Are You Sleeping?

Word Count: 7394

         When you’re chugging chocolate milk, you don’t expect an immediate end result. Next thing I hear a flat toot coming out of another cow’s rectum. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Got sprayed in the face once and it was damper than a baby’s diaper. You don’t forget those. Could burn down a barn with that methane. But I’m sort of rambling on now and maybe you don’t care about this topic like I do. There was an unusual rain pattern, some combination of the dew mist of those Irish fields I’ve seen on Google and dark, ominous, baggy clouds read to strike at any moment. I could almost smell sulfur in the humid environment.
         Big ‘ol Bertha who mighta been Bessie, dangled her tail and crawled dragged its hooved feet toward the fence post. I actually had some names on these whoppers, maybe whopper was one of them names even…but Bertha is a standout. Really darkly skinned and tanned with a disposition to black and almost white spots on top of that. She wasn’t so uncool to look at. I’d still prefer her on my dinner plate, though. We’ve never slaughtered a single one.
         We are demarcated in the farmland of the Ozarks, Alexandria, Southern Illinois. Ripe, green country. Probably some of the best cow-fed cows in the MidWest on our farm. And. We simply let them piss milk. Since returning to this shithole I’ve been telling my Dad we could be making beef money. We wouldn’t have to kill them all, now. Just the annoying ones. Like the stanky one I just put up with. In the distance, center of his property, was my dad. He hawkeyed at me, and gave a big thumbs up.
         Call me a punk, or even call me a shame, but the placed has always grated on me Every day my dad is up at about 4 a.m., and he’s off to the races hours before sunrise. Honestly a great guy but I never understood why he’s stuck it out. Mom hasn’t been with us since I was a kid and my childhood we held together on the belief that we might follower her out to the golden state. Chase the more opulent American dream, ya know He’s an O’Malley through and through, to be sure I always felt more like a Popov, but hell, no mama’s boy neither.
         I trekked down the new, paved driveway, 400 total meters, and I saw Pops across the tar. He lumbered harder than any of the low rumbling thunder creeping in the distance. Build practically like a linebacker, his glory days have never been forgotten by this town. Alexandria High School sings his praises to this day. The QB who took them all the way to the state championship. But for what?
         They didn’t win. And he didn’t even take up that college scholarship opportunity at Urbana. Too damn invested in this place. This is his legacy, I guess. Well, could be worse. Maybe he’s serving Grandpa Joseph’s dreams. He said that’s how he earned Mom’s heart after all. That’s a prison sentence to me, now At least I tried to escape.
“Fart flash alert I’m afraid my boy. That screeched across the field!”
         I didn’t entertain a return to the flesh.
“Why ain’t we slaughtering on this farm?”
         My dad didn’t even stop to break. He was shoveling shit. Maybe just a half inch more dignified than the flatulence I had swallowed.
“You hear me, Dad?”
         He dumped two more shovels of the dung into his wheelbarrow. I took long strides, just barely keeping up. We exited the sanctuary, that was, the cow’s place of heavenly rest and hay. It was a red, spacey barn. The traditional type you’d see in a John Ford movie maybe. Dad leaped toward the exit to finish the job. Now outside, he took a gulp out of the water spout, standing tall, calm, and erect.
“What are you talkin’ about, son?”
         In the distance, Marco, our head field cropper, was snapping photos of Bertha. He said it was art. I wondered if it was worth a fart haha. He must be bored out here in these fields all day.
“These cows, Dad. They’re everywhere. And I don’t know that we’re getting all the bang for our buck that we can.”
“You proposing your beefing enterprise again, son?”
“What else would I be suggesting? The milk industry is a great place, but you know we’re not keeping up with the competition. The feds got them in their pocket.”
“You think killing our cows will make the difference? We don’t even have the equipment. No contracts either. And who’d gonna do the killing? You ready to have blood splattered all over you? Because if you do, please tell me. I’ll give you a butcher knife or shotgun right now son.”
         I was pressing the issue on a dead-end street. It wasn’t the first time I had mentioned it, and it wouldn’t be the last, but I did relax on the topic. He was ready to parade his most recent accomplishment.
“200 hectares of land boy, you know what that means?”
“Wait, where did you get, did you buy land Pops?”
“I just landed a grant from the government, and, the department at the university is helping out, too”
         I stood by, listening. Marco had let go of Bertha some time back and was not bringing the rest of the cows out to graze. She must have been the star of the flock, Bertha. She always got out first, and by some time, too.
“We can step up the game. We can keep up with the big farms. Hell, we will be a big farm. At least practically.”
