The Feet of God

86 - THE SWEAT OF MY BROW

Two of the guys grabbed me by the ankles and pulled.  Naturally I fell flat on my ass and damn near had a near-miss smashing my head against the deck of the truck.  These boys was scrawny but they was strong enough.  (Humiliating as the moment was, while they dragged me forward I was grateful my soiled, spangled loincloth held.)

The tall guy who was their leader looked down at me.  “Sumbitch sure looks alien, and there ain’t nothin’ ‘bout him that proves he’s legal, so I’m declaring him an illegal alien and therefore eligible to take on any job we don’t much feel like, like shovelin’ manure to start.”

I was hoping a hot shower would be in order before any strenuous exercise.  But I didn’t waste my breath.  I was resigned to my immediate fate of being covered in filthiness.

After the two other guys got me off my back and on my feet, the leader shoved a shovel in my hands.  I threw it on the ground.  The younger of the two other dudes went and picked it up and put it in my hands again.  I threw it on the ground again.  We could do this all day, only it was clear, I wasn’t gonna be the one who was going to keep bending over to pick up the damn shovel.

The leader put his pointy face into mine.  “Boy, you gonna take this here shovel and you gonna shovel shit until we tell you to stop shoveling shit.  You got that, boy?  That is, if you want to stay a boy.”

I ain’t sure where I got me any courage from, but there it was.  “You bastards can’t make me work against my will.  It ain’t American.  And besides, I don’t want no part of no chicken shit conspiracy.  You stinking cowards shot both the faces off the woman I loved.  I ain’t doin’ nothin’ to help you.”

The leader spit right in my face.  “You gonna be right there with us when we set off them bombs.  Then we gonna blame it on Mooslim terrorists, and you, bein’ all brown and ugly and such.

I felt we was at a pretty good standoff.  But I also realized the numbers was against me, plus their guns was drawn.  (They was all armed to the teeth, which really shouldn’t have surprised me, I guess.)  The shovel was firmly re-placed in my hands, so I determined that some compromise might be in order.  I’d have to play my cards right.

We marched out behind the barn toward a long, low shed about forty feet by ten with a wire pen around the back.  The place reeked of a strong, stale musty stench, and the low growl of fowl cluckin’ at each other carried to our ears.  There was no mistaking where we was.

The leader yanked open the door of the coop to reveal two walls lined with wooden boxes filled with straw and caked in bird droppings, and plenty of loose feathers what wasn’t mired in all that crud on the floor.  This was no corporate egg factory; this was a small, family-run operation well under the radar of the FBI, FDA, or the SPCA.

We walked in.  The younger of the other two dudes came pushin’ a wheelbarrow through the entrance.  “Start fillin’ ‘er up,” the leader commanded.  “We’ll be waitin’ by the truck till you’re done.”  He ordered the wheelbarrow-pusher, “You stay here and keep an eye on our workforce.”

The young one remained behind with me as the older guy and the leader took off.  I ain’t spent a lot of time on farms ‘cept the honor farm variety, but my time on honor farms taught me some small lessons on the variations of shovels.  The pointy shovels are for digging in the dirt, and the big flat shovels are for shoveling snow, but the medium-sized flat shovels that turn up on the sides so shit don’t fall out is for manure-shoveling.

I placed the shovel at an angle to the floor and leaned on it with my body to give me some leverage.  Since I was barefoot, I did not try pushing with my foot.  The shovel bit in an inch or so and I pulled up a couple of levels of crap.  The top level was moist and fresh, then there was a dry dusty layer with the consistency of sheetrock.  It wasn’t terrible heavy to toss the load into the waiting wheelbarrow, but I had no intention of rushing my forced labor.  So, shovel load after shovel load, I took my time flinging poop.

Even at my moderate rate of work, eventually I had a loaded wheelbarrow, and so me and my overseer had to head back to the truck.  The leader and the older guy was standing there off to the side with the farmer having a beer when I rolled up with my first load of shit.  The older guy flipped a lever and a lift descended from the back of the trailer.  Me and my wheelbarrow got on and I was elevated level to the back end of the truck where I could easily wheel off and dump the bird crap.

I kept at this all afternoon, one slow load after the next, barrow after barrow, pile after pile.  Even at my reduced rate of speed I was kicking up enough dried chicken dung in the air to leave a dusty cloud hanging, and sticking to my sweating body.  Although I gave up on the thought of a shower, I’d hoped they was gonna let me take a small break from my labors.  Nope.  They expected me to keep at it without stopping.

It occurred to me my captors didn’t know much about how labor really works.  If they did know anything about work, they would’a realized I was fucking off.  If these assholes was too stupid to know when they been sabotaged by a work slowdown, I figured I may as well put some speed on it and get this mutha job over and done.  And half an hour later we was loaded up and ready to go.

Just because they held the advantage don’t mean I gotta play the victim.

Popular posts from this blog

The Feet of God

67 - ONE IOTA OF DIFFERENCE It was turning light outside and morning dew sparkled like glass beads.   It was time for me to go.   I tucked the gun back with the stacks of bills stashed inside Yeller Tom’s leather case, then headed over to a gravel path that snaked downhill toward two lanes of asphalt where I might hitch a new ride. While walking along the path a white pebble landed at my feet.   I didn’t know I had company.   I looked back and saw an old man and woman tossing away whitewashed stones from the second letter E in BIBLE HELL.   (I figured there wasn’t much for kids to do around here except maybe Fentanyl, alcohol, screwin’ their first-cousins, and pull’n practical jokes like this.) “Hey, up there, watch out!” I shouted, as a flung white rock hit me above the eye. The elderly couple stood up in a shock of surprise, almost as if they was caught red-handed do ’ n something wrong. “Sorry, friend.   We were cleansing away some smut.” ...
Read more

The Feet of God

64 - HATE TO EAT AND RUN I watched Madame and Yeller Tom grow smaller and smaller until they vanished through the swing door back of the pastry counter.   My head rolled backwards and my eyes saw above me countless holes in ceiling tiles moving, breathing, expanding, shrinking...damn, this was some kinda special cream cheese. I then heard a voice, “Jeebus, how much didja eat?”   It was the bear of an airplane mechanic, Chuck.   He’d entered the bakery shop and sauntered over to the coffee stand and poured a cup.   “Here, drink this, it’ll help pull you together.” I fought to stay focused as I held the hot mug.   “You’re no barrel of laughs,” I cracked myself up.   “Mr. Grease Monkey.”   I doubled over laughing. “Just drink,” the huge man ignored my convulsions of idiotic laughter.   He grabbed a folding chair and sat down beside me.   “You’re gonna be stuck in that plane with Tom for hours, y’know, and you don’t wanna be flying high...
Read more

The Feet of God

59 - RENDEZVOUS The only other airplane I been on had a toilet.   If I knew what I was getting into, maybe I would’a passed on having those last six beers. I hollered up to the captain, “Hey, I gotta piss.” No reaction.   I shouted louder, “I said, I gotta piss.” Yeller Tom turned his head slightly, “What is your wish?” “Piss!”   I tried shoutin’ it in French, “I gotta peeez!” “Oh,” he twisted around in his seat and held out a funnel connected to a length of garden hose.   “You can use this.   An in-flight courtesy.   No charge.” I reached out and grabbed the funnel and hose.   “ Mercy ,” I thanked him in my best parlay-voo. I’ll be damned if I didn’t find a silver dollar-sized hole in the floor of the plane right between my legs, just like truckers use so they don’t gotta stop while traveling down long stretches of highway.   I made all the familiar arrangements and begun my own version of an aerial attack.   After I finished...
Read more