Lithium, Chptr. 9 – Xperience Fiction – by Liam Sweeny.
They drove by the address once before turning around in a driveway and going back. Mel did it on purpose, to get a look at the place before making an entrance. It was a farm like any other he’d seen during a drive out in the country – red barn, pastures, a field of Holsteins held back by a short, grey wooden fence. He saw a man without a shirt walking a bag of feed across the lot, headed behind the broad side of the barn where Andy, because he could turn his head, noticed chicken coops.
They pulled up a long gravel road that opened to a much bigger gravel lot, which held three time-worn cars and an old, rusted tractor. He pulled in next to the third car as a young woman with cloth bands separating strands of her hair carried a steel rake and shovel. She tipped the shovel in their direction and smiled.
Mel looked over at Andy. “You ready, kid?” Andy shook his head yes, and they got out and stretched. Mel took a quick shuffle to catch up with the girl.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for a guy named Burle Givens. Do you know him?”
The girl chuckled. “Everybody knows him,” she said. “His face is on the money around here.”
“Do you know where we can find him?”
“Last I saw him, he was on the front porch filling out paperwork. He has an office, but no one’s ever seen him use it.” She rested the shovel tip on the gravel. “You new here?”
“Yeah, I think.” Mel said. The woman bunched the handles in one hand and extended the other.
“Allie,” she said.
“Mel. And this is my son, Andy.”
“Pleased to meet you,” she said. “Word to the wise – Burle hates swearing. I’ve seen him kick a guy out over his mouth. He’s not religious or anything… just hates swearing.”
Mel nodded. “I’ll keep it in mind,” he said. “Small price to pay.”
“Wait till you start working here,” she said. “Swearing is all you’ll want to do.” She finished her words with a wink. Mel let out a nervous laugh and he guided Andy toward the farmhouse, to the path that wrapped around and emptied at the front porch.
About six-foot tall, potbelly, faded tattoos on his arms which were housed in the rolled-up sleeves of a dark green cotton work shirt, Burle Givens was the kind of man that, at first glance, one would be torn in first impressions between a solid man and a sordid lech. His clothes only fit him over fifty percent of his body, and the hair that poked out of his Stetson was black and shiny. He had his arms folded and he sat listening to a scrawny man, barely a man, who was explaining something to him with his hands.
Mel walked up two steps and held Andy back. He didn’t want to interrupt them, but Burle looked at him in a way that said he welcomed the interruption.
“Can I help ya?”
“Hi, Burle?”
“That’s me. Your turn.”
“I’m Mel Miller. I’m a friend of Roger’s. Roger McKinley. He told me about you, said he’d call you.”
Burle rubbed his chin and adjusted his Stetson. “Yeah, I know Roger,” he said. “Know of him anyways. So what, are you looking for work?”
“Yes sir. Work.”
“I’m not sure if we got anything,” Burle said. “Hold on, let me check with my manager, see if we can find you something.”
Knew of Roger? If he had work? Mel’s head started swimming in a shallow pool. Burle walked in the house, and it was three minutes that felt like fifteen minutes before he came out.
“Yeah. I think I can put you to work,” he said. “So do you need a place to stay too?”
“Well, we have our minivan-,”
“Can’t sleep in that on the property. Especially not with a kid. We have an area on the farm where workers can sleep, do whatever. Do you have a tent?”
“Actually, yeah, we do.” Mel said.
“I’ll have Casey, my manager, show you that spot, so you can set up. He’s in the barn right now. Why don’t y’all go and find him.”
“Thanks.” Mel said. Burle nodded and went back to his previous conversation.
Casey had many similarities to Burle, which led Mel to believe he was one of Burle’s sons. He had on a cream-colored golf shirt and khakis, but steel toed boots. He was working on the engine of a tractor that was slightly newer than the one out on the gravel. And by “working on,” he was really directing another younger man wielding a wrench. Mel made introductions and appraised Casey of the situation, as much as he felt was needed to work a farm. Casey left the pseudo-mechanic and brought Mel and Andy to a golf cart that he used to traverse the grounds.
“Now I’m not sure how much you know about this place,” Casey said. “This is a livestock farm. We only grow enough crops to sell out for feed money for the livestock. But mostly, we’re livestock.”
They started to go up a hill that Mel was certain would flip the cart.
“I won’t lie. It’s a lot of feeding, repairing buildings, troughs, fences, other odd stuff. “You’ll get a breakfast, lunch, dinner at five am, noon and five pm. Sharp. If you’re not in the dining room by those times on the dot, you won’t get anything.”
They stopped at the top of a hill that was the midpoint of the farm’s slope. He got out, and so did Mel and Andy. Casey pointed to a clearing about a hundred yards west of where they were.
“See those tents?” He said. “That’s where you can set up your tent. That clearing is for the workers. We don’t go there, and if we have to, someone’s getting kicked off the property. But for the most part, you all can do whatever you want there.”
He coughed in his hand. “That said, watch yourself.”