         The words missed their mark in my brain. I couldn’t keep up with his exuberance, but the sight of him did make me feel pretty good. To see any man’s pride shine, especially that of your pop’s? I wouldn’t deny that. But, to tell ya the truth, I was California dreaming…
         Yeah, Hollywood. Might as well mention that half decade. Me the perceived country boy trying to make it. I jostled with the crowds I tell ya. I did my auditions. Hell, I did manage to support myself as an extra on a handful of D-level Western series. One actually had a streaming launch. Was I a failure? I did make enough connections to surive in that studio apartment of mine. Lots of Ramen noodles. What was your diet, mom? Did you end up making that rigatoni you always bragged about? Maybe some L.A. lasagna?
         I stuck it out there for those five years, but don’t think I met a single soul I could have ever called “one of my own.” Grimy, slimy, full of liars. Yah know? But. AT the same time, I do remember the streets around Hollywood. Streets that you’d swear shone like gold. Beautiful, glossy people dressed up like Ken and Barbie. Every now and then you’d see a celebrity out living their bizarre reality. It was all pretty cool, too.
“…we’re going to privatize, my boy. We’re going to make it. We’re taking this where I’ve always seen it,. And one day, it will be your’s, entirely.”
         Didn’t see much point in arguing against his Alexandrian dreaming in that moment, you know? Didn’t see much point to it, but my stomach still lurched. He’d try to coach me some, school me about our family obligations. The Popov’s, ever a lingering element in his psyche, might accept this intergenerational success. The farm had been my pa’s ever since mom left. And the Popov’s obliged him to thank them incessantly for that “giveaway.”
         He should have run. This place is a nightmare city. Could you call it that? A city to the locals, a bumblefuck of a town to the Chicago crew. Tim Burton could embellish the details of the jagged, beat-up sidewalks. The train station idled in the middle of Main Street; the one attraction attended to in the town. The tree zoning law, in limbo for the last decade, meant bare limbed blocks along a one-way, dead-end street.
         It has its perks, too. The rivers. The mighty Mississippi man! The glory of cresting on the currents, and smoking a cigar over a whiskey neat at Dad’s local lodge. What about the BBQ on 21st street in the next town? It’s not all bad. Maybe it’s the Chicago-imported deep dishes that keep Dad here; a loose connection to his upbringing.
         The thing is, the place is surrounded by buffoons. About all 2000 of them. Lot of history of lynchings and strife and it continues to trip me out. Proud confederate flag waving is a real thing. I think some of the locals need to hold onto some big pride since we’re nothing in this country. We were once a real boating and ferry capital. Then came bridges, trains, and Chicago explodes. Something like that. Maybe we need to burn down. Forge a better future like the great fire did for the windy city.
“Did you hear me son? This ain’t a wild circus playground like the movie stars do, now you know what I mean. This is Southern Illinois! This is a town of good folk, hardworking folk, and, well, you’re a farmer now. A good one. And you wouldn’t be arguing with me over my model if it didn’t mean something to you.”
“I hear you pa, and thank you. I know you got a big vision here,” and then, a pivot as I hopped over a spare spade stuck in the ground. “Did I mention I’m gonna have a girl over here?
         A smirk. Or was it a mock smile? Dad was a beast with the ladies back in the day, or so it was said, and I guess I’ve never been at that level. But I sense a feeling of happiness over this news.
“She’s gonna come here, Dad. She said she really wanted to see the place. Let a girl have her fun, right? She might even make me dinner for this one.”
“Is that how you talk about your woman?”
“Girlfriend, Dad, is what I think you mean to say.”
“Alright boss man, you got it. Well, you enjoy yourself with your girlfriend and I’ll see y’all back at the ranch.”
         Before my exit off the farm, I hopped over the one glaring error in the driveway. Lightning had struck the pavement at just the wrong time, and welp, now we’re staring at a pothole. It always kinda made me chuckle to see something so well get a last laugh at nature like that. Marco was on his fourth or fifth break. I turned my shoulder and mock waved at his camera, posing as the celebrity I’d never be.

“Doncha know?” Nathasa cried, “Doncha know, that’s the new one!”
         I stifled some laughter back. She had just come back from a trip to Minnesota. Her sister was living up there or something? Found a local man and had three kids or something? He must have taught Nathasa some deep English because she had the perfect Minnesota long o.
         We were outside the cookery on Main Street, a 24/7 novelty act called “Sugar Me High,” about a mile from the farm. Midnight snacks available for delivery. The college appeal was obvious. Of course next year It’d be a Japanese/Mexican fusion or something. It was an endless cycle of failed businesses.
“What the hell are you on about? Doncha know we don’t say that down here in Illinois? Or, really anywhere in the country.
“Oh but I love Minnesota,” with affected vowels, “so many nice people and my sister is there with her husband the – my nieces are so beautiful to me. I love it there.”
“Nieces and nephews, right? I thought you said it was two girls and a boy?”
“Ahhhh, haha, thank you Farmer John, yes I always forget that strange word, nephew. The same like phone.”
         I hated when she called me that. She god well knew it, too. Sometimes I found her humor a little off-putting, but then I had to admire her dozens of word plays. I swear she knows a thousand times more English than I do. I like the Alexandria way of talk. I think we do that right actually. So Nathasa’s circus of jokes about letters and sound grates me.
         I’d been with her about four months now. Just innocent child’s play in the grand scheme of things. I had taken Nathasa to some of the vineyards around. We’d hop on these big yellow busses that grad students liked to rent out and I’d manage to convince ‘em to make room for two more. Extra money in their pockets. Nathasa was no big drinker, but she had partied with her family back in Colombia, at least a few times. So we’d split a bottle and talk. Well, she’d talk.
         I’d heard about the warrior women in Cartagena. She’d turn ripe yellow describing the bananas and oranges in the baskets on their heads. About her one time helping one of the elders get her street cart home. I had heard about community 13 in Medellin too. It’s all graffiti’d. I’d said we’d give ‘em a ticket here harhar. She’s from Bogota and she told me that she carries an umbrella and jacket with her nearly every day there. Would you believe that? I know Shakira’s hips don’t lie, what about Nathasa’s…
         I don’t know if I have words to share with her all the time. But I know there’s something there. I really feel it with her, I can’t explain it.
         Crack crack, hell whip. Left right lick that thigh thick. I’m watching Nathasa whiplash through town in long, black heels. She rocks ‘em. At least perfect for her sophomore status. Maybe they’d be childish on someone five years older, but damn she got everyone’s heads with that snap of her crack.
         Sometimes I’d get my ass hauled over to these types of Bollywood nights I think they’d be called. All of Nathasa’s friends seemed to be international of some sort or another and this one group every couple Thursdays pretends their lives are in a big Bollywood movie. So they put on the make up and their third eyes, and shawls, and the young guys act like little boys tickling each other left and right with jolly joy, and oh god even I find myself cracking up in the middle of the scene. Nathasa looks like a red angel with her everything just bloody fantastic. I lick my lips until I’m drooling like Pavlov’s dog. I want a taste of her. But up next is some Chicken Biryani, so I hear. Don’t eat the peppers and I don’t eat the nuts either.
         Trust me fellas, I follow in that situation. Nathasa is in her natural element at them get-togethers and she isn’t even Hindu. She tells me she will practice their meditations sometimes, though. Seems like a crock load of funny to me, but then again what do I know. It makes for one hell of a cheap date night.
         So it’d be some Chicken Biryani, a little bit of yogurt, and this I mean awesome sweet wine that Nathasa always prepared and snuck in. They weren’t anti-alcohol, but I did notice that it was typically absent at those events. Well me and Nathasa would get a little warm. And when she was motorized well, jeez, she’d be talking Bindy and then Dewali, and soon enough even Minher and Pratya. They were a circle that just sort of swanned around one another excitedly at these events. Fortunately, I was marked as Nathasa’s plus one which left me largely unbothered.
         Except. She knew how to move at those things. What do I mean? Like, maybe she was too comfortable in her own skin. Thing is, I don’t dance. So plus one until… until Bollywood Night became Bollywood. I swear to God all those would-be men became lions on those floors, women flocking to them. I didn’t get it. They could like kids on the sidelines, and then wham bam, some goofy moves and they are cool cucumbers. Hm. Well they always told Nathasa that she was their Indian princess in front of me like I could laugh that off with them. Off-putting.
         And to that point sometimes too much so. I mean if you’re talking about a midwestern fellow who did his time in Hollywood, this Bollywood might be a chance to shine. Alright? May not earn my bread and butter, but some nan and oil? Sure enough, for me to just take several moments in silence taking in the scene, like Marco’s camera, was bliss. But it wasn’t until Nathasa would grip me again that I’d just smile real wide. There was nothing better than that salvation. Maybe I wasn’t her dance partner, but wasn’t it me holding her hand?
         Nathasa appeared happy enough to be here in the middle of nowhere. You know that we are like two hours away from major airports and cities? I mean if you’re coming from LA that is just a no-fly zone to you. And Nathasa will tell me about the lush beaches and accessible mountains around her city. Including Carnaval and maybe 30 holidays a year. Is this her American Dream? Alexandria?
         What about you, Ma? Was the relocation worth it? I don’t see you on any of them magazines you always devoured. Was it worth it?
“Tonight you’re gonna master your best orc accent. Or maybe you’re a Lady Galadriel type. But the Colombian version.”
“Arc is from Noah and the animals, it is not?”
“Ouch, Nathasa. If you you’re gonna tell me you forgot about Lord of the Rings I’m going to the Hangover Bar, park me and grab me some elven port.”
         Yeah that’s the only nerd side of me I can admit. Wasn’t a gamer, didn’t collect them cards, mostly I was on the athletic fields. Well, Lord of the Rings is for everyone. It’s fantasy, but it’s war, it’s epic, it’s a journey. Quest, I guess nerdy. But those movies everybody likes.
“Honey, you ever hear of them?”
“Hm…”
“What about, ‘ my preeeciousss’?” as uncomfortable as that impression was for me it was the most direct route to the memory of the movie.
“Ahhhh, do you mean ‘mi tesorrrrooo’?” and she got a little red under her giggling. “It’s are weird movies. I’m not going you know.”
“Nathasa, they’re back out in Dolby Surround Sound. The effects are even better now. They’re even subtitled in English! Didn’t you come on Erasmus to better your English?”
“It’s not that John. It’s more that now I must travel into this weather,” as the tippety tap trap of the thunder was approaching.
         I actually had no clue what she meant about that, but…it was a Friday. And Friday usually did mean a bit of mobility, or should I say abandonment in the town. You see we’re college dependent. We have been, since them tougher times in the 60’s, most of our recent history. You know when industry escapes what are ya gonna do. My Dad is here because of that college. I got into film because of that Irish Cinema seminar first semester there. There is bare humanity there. They’re not just locals. So I’m saying the college is good. But the town feels even more bad then because them kids don’t hardly stick around on the weekends. The Chicago influx, oh man it’s like they can’t stand it and they just gotta be free in their city again. These fields are a work duty off incarceration hours to them. Herm. I mean what do I know.
“My sister is coming! She is coming to Chicago! She invited me to check out the beauty and of her children!”
“You’re invited. By…your sister. To see your nieces and nephew?”
“Doncha know!” and she laughed.
“Well have a blast then Nathasa! Didn’t you invite me to this before?”
“It’s a dancing night for ladies too at the salsa club. And I know you won’t want to be there.”
“Have our Bollywood nights taught you that?” I was a little deflated, but I had to grin. She wasn’t wrong.
“Maybe you are sleeping Brother John at those nights!” and she choked on her laughter.
“So my boring snoring not allowed at Bollywood night no more?”
“What is that? A snore…ah yes, haha, no my silly. It’s a night of dance and you don’t like.”
         I wanted to retaliate against that. Bust out the moonwalk. Maybe strut my stuff. But…I’m a sleeper date. No, it’s not that. I don’t dance.
“A sisters’ night out in Chi-town? I say go for it. Have a blast, get blown by the wind for me.”
         She planted her palm within the creases of my own weathered hand. The cowboy strikes back.
“You are my special friend. OK?”
         My heart caught a cough and I swallowed to contain it. I had to make her time in Alexandria special. And that’s why I decided to take her to the farm. I think if I was gonna show her something worthwhile, it might just be the farm. The barn is a cozy home, the fields are maintained to a tee, and there is a thriving energy watching all the work get done. Look, it’s my pa’s enterprise and I work it almost every day. It’s either try to like it, or drown myself in the Mississippi.
         Would she understand the place? She’s not even out of university yet. What does she know? Perhaps the cows would appeal to her more childish vibe, I hate to say it. Hm… I didn’t know. Couldn’t decide if it was worth it. But that simplicity of Nathasa would have to jive well with the home scene. I liked that about her.
         I decided to walk her back to my Dad’s farm. It was only gonna take about twenty or so minutes, maybe a half hour away. I always have to remind myself of the inkling of beauty in Alexandria. You gotta make it through the concrete slabs of cheap, plastered houses around the outskirts of campus, aligned like a paintboard with frustrated dashes of grey in lines, sometimes in x’s. A whole lot of nonsense design in other words. But, I mean, once its 50 shades of green pasture you think maybe this is better than faded gold glory. Maybe Marco will shoot this place with his camera someday real properly. He could probably do some free or stipend-based media capturing. Hehe. Silly.
“Are you sleeping Brother John? Hehe. Is this your farm?”
         That was another joke of hers…sometimes I was lucky enough to be called Farmer John. Little did she know my dad’s travelled to Quebec a few times for one of those dairy conferences or something? They actually have this Freres Jacques cheese that is kind of a little soft, but we never managed to get our cows to do it. Maybe we’re not in on the secret.
“You haven’t spoken to me in an hour you know,” she said.
         It had been a half mile of walking, maybe 15 minutes, but she was right. I had been putting my mind somewhere in between Cali and here and damn well musta been ready to blast out of the barn to the moon in a rocket ship.
“I’m sorry babe, I been having a lot of stuff on my mind.”
“I like that word. Babe. It makes me feel sexy. But, what are you thinking about?”
“Oh you know it don’t matter, doncha know?” A weak silly joke, but she obliged my teasing with her own wide smile.
“You think you know it all, don’t you Farmer John. You see this world and you think, it’s mine to conquer!”
“I’m no Alexander the Great, Nathasa. But I tell you, if I could get a second in the room with Daniel O’Connell, I’d be just content now don’t you know.”
“You don’t make any sense sometimes. Hehe,” and she started to take her eyes to the day’s prize: O’Malley’s Milk Malt! Honestly Pop’s greatest addition in recent years. He’s got an eye.
“Oh, is very beautiful John. Verrry beautiful. Is that sugar?”
“Oh yeah? And why do you say that? What’s beautiful here?”
“Because, I see a lot of green. I see beautiful cows. I never see cows in my country. But it’s because in Bogota we don’t see cows. Always out I the country, do you know?”
“But you’re not gonna tell me you ain’t ever been out in the country before, huh?”
Pop’s had researched this. “Course he had. Tons of cows in the Bogota area.
“It’s not like that Jon. It’s that I don’t see it that much. In your life, the cow is always there.”
         And then a roar out of nowhere. I wasn’t sure if it was mildly repressed flatulence escaping the Heffer we were passing or a further brewing of the day’s percolated storm. Odds woulda been in favor of either of those two, but seeing as the skies had gotten to a color about as dark as Nathasa’s skin, I figured some sparks were about to explode.

“Well que pasta??” jumped in my Pa.
“Oh, hola!” shouted Nathasa.
         We were off to a striking start. What else would be new with my Dad.
“Ms. Nathasa ______? Is it Rivera, I believe?”
“Yes!! Yes! It’s true. You are right. My name is Nathasa Rivera. And you are John’s father, no?”
“You got that right, missy. Call me Eric. Eric O’Malley. Boss of this here farm, as I’m sure you could tell by now.”
“Ahhh yes, it’s beauteeful. Me gusta. Me encanta. It’s so big! And John tells me that there are different areas for different projects and workers and everything!”
“Well, it’s a farm layout. Pretty standard. Not sure what John was getting into with you but yes we are big and getting bigger. Milk’s in business, baby!”
“Oh yeah, baby!” Nathasa misread the moment and shook her first like she were jump-roping.
         I knew I could let that “awkwardness” ride because it was them moments that made her so goshdarn endearing to all everybody around her. She’s my girl now. She’s my one ring to rule them all, and I will not let go of her any time soon. I mean, granted, I could chill out a little – I mean pa could! He’s one mother trucker, huh? I guess I love ‘em, but I don’t know if I get him.
“So what you doing down in Alexandria, Nathasa Rivera? You know you picked the best damn place on the whole goddam planet, right?”
         Nathasa giggled and even got a little red. I’m not sure why. He’s just a fool’s dad. But, maybe she thinks he’s something. Or cool? I don’t know. To me he’s just ma pa.
“Well to me Minnesota is the best, hehe,” she replied with sheepish humor.
“Oh yeah, and what kind of things are you getting up to in Minnesota then anyway? Don’t tell me you tried them Juicy Lucies.”
         Nathasa just giggled and giggled. I guess maybe she thought Juicy Lucy was some kind of joke from my dad. I guess he was joking, anyway. But how could she be laughing about something she didn’t even know?
“Are the women in Minnesota called Lucy all the time?” she asked.
         My dad didn’t even change face.
“Oh yeah, Nathasa. And we say they are juicy because all they do is chew bubble gum and drink lots of pop!”
         My girl actually started giving him a quizzical look. I kinda appreciated it on account of her kinda buying in a little too much to my dad after all, ya know? She wanted answers and there was a real curiosity there. Nobody’s fool. She pressed.
