《The Farm》


 ONE

    Today is the first day of my life. At least, I think it is.


    I can¡¯t remember anything from before.


    In my short time here, there¡¯s two things that are certain.


    I¡¯m on a farm.


    And I don¡¯t know if I¡¯ll make it through the week.


    Standing beside me in a line are four other men, all similar in height, weight and features; white skin, brown hair, brown eyes, brown clothes that are more like cotton rags than anything else. I¡¯m on the end of the line, wondering what is going on and why we¡¯re all gathered here. No doubt they¡¯re all thinking the same thing judging by the looks on their faces. Surely, they¡¯re asking themselves the same questions:


    Who am I?


    Where am I?


    How did I get here?


    Behind us lies the farm¡ªflat and seemingly endless. There¡¯s a big red barn off to the side a couple hundred yards from the house and a large oak tree stands tall beside it. Weeds and grass have grown up throughout the fields, choking out the last vestige of a crop that used to grow there.


    In front of us looms the farm house. Actually, it¡¯s more like a mansion; massive, and with more rooms than anyone could ever use or need. It looks like it was built in the nineteenth century and, judging by the white paint that is peeling around the windows and balcony, in need of some repairs. A wrap-around porch that¡¯s supported by ivory pillars with two porch swings on opposite sides looks inviting enough. It¡¯s hard to tell how big the house actually is since a twenty foot fence blocks both sides and wraps around the property, disappearing somewhere into the woods. Pine trees, thick, straight and tall jet out from the side of the mansion as far as the eye can see; the fence in front of them acting the part of sentinel.


    Standing in front of us are two men. One looks like the rest of us but is much larger and has red hair, green eyes. The other man is black and wears a Chicago Bulls ball cap. He looks up and down our line with a bemused grin, while the red-haired man eyes us like dogs that just shit in his yard. His hand is resting on a bull whip that¡¯s strapped to his side, his stance loose and weight slightly shifted to his left foot. He glares at me and spits a mouthful of tobacco in my direction. I break my stare and look away.


    It looks like they¡¯re both waiting on someone, and I¡¯m wondering when one of them will say something. I glance to my right and wonder when one of us is going to say something. A bead of sweat trickles down my back and I look up to the sky, finding the sun set high. Must be midday. I look at the black man and now notice that he has a whip as well. Must have blended in with his dark clothing before.


    The mansion door opens and a white man dressed in a tuxedo suit steps onto the porch. His steps are quick, the sound of his solid heel shoes clicking on the wood steps as he approaches. He glides through the freshly trimmed lawn like a man on a mission and with no time to waste. When he stops, he looks up from the ground for the first time, his eyes locking on me first before darting to the men next to me. One by one, he sizes us up.


    Red crosses his arm and sticks his chest out. I dare not speak, but the silence is killing me. I pick my bare foot up and rub an itch at my ankle.


    ¡°Good day gentlemen,¡± the man in the tuxedo finally speaks. ¡°I am Mr. Whyte. I am the owner of this farm and take great pride in it. I expect you to do the same.¡± He pauses and curls his lips, the thick, dark mustache rising up into his nose. ¡°The man to my right is Mr. Red.¡±


    I knew it. And let me guess¡­ the man to your left is Mr. Bla¨C


    ¡°And the man to my left is Mr. Gibbs.¡±


    Mr. Gibbs tips his hat to us in a slight nod before pulling a hand rolled cigarette out of his shirt pocket. He lights it and takes a long slow draw before releasing the smoke to roll up around his head.


    Mr. Tuxedo continues. ¡°These two are my farmhands. They run this place under my supervision and I expect you to give them your utmost respect. There¡¯s a lot of work to be done and not much time.¡±


    ¡°What the hell is this place?¡± a strong voice calls from the other end of the line. I lean forward to steal a glance.


    Mr. Red storms up to him, fists clenched. ¡°You will speak when spoken to. Do I make myself clear?¡± The man who spoke stares wordless at Mr. Red in reply, an arrogant look on his face, daring the farmhand to do something.


    ¡°That¡¯s enough Mr. Red, thank you,¡± Mr. Whyte calls out. ¡°No doubt you all have many questions, and they will be answered in time. Mr. Red, must I repeat myself?¡±


    ¡°No, sir.¡± Red narrows his gaze at the man on the end of the line, sucks air through his teeth, and walks back to his spot.


    Mr. Gibbs chuckles and shakes his head, then takes another slow toke before putting the cherry out on the grass.


    Mr. Whyte gives a cautious look to Mr. Red as he returns. It was an odd look. Cautious. Fearful, maybe? I wonder if anyone else noticed it. Probably not. It was probably nothing. Mr. Whyte speaks. ¡°There are only three rules on this farm, so listen carefully. ¡°One,¡± he holds a finger up. ¡°You obey at all times.¡±


    Not gonna happen. Especially with the hot head on the end.


    ¡°Two. No talking while at work.¡±


    ¡°This is bull shit. I¡¯m not going to stand here¡ª¡± A crack from Red¡¯s whip snapped just shy of the hot head¡¯s nose, the sound of it startling me and no doubt giving him cause to piss himself. Red draws it back, quick, and holds it ready in case the guy wants to say something else.


    These people obviously aren¡¯t playing around man, so shut the hell up until we sort all this out. Everyone waits for the man at the end of the line to speak as his face is beet red, looking like he¡¯s about to explode. He doesn¡¯t say another word.


    Mr. