The Country Duet(4)

I reach up, pulling my trucker hat off my head and take a few steps inside of the house, being careful not to knock things over on my way. The further in the house the worse the smell becomes.

“Yes, Sir. I’m a college student and looking for some part-time work.”

He shakes his head, not easing the tension on his face. “What’s your intentions here?”

“Looking for a job.”

“If you’re not serious about this, then get the fuck out now.”

Masking the reactions wanting to play out on my face is not an easy job. I swallow down the lump in my throat and continue, not wanting to be disrespectful even though, so far, this man is the furthest from respectful.

“With all due respect, Sir, I wouldn’t have driven forty-five minutes out here if I wasn’t.”

“You’ve got one damn shot at this. I like things my way, and that won’t change.” He grunts and groans, trying to sit up in his chair. The sound of bones grinding on bones sends chills over my skin. “Help me into my shoes and coat.”

I move forward, kneeling in front of him and helping him slip on his shoes. His socks are even black and more like a second skin, not a piece of clothing that’s worn and washed. I tamp back the smells and sensation to gag while helping him. The man needs help to stand up and walk, but from his less than friendly greeting, I feel like I’m walking on glass here.

“Get in my truck, and we will see if you’re going to work out, boy.” He creeps down his front steps at his own speed. “I don’t let just anyone on this farm. I’m still deciding if this is going to work out.”

I nod. Not sure what to say. I settle into the small, beat up, farm truck. I watch as the man takes a good ten minutes to get in behind the steering wheel. Hell, I don’t even know his name at this point. He’s less than friendly, so I have no clue how to approach him.

He fires up the truck, and it starts on the first try, shocking the hell out of me.

“Look behind me, boy. Anything in my way?” He shifts the truck into reverse, revving up the engine.

Slowly, I pivot in my seat to see the path is clear, and thanking God I parked my truck at the end of the drive.

“It’s clear.”

He punches it in reverse, sending gravel flying up in the air. He has the little truck bounding through the rows and rows of old equipment. Once again, I’m in awe of how organized all the junk is.

He slams on the brakes after we’ve only gone about fifteen yards. “See that piece of metal there?”

“Yes.”

“Get out and put it in the back of the truck.”

I answer with actions, popping open the door and hustling over to it. Picking it up, I notice it’s just an old piece of scrap metal. I set in the bed of the truck, coming face-to-face with another shock. There’s shit scattered everywhere in it. It’s all junk.

He has the truck in gear, driving away before I have the chance to get my legs in. Thank God, I still hit the gym five times a week. I keep the chuckle in at this absurd situation. I pat my thighs, thankful the old wheels still have a giddy up and go. Football has always been my favorite sport, and I have three State Champion titles to prove it.

The truck comes to another stop with the brakes working overtime, squeaking out their pain. This time he doesn’t tell me what to do, but only points at a rusty rim lying in the grass. I hop out to grab it and place it in the bed of the truck. We do this for the next three hours. My frustration level is morphing to a boiling point. I pride myself in not losing my temper, but this man is pushing even my limits. Three damn hours worth of work I could’ve got done in fifteen minutes.

“Anything behind me?” he asks for the twentieth time today.

“You’re clear.”

It’s clear this man cannot turn his head to the side to check his surroundings and that he also can’t remember where all of his shit is.

“Eight hundred acres,” he begins talking once he drives back toward his house. “My dad built the house and farmed this land for years, and then I took it over. I think you’ll work out just fine, boy.”

I drop my head back to the tattered headrest, wanting nothing more than to get the hell out of here. This is nothing but a damn joke and waste of a day.

“Had a stroke seven years ago and can’t move like I used to. Need help keeping this place up. It’s all I’ve ever known.”

There’s no response I can muster up, so I sit and listen to him ramble on.

“Kids these days don’t know how to work. I won’t put up with bullshit or you being a pussy. Things are always my way.” His bony and contorted fingers struggle to grip the steering wheel.

The day was complete bullshit. I’m frustrated, tired, and sick of this crap. I scrub my face with the palms of my hands, trying to find a way out of this. It’s obvious he doesn’t open up easily to anyone, and it seems he is with me. His few words were a job offer or some shit like that. When I open my eyes again, I stare at the perfect rows of equipment, and that’s when it hits me. Back in the day, each of them were shiny and in their prime, just like the man sitting next to me.

His soul is still so much in love with this farm and all of his junk, but his body is giving out on him. Is that what happens when you love the land so much?

“I’ll pay you once a month.”