***
Mel doused a monumental thirst in the faucet on the back of the farmhouse. He had to wait in line for the other workers to do the same. In the four hours since he got there, he’d dug out a pit of mud and water from inside a wooden structure without a roof. He didn’t know what it was for, but he guessed it was for pigs, since one of them the height of his hip seemed to challenge him for turf every five minutes.
He was filthy, as were every other worker he saw. He felt good to have finally done some manual labor, but he knew that it wouldn’t last. He’d grow sore, grow tired, grow angry, and then he would either start getting panic attacks, or he’d act out. It was how jobs went. ArTechnic was a mental challenge and a good working environment, and even then, he had troubles working there. It was a testament that he lasted six years. The remainder of his job history was piecemeal, and he hoped beyond hope that the raw need to survive would push him through this until they could find something better.
He set Andy upon the task of taking their tent up to the clearing and setting it up. He wished he could get Andy in school, but he didn’t know how to do that with just his phone and no mailing address, which he assumed he didn’t have there. He guessed Andy could occupy himself on a farm if he had to, but Mel couldn’t afford for him to get in anyone’s way, for his sake or theirs.
“Good job today.” He looked over to see Max, one of the few workers whose names he picked up.
“Thanks, Max. I don’t feel like I got anything accomplished. The more I dug, the more it filled up with water.”
“Yeah, it’s a small spring,” Max said before he dipped his head under the faucet,
“What do you mean, a spring?”
“It’s a real small, natural spring right there. Basically, a mini pond. You couldn’t empty out that hole without somehow plugging the spring.”
“Wait, so why did Casey have me try?”
“Cause he’s a dick.” Max shook his long hair, sending a fine spray of droplets in the air. The pattern was something Mel wished he could paint.
“He gives every newbie that job the first day. It’s so frustrating, if you’re gonna walk off, that’ll do it. So if you’re here to work tomorrow, you got it made, better or worse.”
“Any more mind games on this job?”
“I’d love to tell you no, but…” Max took his shirt off. He was stringy but muscular, with a tattoo of an eagle, wings splayed, on his chest. “The other workers are good,” he said. “You won’t have any problems here; I’ll tell you that. You ready for dinner?”
“Yeah, anything I should know about that?”
“Yeah, don’t curse,” Max said. “Don’t ask for seconds. Don’t put your elbows on the table, don’t eat with dirty hands… and no politics or religion talk, which is more our rule. We’re all anarchists.”
“All of you?”
“If you’re out of society enough, there’s no point in believing in it.”
The dining room was easily the largest room in the house. Mel hadn’t seen the whole house, but he knew the layouts of Victorian farmhouses from his drafting and design courses. It was even larger than the dining rooms in most farmhouses. It was occupied by a very long table with twelve chairs. Casey had told him that there were ten workers, including him. That left one seat for Burle and one seat for Casey.
He found a seat on the far side of Burle’s.
“Your son will have to eat in the kitchen if everyone shows up,” Burle said. “There’s a small table in there.”
“Do you think everyone will show up?”
“Hard to tell. Depends, if everybody finished their work, yes. But there’s a lot of work today.”
At five o’clock on the dot, every seat was filled except Casey’s. Mel expected them to have to wait for Casey, but Burle told him to call Andy in to claim the seat. Andy came in on cue – must’ve been listening at the door.
“Let’s have a moment of silence, if you’re religious, if you’re not, smoke ‘em if you got ‘em.”
After the silence was the bucket brigade of dishes. There wasn’t any meat, and he could tell that the potatoes were from potato flakes. The vegetables were canned, and the bread was the cheap stuff. The whole meal for twelve couldn’t have cost more than ten bucks, but the portions were big enough. Mel got his fill at about the same time he reached the bottom of the plate.
“Everybody, just a quick thing,” Burle said. “We dropped off palettes and other assorted garbage for burning, so you guys should be able to have a pretty good bonfire tonight.
“Also, tomorrow is supposed to be rain all day. Of course, the work doesn’t stop in the rain. I know some of you have bought ponchos. If you don’t have one, you can pick up a trash bag in the barn before you go up to the clearing. They’re fifty cents each, and I can take it out of your pay if you don’t have it.”
After dinner, Burle called Mel into his study.
“Hey, Mel, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Congrats on your first day of work,” he said. “But hey, listen… the paintings in your minivan, are they yours?”
“You saw them?”
“I did. I mention it because there’s a gallery near here. If you want, I can help you sell them, or any one of them. I’m going to Jamestown tomorrow. What do you say?”
“Can I think about it?”
“I’m leaving after breakfast, so you’ll have to let me know by breakfast.”
“I’ll know then.”
Mel knew right away that he’d let Burle sell at least one of them. He hesitated because the paintings weren’t visible from outside the minivan. The doors were locked, leaving nothing but one fact.
Burle broke in.
***
A splash of orange sparks ascended to the sky like fire spirits as Max dropped pieces of pallet into the fire. They burned the regular trash to ashes before throwing wood on, as nobody wanted to socialize to the burning banana peels, fresh fruit of which no one them were allowed to partake. Most of the workers were wandering in and out of their tents, which were twelve feet back from the pit, arranged around it.
