The dark blue 1989 Ford pick-up was heading home. Almost like an old western movie, Bevington thought. Just me and Old Paint, riding off into the sunset, going home.
Home, now there's a word Bev had always shunned. Home meant farming, basketball, not fitting in, and mom. Well, it's been decided. It's me, I am the one to go home and take care of the farm, to support mom to do whatever has to be done. Okay, so I had been contemplating coming home anyway. Home was beginning to mean other things too; how about consistency? What about boring? Safety? Expectations? Oh man would would mom want now? A girly-girl? A giggler, a flirt? Ahhhggg! Why did I agree to do this?
The first drop of rain splattered the windshield, hard. It startled Bev out of her reverie. "Well, Paint, at least you'll have somewhere to run when we get to the farm." The old, black lab raised his head and panted a smile.
I hope the Hendersons have the corn in Things will be different with me in charge. For the first time in five years, our crops will be harvested first.
"Paint, what did the weatherman say?" Bev asked as she turned the dial to the old familiar farm channel she had heard blaring out each morning at five a.m., which was dad's way of saying 'Rise and Shine!' Can this be the same guy I've heard all my life? He must be 100 years old? Beans are down? Down? Did the Hendersons contract them or did they sell them directly out of the field? Are we paying any storage?
"...rain is forcasted for the area through the end of the week." "It looks like a we harvest this year." I hope the corn is in! Why didn't I leave a week earlier? What was holding me? My job? My life? I can't believe how easy it is to fall back into the farm mentality. Okay, Bev, you promised yourself you'd not give up some of the things that were part of your life in L.A. You could go to the city to see some plays, the local University had visiting operas and symphony companies. But you'll do all these things alone, you won't want to go, but you will. The fear of being alone was why you left and it's also why you're coming back.
"Rest stop ahead, ya wanna run baby, ya need to relieve yourself, huh?" Paint jumped from the floor to the pick-up's seat and looked expectantly out the windsheild at the sound of Bev's most talking-to-a-baby voice.
Bev slowed the truck to the posted 25 miles per hour. She wondered how in the heck you could from 65 miles per hour to 25 miles per hour in the short distance between the interstate and the off-ramp without slamming on your brakes and risking a neck injury.
Wow! This is a crowded stop. Well, it's probably the intermittent rain. Nothing makes you as tired as the hypnotic slap, slap of the windshield wipers. "Come on baby, the rain's let up - let's go for a walk, ya wanna, huh?" Paint threw himself out of the driver's side door as soon as Bev's booted feet had touched the damp pavement.
"Wait, you big 'ol baby, I gotta put the leash on!" Paint stood patiently while Bev snapped the red canvas strap to Paint's collar. Poor baby, he's so used to this chain. I can't wait to get him to the far where he'll have the whole yard to run in. Where he won't have to be so quiet, where he can be a dog, be himself, follow his natural instincts. Oh man, I'm starting to sound just like Mom. "It's unfair to keep a dog in the city." "That dog is too well-behaved, it isn't natural!" Well, I've heard her say the same about the grandkids. How can my brothers and sisters stand it? Mom's criticism would account for my coming home to take care of the farm rather than any one of them, who live closer.
Bev smiled to herself. Mom's criticism, my lack of a marriage, my lack of responsibilities. Hey, what about my intelligence? My ability to farm? Who helped Dad, always? Who wanted to farm? Who planted corn instead of attending her senior prom? Who walked beans and detasseled corn every summer of her teen life so that she could buy calves to raise? Calves the good old system wouldn't let her show at 4-H competitions because only boys could show livestock. They wanted her to enter a sewing or cooking project first, then they might let her show calves. Well, she'd beaten them, she had Bill show them for her.
Bev clapped her hands and Paint came around the picnic table and jumped on Bev's knees. "Hey you 'ol pig-baby, yer wet, aren't ya?" "Don't jump on me!" "Did you do yer business?" "Are you ready to hit the road, head home, huh?"
The next fifty miles sped by. The rain started up again, this time in earnest. The drops were big and round and they sounded cold when they hit the windshield. The wipers were on low and they made Bev irritated with their inability to keep the glass clear. But putting the on high caused them to make a screech that made her teeth ache.