“You joking now, I can tell.”
“Don’t mind my pa, now, Nathasa. He’s always been a joker.”
         Pa smirked. I guess he appreciated the compliment I just figured I was speaking truth. Anyway, it seemed to grant him some sort of permission to get serious finally and he sorta went on a serious route, but with him you never really knew if he was fantasizing or joking or not.
“Hey, ugh, listen you know with your Spanish and all I’d have you on here as our very own translator. What do you say Nathasa?”
“Oh, it’s very good idea. I like! I know English so well too…it makes sense.”
“You’d get a kick out of Dad using his damned google translator every day, sometimes they laugh at him so who knows what the hell he’s actually saying to them.”
“They get the job done, son…that’s what Marco was hired for too, you’d better remember,”
“Oh no, Mr. O’Malley, I use them everywhere in America. They never get me nowhere. Always more questions from the people around me and no help,” she blushed.
         And with that…a CRASH! of yellow fermented lightning. Nathasa jumped out of her heels. I was smirking to myself because her fashion sense was a little out of season. Lightning stirkes again, the mush exploding out of the peel crash on the pothole.
“You’ve been around these parts for some months now, Nathasa. You ain’t telling me these storm patterns still scare you, huh?” said I.
“It’s not that John. It’s more that I worry about my train. It’s soon some time.”
“Oh you travelling to –
“Dad, I’m gonna show Nathasa the work of the farm. We’ll catch you in a minute.”
“A pleasure, guys. Enjoy.”
         As we turned the main workhouse of the “ranch” se spotted some of our farmhands. Marco seem flustered by the ripe potential of the clouds. What might a really wet Alexandria look like? HE was fighting with that question I could tell. How would the cows be put away?
“Who are the people here?”
“These are our workers, sexy. They help us out around the farm.”
“And why do they wear those big…galoshes?”
“Boots. Work boots. WE just call ‘em boots. Maybe rubber boots. Wouldn’t it make sense if I asked you why the hell you wore high heels to…a farm?”
“You didn’t tell me the plan. Anyway they boots look …sheety, is that how you say it?”
“Shitty, huh. Them boots been in plenty of shit. You do know this is a farm, Nathasa, right? And you do know farms are dirty. And there is sometimes mud. And if it rains like even today it might, well, you know, hells ain’t gonna hold up.”
         Her eyes darted between the workers and their shoes and the mud and me.
“You laughing at me. I say they are sheety and you laugh.”
“I’m laughing babe because you’re speaking some truth.”
         She wasn’t reassured. Some things get lost in translation, I guess.
“Well than I say they are stupid. I would never wear those.”
         I decided I’d rib her, a little.
“I hear they love wearing them ‘ol boots in Colombia. Or these golloshes as they rave about them heeh”
         Nathasa flashed a bright blush; and her frown matched its haze just right.
“You shut up. We are not so ugly as that. We would never wear such stoopid things. And in my home we all worked hard for our lives. We all worked hard for our lives!!”
         I didn’t really understand what she was on about, but clearly I had triggered some sort of an emotional reaction.
“Tranquila, Nathasa. Tranquila. Nobody’s gonna make you wear them boots, now. Nobody’s gonna make you lose all your hard work and your life.”
         I was just spitting words back at her. I didn’t believe any of what I’d said. But it seemed to calm her down. Soon she was sniffling and smiling and laughing.
         And I hear a rattle and a crash at the barn. Marco was stuffing something away in his backpack.
“Hello Mr. John!” Nathasa almost giggled, listening, expecting Farmer John to come out of Marco’s mouth.
“Oy, Marco, que tal? Everything bueno?”
“Yes, sir, yes yes. But I tell you, Mr John. Big storm. The cows are kicking today. But,” finally locking eyes with Nathasa, “who is this glory of woman? Mamacit you joining us? I show you around. But you first smile for me real big. Farmer John, I –
         I put my arm in front of his space, a temporary paralysis cast by my own aging hand. Nathasa was no longer looking at the exit, but she grabbed my arm and squeezed. Marco shuffle din his place and let his bag swing off his shoulder. And, the culprit, a half pint of Jose Cuervo, spilled all over as his sack cracked open?”
“Marco, what’s this?” asking the obvious.
“Mr. John I explain it’s a holy –
“Holy shit of a mess you’re in is what. I’m calling in Pops.”
“Why is your father necessary?” Nathasa asked, flabbergasted.
“It’s his farm, girl. He’s the CEO he’s the Human Resources he’s the ax wielder.”
“Enough. Call him.”
