Cornfed

Roger Delaney wasn’t expecting company so he answered the door with his favorite shotgun. The vagabond on his porch eyed it nervously. “Good morning, sir. I’ve got a crew that needs work. I’m foreman. Paulie's the name.” He held out a dirty hand which Roger eyed with distaste. “Maybe you’ve heard of us, sir. We’ve done work around here. Building, harvesting, handy-man stuff. To tell you the truth, we’re in a bad place right now. Things have been pretty dry this season.”

“How many of you?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

“Got a few sheds I need fixing up,” said Roger. “Don’t have the money to pay you though. Not fifteen of you.”

“We’ll take whatever you can give, sir.”

“Food and board, that’s all I’ve got. You can stay at the huts down the far end of the lane. They haven’t been used for years so they’ll need cleaning. Sundays off. For food, you can take anything you want from the corn field by the shed.” The man hesitated and Roger said slyly, “You guys illegal?”

“No sir, I’m not.” Paulie fished around in his pocket pulled out a worn ID card. Legal Alien, it said in big black letters at the top. Reading that made Roger chuckle because in a way, the man did look like an alien; it was his high cheekbones and long limbs and most of all his eyes, which were just a little too far apart. Roger guessed the rest of his crew were Illegals because Paulie had reluctantly agreed to the working terms even after he’d seen the food was only field-corn and the sheds were so run down they were almost horizontal.

The next day he’d driven past Paulie’s crew and given them a satisfied little toot. It went unacknowledged because they were so engrossed in the job and once again, Roger congratulated himself on getting such low labor costs. They couldn’t have come at a better time. The repairs had been urgent and he was running dangerously low on funds; the global turndown had meant a tough year for local farmers and things certainly hadn’t got any better when the Big Corn Co-op announced it was coming to town. The very thought of it made him clutch the steering wheel so hard his knuckles went white. Still, with a little team-work and a lot of luck, most locals might manage a few more years of independence.

The following Sunday evening, Roger Delaney got out of his pickup, hitched his thumbs under his braces and surveyed the sheds. They’d done such a fine job he considered giving them a little bonus, some old clothes and maybe even a few pairs of shoes. He was reflecting that it was about time he had a spring clean when something hit him so hard his feet sunk into the ground. Like a peg in mud, he swayed momentarily before he was plucked from the cornfield and carried away.

The next day, Roger woke up in a small room. The floor was nothing but beaten earth. Colorful mould crept across the walls in big, artistic loops and swirls. Old rags hung over the windows and what little air filtered through was tainted with a rank, stale smell. There was a pile of old tin pots and the remnants of a fire by the door. He noticed that it had been made out of corn stalks and all at once he realized where he was.

He tried to move his legs and then his arms but he'd been jammed into some kind of giant vase. Experimentally, he wriggled his fingers back and forth but the urn’s rough surface quickly wore his skin raw. Roger started to shout. He yelled for help and as time passed his language grew worse. He raved and swore and used obscenities that would make his father blush. He cursed and cussed and resorted to the most forbidden words from his childhood. Still, no one came.

It was only after the darkness in the hut had grown deep and still and inky that he heard any sign of life. A distant rustling sound grew into the slap-slap-slap of fifteen pairs of bare feet on a gravel road. A handful of Illegal Aliens came in the hut; they ignored him as they set up the pots and pans and started a large fire just outside the door.

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!!” Roger yelled. His face was bright red and blotchy with rage. “GET ME OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW!!” Consumed by anger, he tried to rock the big vase. He wanted to knock it over and smash it on the ground and then he wanted to wrap his hands around as many scrawny little necks as he could. Sweat beaded his cheeks and the veins in his forehead popped out but no matter how much he strained he couldn’t move the vase, not even one inch.

“Ah, Roger. We’re nearly done with your sheds.” Paulie walked through the door and leaned against a wall. A home-rolled cigarette dangled between his fingers. He took a long drag and let the smoke slowly trickle back out his nose while Roger spluttered with incoherent rage. “You did say we could take anything we wanted from that cornfield,” The foreman finally said with a reproving look but it wasn’t until thirty dirty little hands were dragging the vase closer to the fire that Roger fully understood what was happening.

His screams were loud and piercing but out in the cornfields there was no one to hear them.





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