Bev turned the heat up a little and dialed the knob to 'mix'. Paint snuggled down on the floor directly next to the heater vent, made a big doggy-sigh and went contentedly to sleep. The radio was tuned to a classical station that didn't too much static interference. Bev would definitely miss the L.A. orchestra season. The windshield wipers could finally be put on low and left there, and Bev could see just fine. Their hypnotic slap, slap, the faint symphonic music, and the heat made conditions just right for Bev to finally put her mind to the real reason she was going home.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Randall Stanhope, Hampton Clarion & Stuart Panora
The three large mid-western shaped men looked like fat Vienna sausages sitting in the Chevy Chevette. The Chevette was a great commuter car; it made about 32 miles to the gallon, but it wasn't made to seat three builkily dressed men. Every time the care went over a bump the frame made a squishing noise on the rear tires.
The Chevette was one reason Randall hated the carpool when it was Stuart's turn to drive. Ham drove an older pickup and it was crowded too, but Randall didn't have to worry about rubbing a tire flat every second they were on the road.
He worried about things like that. Randall drove a 1978 silver Buick Regal. He and his wife referred to it as the 'work car', although their good/family car wasn't in much better shape. They both had over 100,000 miles on them, but the Regal didn't have air-conditioning, unless you counted the rusted out placed in the floorboards. Randall had rivetted plywood to those spots, but he fretted about someone falling through the boards onto the highway. To be able to bear being a rider in the carpool, Randall pretended to sleep most of the way to work. That way he didn't have to concern himself with how many times Ham or Stu went over the center line or passed unsafely, which they tended to do as if other's lives weren't their responsibility.
The three men started carpooling six years ago when the packing plant they worked for cut back wages. Since none of them could afford to quit, they saved money by carpooling. In those six years the carpool had many different riders, but Randal, Ham and Stu were always at its core.
They were a group, a circle of friends, although not one of the would consider it so. They had shared dreams, disappointments and laughter. They never socialized outside the carpool and since they each worked in a different area of the packing house, they only saw each other in the cocoon of the carpool. The forty-five minutes every a.m. and every p.m. gave the men ample time to get to know each other. None of them had spent that much close time with another male since boyhood.
Randall was a worrier. He would replay the conversations he had with his wife or his children over and over while doing the repetitive cuts on the thousands of heads of hogs that passed him each day. He'd analyze the tone and inflection of their voices. He'd try to remember each facial expression and think if he was missing any non-verbal clues to the meaning of the sentences exchanged. Sometimes all this reflection would assure Randall that his wife loved him and that his children respected him. More often it made him angry with his life's circumstances. It made him regret choices made ten years ago and hesitant to make decisions today.
Ham, who supervised the killing line, played mean and hurtful practical jokes on his co-workers. He also embellished the details when telling Randall and Stu each evening. Ham had worked at the hog factory for twenty years. Some of Ham's jokes were twenty years old too but with the high employee turnover, he had fresh victims every few months or so. One of his favorite pranks was to 'blue ball' any new unsuspecting male employee.
The blue ink used by the Federal inspectors to stamp "USDA Approved" on the cuts of meat came in large containers. Ham would use a Dixie cup to scoop up the dye and catch the unfortunate guy in the toilet and douse his genitals with the ink. When regaling Randall and Stu with this story he'd make ribald remarks about the size of the balls just blued.
Stu was the consummate family man. His wife cleaned the house, cared for their three teenaged daughters and made life comfortable for Stu. Everything Stu did shouted "Married with Children". Stu's family car was a small, economical and nondescript color He was usually attired in jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. He wife cut his hair and it looked it. Stu and his family spent Saturday evenings grocery shopping. Then they'd stop at the local Hardee's for supper and on to home for a big batch of microwave popcorn and family TV. They spent all day in church or at church related activities on Sunday.
The Chevette was one reason Randall hated the carpool when it was Stuart's turn to drive. Ham drove an older pickup and it was crowded too, but Randall didn't have to worry about rubbing a tire flat every second they were on the road.
He worried about things like that. Randall drove a 1978 silver Buick Regal. He and his wife referred to it as the 'work car', although their good/family car wasn't in much better shape. They both had over 100,000 miles on them, but the Regal didn't have air-conditioning, unless you counted the rusted out placed in the floorboards. Randall had rivetted plywood to those spots, but he fretted about someone falling through the boards onto the highway. To be able to bear being a rider in the carpool, Randall pretended to sleep most of the way to work. That way he didn't have to concern himself with how many times Ham or Stu went over the center line or passed unsafely, which they tended to do as if other's lives weren't their responsibility.
The three men started carpooling six years ago when the packing plant they worked for cut back wages. Since none of them could afford to quit, they saved money by carpooling. In those six years the carpool had many different riders, but Randal, Ham and Stu were always at its core.