         I didn’t understand. But we waited.
         Marco still had his camera and insisted on a photo. What a fury. What a nerve. And he said something about his Virgin Mary and a praise, or that he prays, devoting the photos to her. You ask me. I’m just telling. He whips her up, and Nathasa is eyeing the exit again, now in anticipation of the big man. She turns to fully face that direction so that as Marco snaps his devotional photo, he’s got her rear behind in frame.
“Enough Marco, please,” with serenity in my heart. The guy was losing it.
         As the sound wave is hitting Marco’s ear, Pops enters and sees Jose Cuervo and a rambling man whose camera is fixed on my girlfriend’s ass. Sometimes that big fella doesn’t think, he acts. Marco was immediately decked in the cheek, totaling losing his balance.
“Enough!” Dad bellowed deeper than a dwarf-giant cross-breed. That’s power. “Get the fuck off my farm or I’ll light a fire to your ass.” He swipes the camera out of Marco’s hands and smashes it into a beach of sand.
“Now, that is a hero. A true hero. You are Cowboy Papa!”
         I didn’t know what she was getting at, but my head swirled.
“Wait ‘til my son gets in one of them movies, than we’ll cast a new ballot for town hero.”
         He was just mad, but I think he was also sad about me. I didn’t see him again that night.

         Some time later, as the sun was converting into a barely working radiator, the workers were in their homes and Nathasa and I had darted out of that barn.
“I believe every man gets the life that he deserves, she said, “and some people are just basic workers. They do not know the bigger things in this life and they do not want them.”
“You mean you work hard so you live in your fucking Erasmus dorm room they have for all you international students,” I chuckled.
“It’s not the same!”
         Her bright light was burning out quicker than the radiators. Yet she was seething, hot flashes of steam protruding from the metal bars of her braced teeth.
“I feel bad for these people. I will never be like any of them,” she concluded.
         We were passing the housing of the migrant workers. You remember I called this a nightmare city? Well, I didn’t really mean it so much but if you take these migrants housing, we got some of the best in the state. Laundry rooms, big ones, even. A sturdy kitchen. AC units. Proud of my dad’s move on that, but you know, the nightmare is in them hallways sometimes. No living rooms. I won’t be taking Nathasa to them. I bet they’re a doll’s house to them workers.
“…they’re ugly, doncha know?” asked with a whisper, almost like a hush. She was looking for something, and continued:
“Someday they are people that advance in this American society. And there are others that do not. Doncha’ know? And I am one of the people that is advancing, maybe with you. Or someone. I know you only four months, it’s really nothing. But it’s fun. You are even a sleeping John hobbit now I know. You do not fight another man. And when I come to your farm I start to feel sad, I tell you. Your cows just sitting there and not doing nothing. And your workers…so serious…so bad and sad, and I Just do not want to see their lives.”
         *WHIPLASH!* *CRASH!* *FAST!*
         The elements certainly were picking up down here in Alexandria, Illinois. The cows started chanting an “ommm” from the barn I’d swear, the frightened fucks. You know the cows themselves could technically be ok, bat least we never seemed to worry about what we would do with them so much. But I decided to upstage my Dad. I would scan the barn that night. I would text him. Maybe I was Farm Manager material.
“Ay, John you know that I am going to Chicago today! I cannot stay here!”
I could barely her, to be honest. ‘Ol Bertha was the last cow standing. On the frickin’ field. You lose Marco, you lose the control. The wind swept up fast. Not that it was gonna be no tornado, but some things felt in place for it. Not seeing her face, I didn’t know if she’d make it up North or not, but that was her plan.
“Now, are you sure you want to travel in these conditions now, Nathasa? Are you really sure?”
“What is the difference if I am just sitting on a train? It’s no different. It’s all the same. I am fine.”
“And is your sister ready to handle your farming ways now Nathasa?”
“Oh doncha know, she knows you are a special friend. She knows about sleeping Farmer John.”
         Well, we got in the hatchback and we made our way to the tracks. Nathasa looked at the familiar Sugar Me High out the window, seeking some sort of long-gone pleasure.
“Them cows ain’t going anywhere,” I joked, “we’ll show you their variety of smells, I mean cheese, when you get back. Goodbye…love.” And my kiss on the lips attempt was resigned to her cheek. She allowed me a peck.
“No, it’s not that I – I wish you were coming to this city with me. I will miss you.”
