Kiera Mull and Quinn Fenicle
The faded rusty mailbox squeaks, post wavering in the wind as the driver of a black 1980 postal Jeep slams it shut. Speeding away, kicking up dust into the new morning light the sun rises east over the old white farmhouse. The first rooster crows, like a clock set to six. The creak of a red screen door opening echoes across the empty drive, and the damp fall air is filled with the scent of freshly brewed Folgers. The farmer walks out of a dark and eerie house to the porch painted white. The red door slams behind him. Slowly he sits into the rocking chair, every bone in his body cracking. One by one struggling, he sinks his feet into his boots, dust falling to the floor. He pets his golden retriever on the head and walks down the stairs. The blue handkerchief flopped in his back pocket with each step he took.
The old farmer walks down the gravel path to the south pig barn, stopping to look at his surrounding soybean fields. Approaching the door, he glares at the dying marigolds his wife planted before she disappeared. It has been two years since her disappearance, two years since neighbors dropped off casseroles and cards. Now the only thing left of the woman he doesn’t want to remember is the dying marigolds at his feet. He pushes open the door and his ears are filled with the cries of 1,500 hungry piglets. In the feed room he turns on the large mixers, preparing feed. He dumps two 5-gallon buckets into the mixture, it's what the town calls his “secret ingredients.” No one really knew what was in it, it's not like they could ask. The old farmer was the most well-known pig farmer in the state, producing the biggest and healthiest stock no other farmer could even dream of. The farmer seldom left his home, no one knew his name; he knew no one. He was well known yet no one really knew him, not the important things at least. He finished mixing the feed, filled his wheelbarrow and went to work filling the feeders while pigs nipped at his jeans. When breakfast was served, he double checked to make sure the feed room door was locked and then exited the barn.
Once again walking past the unkept bed of sad marigolds, he was startled by a brown rabbit that darted out across the path, into the brush. He cursed at the rabbit and kept walking, his boots turning up dust behind him. A fall breeze shook the golden soybeans, knocking them together. Harvest season is approaching. The farmer reaches the east barn, the bigger of the two. The east barn holds the hogs, they are only a few days away from being slaughtered. He goes though the same routine he did at the south barn except this time he doesn't double check the locks. Shutting the door behind him he retraces his path and heads home. He continues walking straight to the end of the drive, bending down slowly to retrieves the daily local newspaper. The headline reads, “Ms. Millie and her award-winning pies: What is the secret?” He chuckles and heads back to the house. Treading up the stairs, his heavy work boots echo as each heavy step hit the antique wood floor. When he touches the paint chipped beams, a pin sized sliver of wood pierces through his callused finger. Grabbing the red Swiss Army knife in his back pocket yanks the splinter out, wiping the blood on his old wrangler jeans.
It is half past twelve when he opens the creaky screen door. Wandering into the kitchen, he opens the far-left cabinet only to find a jar of peanut butter and half a loaf of bread. Opening the fridge door, he is greeted by one lonely jar of homemade strawberry jam, probably. Slowly spreading a thin layer of peanut butter on two pieces of bread, followed by a layer of jam on one, he remembers something. It had been what felt like forever ago when his wife last had made him a sandwich like this. He hated how she spread the peanut butter on too thick and the jam too thin. Then she would cut it, she would cut the sandwich into stupid triangular pieces like you would for a child. The farmer shakes his head, brushing the memory from his mind, only then did he realize he was smashing his sandwich. Jelly oozes out of the sides onto his hand. The red substance on his hand was far too familiar. Infuriated, he eats his smashed lunch bite by bite, but by the end he is unsatisfied. He has come to the sad conclusion that he must leave his homestead and head to town.
Meandering out of the house, off the porch, and to his old beat-up Ford F-150 his dog follows at his heels. He inserts the key and turns but the old rusty engine turns over. Cursing at the truck, he attempts to start it again, this time the dashboard is alive, and the engine grumbles awake. He pulls out of the driveway, dust following closely until the tires hit the pavement. Heading down Clover Drive, the farm is barely visible in the dust cloud following closely behind him. The soft melody of “Amarillo by Morning” is drowned out by the sound of rattling tools in the bed of the truck. On the rare occasion you met the old farmer, he would never be without his red toolbox full of well, no one knew what was really in there. He reaches the only grocery store within a 50-mile radius, “Ray and Millie’s market.” The farmer dreaded going there or anywhere else for that matter, he tried to limit his visits to once a month. There were always too many people, and everyone seemed to want to talk to him. He never was one for chatter, although sometimes he played along. His wife was always the social one. As he opened the glass door a delicate bell chimed. At the front counter Ms. Minnie greeted him with an immense smile and an awfully cheery “Hello.” The old farmer predicted what would come next, small talk.
“How have you been?” Ms. Millie exclaimed.
The farmer mumbled, “Oh hangin’ in there, how are you doing?” Yet the painstaking conversation continued. He had felt as though he was watching grass grow, grass that hadn’t been watered in months. As he made his way toward the meat counter, he was greeted by yet another extremely gleeful person.