They were a group, a circle of friends, although not one of the would consider it so. They had shared dreams, disappointments and laughter. They never socialized outside the carpool and since they each worked in a different area of the packing house, they only saw each other in the cocoon of the carpool. The forty-five minutes every a.m. and every p.m. gave the men ample time to get to know each other. None of them had spent that much close time with another male since boyhood.
Randall was a worrier. He would replay the conversations he had with his wife or his children over and over while doing the repetitive cuts on the thousands of heads of hogs that passed him each day. He'd analyze the tone and inflection of their voices. He'd try to remember each facial expression and think if he was missing any non-verbal clues to the meaning of the sentences exchanged. Sometimes all this reflection would assure Randall that his wife loved him and that his children respected him. More often it made him angry with his life's circumstances. It made him regret choices made ten years ago and hesitant to make decisions today.
Ham, who supervised the killing line, played mean and hurtful practical jokes on his co-workers. He also embellished the details when telling Randall and Stu each evening. Ham had worked at the hog factory for twenty years. Some of Ham's jokes were twenty years old too but with the high employee turnover, he had fresh victims every few months or so. One of his favorite pranks was to 'blue ball' any new unsuspecting male employee.
The blue ink used by the Federal inspectors to stamp "USDA Approved" on the cuts of meat came in large containers. Ham would use a Dixie cup to scoop up the dye and catch the unfortunate guy in the toilet and douse his genitals with the ink. When regaling Randall and Stu with this story he'd make ribald remarks about the size of the balls just blued.
Stu was the consummate family man. His wife cleaned the house, cared for their three teenaged daughters and made life comfortable for Stu. Everything Stu did shouted "Married with Children". Stu's family car was a small, economical and nondescript color He was usually attired in jeans, T-shirt and sneakers. He wife cut his hair and it looked it. Stu and his family spent Saturday evenings grocery shopping. Then they'd stop at the local Hardee's for supper and on to home for a big batch of microwave popcorn and family TV. They spent all day in church or at church related activities on Sunday.
Jewell Eldora
Jewell's 1978 dirt-brown Chrysler was loud. It was loud inside and outside. The muffler, tied to the body frame with an old wire coat hanger, fell off about sixty miles ago. Jewell kept turning the volume of the radio higher and higher to drown out the noises; the no-muffler rumble, the rustling of the plastic trash-bags stuffed with all her worldly belongs, the empty soda cans rattling on the backseat floor, and the intermittent static from the radio itself.
Jewell had been traveling four and one half hours - she though she'd been moving away from noise, from things that were always too loud. Jewell, herself was loud. She knew the loudness screamed her background to others. Her make-up was too harsh, it glared, and worst of all it didn't cover the acne scars. Her hair was bleached so startling blond that it made people blink. It was pulled back into a ponytail and sprayed into the big-bangs look she favored. It contrasted sharply with the dullness, the ashy, almost dirty look of her complexion.
Upon closer inspection you'd find that Jewell was older than she first appeared. She'd followed all the latest fads, like piercing her ears two or three times, having a small tattoo placed on her ankle, and wearing spandex. Unfortunately these fads were not those of the middle-class life in which she so desperately wanted to belong. Jewell was extremely thin, unnaturally thin. Her slimness was alarming, as if she had been carved out of the thinnest, most fragile piece of balsa wood left over from a model airplane project. She smoked most of her meals, rather than eat them. She existed on caffeine and nicotine and she looked used and tired.
Jewell had been traveling four and one half hours - she though she'd been moving away from noise, from things that were always too loud. Jewell, herself was loud. She knew the loudness screamed her background to others. Her make-up was too harsh, it glared, and worst of all it didn't cover the acne scars. Her hair was bleached so startling blond that it made people blink. It was pulled back into a ponytail and sprayed into the big-bangs look she favored. It contrasted sharply with the dullness, the ashy, almost dirty look of her complexion.
Upon closer inspection you'd find that Jewell was older than she first appeared. She'd followed all the latest fads, like piercing her ears two or three times, having a small tattoo placed on her ankle, and wearing spandex. Unfortunately these fads were not those of the middle-class life in which she so desperately wanted to belong. Jewell was extremely thin, unnaturally thin. Her slimness was alarming, as if she had been carved out of the thinnest, most fragile piece of balsa wood left over from a model airplane project. She smoked most of her meals, rather than eat them. She existed on caffeine and nicotine and she looked used and tired.
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