         She had insisted I go home immediately, but it didn’t feel right, weather and all. So to respect her insisting, I stayed in my car, tracks and train visible. The ‘ol loco-motive pulled up within about fifteen minutes, as the flock of college students darted for the best seats. I eyed Nathasa, not even with a bag I realized, enter the dining room. She smiles with eyes wide open to embrace and deliver a full fledged sucker punch to my gut, on…Mindar’s lips? Special friend…
         I stayed silent, driving with those words in my mind. I wasn’t thinking she loved me now or anything, but it was tender those words. I would miss her too. Nathasa was living a life I now would only dream about. Alexandria seems to be burying me in the mud.
         Later that night, as the flames grew higher, the phone flashed a news brief that in my own dying despair I had to read: “Train to Chicago crashes. Approaching a routine stop to Murphysboro, skits appeared on the tracks owing to goose feces. The conductor, asleep, missed three warnings from the railway patrol. Combined with water on the track, the lack of friction knocked the train loose off the tracks.”
         Dead.
         Loose.
         Two survivors, the news would later broadcast. Can’t count me in that. And make that two if you count the cameraman.

         But, that was her end.
         I parked the hatchback and struggled through the knee-deep drench of soil and hungry worms. There was no distinguishing waste from decay at this point. And…I thought, maybe that’s why you don’t dance. Maybe that’s why you don’t make it to Chicago. To Bollywood. You fail in L.A. You stay in Alexandria. You win, mostly you lose, and so did she. Ironically enough, Mindar was that mathematical one refugee of the wreckage.
         The sun was set and Big Bertha bellowed, as always, the little Heffer just couldn’t get her face out of my way. And maybe that was the criteria. The criteria for slaughter. I grabbed Big’ ol Bertha away from the skid row fields, laughing to myself. Of course she was last.
         Through the glare of lanterns, I could see the shadowy figures of the migrant workers, probably gossiping of Marco’s demise. And they had left the barn nice and wide open. Normally pa would tear a head off for that Mid-West nice style, but I could keep my mouth shut. Nah I was never a managerial sort. I’d let this stuff go regardless. But. Right now, it was a perfect opportunity.
         I led Bertha to her perch, dashing under the barn’s promising shelter. I pulled her by the neck for the last time. All I saw were photos upon photos on the floor. Marco was on the scene, with a statue of the Madonna, praying as if he were at the wailing wall of a Catholic devotee’s Month of May, or Mary. The working women. Our customers. And somehow Nathasa was already there too, buried beneath the beads of rosaries, forever young.
“Hi Mister, Mr. Farmer, how are you today? I see you sneak into my barn. You never come here at night. What’s your problem? Always complaining with a frown on your face. If I pray for the women, the workers, no it’s problem. You leave us here in our shacks, you make us work, we do not sleep. I cannot sleep. These beds are full of bugs. And the people here always working. We do not sleep! I cannot sleep!”
         He was tripping and kick and flicking about, was this the descent of the Holy Spirit? I rubbed my hands together, ready for his next move. Marco was dancing with himself, or on a quick trip back to earth.
“Every day is the same. No sleep. All farm. We have lives Mister! You know! With my camera I can see the stars. I can see the American Dream. And…you fire me for my devotion. Tonight you will go to be and you will not wake up. Que dios te bendiga y que te jodas!”
         Slamming his fist on the bar wall and returning to his backpack. He pulls…
         …a pistol, pushing me like a pathetic undersized tot. His strength is unmatched by my frame and I body slam him, not delivering to his center of gravity, though.
“I hear your dreams you know. I see them in your face. The lost farmer brother boy. Here is your American Dream!”
         Bertha was bleeding from her gut. Still standing. I feel a lava hot explosion in my chest, and kick Marco one hard time in his special space. Bad call.
         This was the water on the frying pan.
         A couple of damn decades on this place. Waiting, working, watching, Five years in a godforsaken children’s playground and for what. No mom around. Best friend’s and money I had ‘em all never and they’re gone for good too. Life as a mish mash of rotten potatoes. The movies I’d never be in. And the ones that mom would never show us.
         …and Bertha topples, the bullet that missed me became her bane, and her hoof kicks Marco’s goddam lantern, then it tips, and I tell you that barn was ablaze in three minutes. And you’d think the previous rain mighta done something to stop of discourage a spread, but in Alexandria you talk about things drying up real fast.
         Bertha’s corpse lay on its side, while the flames around the fire seemed to lick higher and higer. Fired whisps of barnyard hay surrounded by the nostrils. The other cows howled, as if they were fleeing a chemical gas, it was awful. There was all sorts of banging on the doors. A good kick mighta taken them down. Are you sleeping, Brother John?