Mr. Ray shouts, “Oh Mr. McCormick, it has been some time.” The farmer is in internal misery. Making his way around the store pushing a cart with a crooked wheel, every second step he took the cart squeaked. The farmer hated noises like this, something about the annoyance really set him off. None the less he was only here for a quick trip, so he chugged along grimacing at the cart. As he approached the end of isle three, he noticed a bulletin board with a bright yellow flyer pinned to it. Plastered upon the top of a bright yellow sheet of printer paper read “Farmhand for hire.”
The farmer never wanted help with farm, but this offer was different. There was something about this flyer that grabbed his attention. He continued doing his shopping. Yet the flyer was still in tugging at the back of his mind. He could not resist and turned around. He grabbed one of the flimsy tabs and ripped fiercely. He tucked the piece of paper in this front right jean pocket. With a plan forming in his head he proceeded to push the squeaky cart. He strolled grabbing things and checking them off his list. He had reached the last two items, milk and eggs, and at last he could leave the atrocious place. He placed the items on the crimson countertop. He walked forward pushing the cart along. The cashier entered each item, tapping hard on each key. Slowly each item the receipt crawled out of the register. The farm focused on a crack on the floor avoiding eye contact at all costs. The cashier uttered “$15.75,” as the cash drawer launched out of the register. The farmer reached in his back pocket and yanked out his tatter and worn wallet. As the wallet clung to his pants and finally released the yellow slip gracefully fluttered to the ground. The farmer didn’t even notice and continued to retrieve the money. As the cashier made him change, he glanced back down at his feet. He quickly bent down as he realized he dropped the slip. The cashier handed him his change and the farmer grabbed the crisp, brown, paper bags.
The farmer strolled out of the store ignoring Ms. Millie as she waved him good-bye and told him, “Now don’t be a stranger Mr. McCormick”
He jolted open the rusty red passenger side door. He placed the bags of groceries on the dusty seat. The farmer got in the driver's seat and let out a sign of relief; he was finally able to go home. The engine grumbled, the radio hummed, and the tires rolled. The farmer pulled into 130 Clover Drive. He slid out of the seat and walked through the red door to the kichen. He placed the brown bags on the cold countertop. Lifting the cold glass bottle of milk from the bottom, he couldn’t stop his mind from drifting back to the yellow slip of paper. He grabs the tiny slip of paper from the bottom of his blue jean pockets, pulling it out and glancing at it, only long enough to read the number written the bottom. Walking over to the robin egg colored landline, and he lifted it swiftly. He looked down at the yellow slip in his hand, and with his calicoed fingers, dialed the number written on it, 310-225-7649. The farmer listened to the ringing of the phone and waited for an answer. Then, there was a sudden deep, raspy, yet young voice, “Hello?” Quickly, the farmer scrambled his brain for the right words to say.
He responded with “Howdy, this is Mr. McCormick of The Clover Pig Farm.”
The boy uttered, “Oh, Mr. McCormick how can I help you this afternoon, sir?”
“I saw your flyer offering to be a farmhand, and I was wondering if you would be interested in comin’ out here and helping me out.”
“Yes sir, I would love to come out and help around the farm.”
“Great, you start tomorrow at 6:00 and pay is $3.50 an hour.”
“Yes sir, I will be there bright and early; you can count on me.”
The farmer hung the phone back on the wall and chuckled. He walked to the fridge and grabbed a Pabst Blue Ribbon, setting it down on the counter; he grabbed a can of peanuts. He picked the beer can up, leaving a water ring on the yellow Formica. The red door slammed behind him as he achingly slid down into a white rocking chair. His golden retriever was lying next to him. The farmer barely got excited for anything. However, he couldn't wait for 6:00 to roll around. He just sat there grinning and rocking back and forth.
He rolled out of bed, his left foot touching the ground first, his sock had a hole in it. He put on another pair of tattered wranglers, a black Carhartt shirt, and a flannel with a rip beside the right pocket directly on his heart. He meandered down the stairs, each step easier than the last. He brewed a bold cup of black Folgers, fried two eggs and three slices of bacon. The toast popped out the right of him and he buttered it and put it on a white plate. He sat at the oak table, poured Tabasco on his eggs and ate everything on the plate. He put on his tan leather gloves, his Ford baseball cap, and his Carhartt vest. The farmer walked out the door and onto the porch, boot in hand. He slipped them on one foot at a time. The rooster crowed at 6:00 just like it did every day. In that moment a white 1980 GMC pulled onto the dusty road. The farmer’s eyes dart over to the Iowa license plate. He was right on time.
Out stepped a teenage boy no older than 17 he was easily seven feet tall; he was extraordinarily handsome, athletic, strong, and the farmer could tell this one was going to be brave. He tucked his keys with his lucky monkey paw keychain in his right front pocket. The boy walked up to the bottom of the stairs where the farmer was standing. They reached out and shook each other's hands. “I am Harrison Bergeron, sir it is a pleasure to be working for you.”