“A good fire, the embers will keep everyone warm all night,” Max said. “Won’t even need your covers.”
They started to settle down. Allie, the woman they’d first met, passed around beers, even to Andy, but Mel held her off.
“Not yet,” he said, though considering Andy had put in some work after he set up, Mel would’ve caved under the least pushback. Fortunately, Andy had a better taste for fruity drinks.
When they were all settled around the fire, another worker named Marcus brought out a boombox and turned the radio dial to whatever came in. For the good fortune of all, it was Motown. They all cheered as much as their energy would allow.
“Kick off the Council of Drifters proper,” Marcus said.
Mel let out a laugh. “The Council of Drifters?”
“Yep,” Allie said. “Of which you may now be initiated. Did you shed blood today?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you cut yourself while you were working the pig pit?”
“Oh, yeah, couple times,” Mel said. “Got stung too. Didn’t know they were out yet.”
“Blood and venom! That makes you an instant elder.”
“Sure.” Mel took a sip of his beer. “So what does the Council of Drifters do?”
“We accept all weary souls and guide them on their way,” Ulysses said. He was the one carrying a bag of feed when they first pulled up.
“Really just beer and plotting revenge against our overlords.”
“I take it there’s two of them.”
“You are correct, oh venom prince,” Allie said. “Don’t fall under their hypnotic spell.”
“Silliness aside, listen to Allie. I wouldn’t trust them unless you don’t mind getting burned.”
“Burle broke into my car,” Mel said. “He saw my paintings, and couldn’t have unless he could open the door, which all of them were locked.”
“I’m surprised he told you,” said Maria, a woman with salt and pepper hair who was eating from a generic bag of chips. “Usually stuff just shows up missing, especially from cars. Burle figures everything on his property is his property unless he doesn’t want it.”
“Well, he offered to sell them to a gallery for me.”
“Bad deal,” Max said. “But honestly, you should probably let him sell one if it doesn’t bother you too much. That way you don’t get ill will so soon. Just assume you won’t get anything. Consider it, like, an art tax.”
“So you must be a good artist,” Allie said.
“Yeah, pretty good.”
“Burle wouldn’t go all the way to Jamestown for ‘pretty good.’” Allie tossed her beer bottle in the fire. “You must be really good.”
“I have some stuff in galleries from when I was a kid, but I haven’t really been able to do anything like that lately.”
They sat around for a bit, quiet, tossing pebbles in the fire. Mel thought it was boredom until they pointed out that the fire would heat the pebbles up, which would radiate heat all night. The only problem with it was that they were running out of pebbles they could easily reach and had to pull them out of the ashes every day to reseed the ground.
“So what got you here?” Allie said. “Drugs, Crazy? ‘One paycheck short?’”
Mel could’ve picked one of Allie’s stated reasons without much anxiety. Picking the two that were true would be harder, but he figured he wasn’t the only twofer.
“One paycheck, and… sort of crazy,” he said.
“What’s your flavor, if you don’t mind my asking?” Max said.
“Um, bipolar 1 with psychotic features, panic disorder, and ADHD.”
“I got ADHD,” Ulysses said.
“We all got ADHD,” Allie said. “Hard to concentrate in this day and age.”
“So you’re a psycho?” Maria said.
“No, not really.” Mel finished his beer and followed suit in tossing it in the fire. “If I have an episode, I get delusional. But it’s not a violent thing. I’m only dangerous to myself, maybe. Maybe just funny, or annoying to everyone else.”
“Did you ever think, like, you were Jesus?” Allie said,
“No, nothing like that, just… oddball, random stuff.”
“Can we stop talking about bipolar please?” The voice came from a man with a thick beard that Mel didn’t know.
“Don’t be rude to our guest, Ernie.” Allie said,
“He’s being rude to me,” Ernie said. “I don’t want to hear this shit.”
“Hey, I’ll stop talking about it, no problem.”
“Good.” Ernie left the fire and headed for his tent.
Allie picked up the remainder of the beer and made her rounds. Mel abstained; not that he was drunk, but another beer might slam dance with his meds.
He stared into the fire, which, like water, was impossible to capture in paint. And when fire and water mixed, the steam created was equally illusive, like fire and water and the meeting and melding of these forces were the hidden Divine, the gate to the ineffable source of mysticism, never to be captured, lest the image of that capture make manifest forces that could only rip the fabric of the universe in its wake.
Mel was transfixed as the rest of them spoke of the small details of the day. Progresses made of projects Mel hadn’t been there long enough to know about. The subtle clearing politics between the workers and Burle and Casey. The quiet rebellions and not-so-quiet despairs.
Allie brought him back to the clearing with her hand on his back.
“One thing,” she said. “Try to get your son into school here. It’s the one thing Burle will help you with. He doesn’t want Child Protective poking around here, and he’s some kind of humanitarian, as far as the town goes. The town even donates the food we pay for every week.”
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Mel said. “I don’t want Andy working himself to an early adulthood here anyway.”