Harvested

 Oct 23, 2007

We are traveling down an interminable country road. You are in a wheelbarrow that I am pushing. It is one of those farm-sized contraptions. Its three wooden sides are flat and so is the floor. It is painted red and has an iron wheel. It is in "like new" condition, but I figure that it dates from the Depression Era. We have a deal to take turns pushing one another in the wheelbarrow, but it is always my turn.

The only direction is ahead, footstep following footstep. We do not speak, so I am left with nothing but considerations. The sky is dappled with smallish clouds that have dark underbellies. I wonder how many hundreds of miles it will take them to become full enough to rain. There is a low ringing in my ears.

You're lying curled up on your side, and I think about pigs although we haven't passed any pig farms. I wonder how the farmers managed to slaughter a pig. Would they put a .22 caliber bullet in the pig’s head, and hoist the carcass up on a butchering table? Or would they hogtie it, haul it up on a hoist by its free hind leg and slit its throat? Don't they use everything? How much do they scrap out to the farm dogs and cats? Are the teats a delicacy for the farmer or his dogs? It occurs to me that if we were to stop and slaughter a pig, I would be able to strip out the tenderloin, but because we don't have any means of preservation, we would have to leave the rest for the carrion. I think of roasting the tenderloins wound round a stick over a fire, yet it does not make me feel hungry.

The entire morning melds into the middle of the afternoon. I consider great wars and economic theory. I consider systems of government and diplomacy. I consider plagues, pestilence and famine. I wonder why Jesus never taught us about infectious disease and how something as simple as boiling water could save untold lives. I guess that it wasn't miraculous, or spiritual, enough to matter at the time.

My arms stretch beyond usefulness at mid-afternoon. The wheelbarrow stands are dragging on the ground. There is a cornfield to our right—north—that is in the process of being harvested. There is no sign of the farmer or his machinery. We decide to rest there until my arms rebound. You have to lift the wheelbarrow over a low fence topped with barbwire. It seems like it would be impossible for you to do. You bitch. Somehow you get it over the fence. You're in a reddish brown robe with a hood. I only see your feet and hands. They appear to be feminine.

It takes great effort to raise my rubbery, achy arm to my breast pocket for a cigarette. As I take a puff, I lower my head to meet my hand, because that last couple of inches are murder. I'm wearing blue overalls, a red checked shirt, a straw hat, and some tan work boots with rawhide laces. My duds are very new and I feel uncomfortable and ridiculous in them. I think we must have stolen our outfits from the wardrobe room of a community theater.

I look up and down the road while you push the wheelbarrow in among the stalks of corn and I finish my cigarette. It seems like we are evading and far from penitent. I negotiate the fence and walk toward the stalks. We lay down in adjoining rows. The clumps of dirt are really uncomfortable to lie on. We gyrate around to compromise with the most offensive clods. I am so tired that I could sleep on a meat hook. I curl up on my right side with my head slightly elevated by a furrow. I fall asleep to the sensation of a bug crawling up the back of my left calf. We do not wake up. The weird thing is that I do not know who you are.