The farmer replied, “I can tell you are a hard worker boy; you’ll do great.” The farmer starts walking and talks to Harrison, “Now follow me; we will always start at the south barn. We give them feed, water, then clean up always in that order.” “Do Not Go in the feed room; it is off limits. I have a secret feed recipe and I can't afford to have anyone else know what is in it.”
“Yes sir, I understand,” Harrison replied as he looked at the ground.
As they walked to the barn the dog followed. The farmer continued to set ground rules. “You will be on time every morning; you will do things the way I want them done. You will help with harvest and will get a bonus if we have a successful yield. Overall, this will be a hard job but if it is done right the payoff will be worth it.”
“Yes, sir I am a hard worker; you can count on me and I will not disappoint.”
As they reached the barn the farmer pushed open the door, “I will get the feed ready; you go look around and check it out.”
Harrison walked down the aisle in between pens of hundreds of piglets. They were squealing of hunger. While in the feed room the farmer noticed the bucket of special feed was empty. He knew it wasn’t a big deal because Harrison would never be allowed to give the special feed. The farmer walked out of the feed room with a red bucket in his hand. He handed it to the boy and said, “Sprinkle this in the troughs evenly; they all get the same amount.”
“Yes, Sir” The boy replied.
The farmer declared, “Now these pigs will grow to be some of the greatest hogs in the state, and it’s all in the feed.” “Fill their water up, and then you can start cleaning up.”
As the boy began to fill the water tubs up, the farmer grabbed a shovel and started to clean up after the pigs. It was silent other than the squeals of the pigs.
The farmer showed the boy how to do the same thing with the hogs in the east barn. He told the boy soybean harvest starts tomorrow and he was expected to be at the farm 6 AM sharp. With that he exited the barn and left the boy alone to do as he was told.
The sun rose the next morning just like it did any other day. The sky was clear, no clouds visible, the golden soybeans reflecting off the sun was the only thing visible for miles. The farmer got to his feet, sitting up out of bed. His alarm clock read 5:30. He got dressed and finished his morning routine, with only a few minutes left to spare for breakfast. As he was putting on his shoes he was startled by an unfortunate memory. He was out of special feed. He grinned to himself, finished putting on his shoes and opened the door. When he turned around, he was greeted by a cheery smile sitting on the porch steps. Harrison was right on time. Together the two walked the dusty lane to the storage barn. When they approached, he swung open the heavy barn doors. A large shiny International Harvester combine grabbed the boy's attention, but the farmer was too busy looking at his old rusty John Deere combine. Harrison was surprised the old man expected him to use a rusty old tractor instead of the newer more innovative one. The farmer turned his head at the young man’s question, the corners of his mouth turning up a bit more. After assuring Harrison, his old way was much more efficient decided he would allow the boy to use the new combine on one condition. The farmer would use the old tractor and the boy could use the new one. Whoever harvested 50 acres first would win the months profit. Accepting the bet, the farmer grabbed the keys from the hook and tossed one at the boy. Starting his engine, the John Deere spit out some smoke, first black then white. Making his way down the lane to the south field, he could hear the International Harvester following closely behind him. When they approached the field, both combines growled as they began the task of harvesting.
One hour later, the farmer was almost finished when he heard an awful noise farther out in the field. He knew the sound too well, the unreliable International had a clogged beater. He took a break from his row, turning the key and leaving his machine in park. He had an awfully long walk to the boy's machine only to be greeted by Harrison staring blankly at the combine. The farmer chuckles to himself seconds before deciding to have some fun. He knew exactly what was wrong with the combine, but the boy didn’t. He walked over to the boy who was now peering into the blades of the machine. The motor was running and the blades still turning. The farmer walked to his side putting his hand on his shoulder to get a better look. The placement on his shoulder might have been just right or maybe it was luck, but whatever it was sent the boy headfirst into the harvester. The bloodcurdling screams only lasting seconds before his head was pulled completely under. The machine crunched as it ground up what was left of the boy. The farmer stood still, watching, as the boy disappeared into the combine. The winner of the bet didn’t need to be said aloud, nor did the question of feed for the morning need answered.
The next morning at feed time there was a knock on the barn door. He stood in the doorway of the feed room while two police officers walked in. Tucking the bucket of special feed back to its place on the shelf, he turned to the two men. One thin and lanky, the other short and round, the officers greeted him good morning and told him about a boy who was reported missing. They said someone saw him take a tab from a flyer the boy posted several days earlier. The farmers brows met in the middle as he offendedly told them he would never need extra help, nor did he have time to deal with someone as useful as a kick in the gut. The officers, taken aback, apologized to the farmer for the inconvenience. They said several other tabs were taken and they must have gotten mixed up or mistaken him for someone else. The two men excused themselves and walk hurriedly out of the barn. Grinning, the farmer glanced back to the bucket on the shelf. The monkey’s paw keychain in his back pocket barely visible as he walked away.
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