
“You know what I want to know?” Eddie asked the air. “How does a pair of illegals get chicks in this Podunk town? They’re probably plumplings, anyway.”
“You’d be surprised,” a voice said.
Eddie jumped to his feet, heart wedged in his throat. He spun around frenzied, peered between the corn stalks along the periphery of the circle. “Who said that?”
There was a high giggle. Eddie couldn’t pinpoint its location. In fact, it didn’t seem to originate from any specific location, but all around him. That might have been an effect of the weed, too.
“I’m your friend,” the voice said.
Eddie turned in circles, checking and rechecking each gap in the corn.
“You will not find me. I am behind your eyes.”
Part 2: Now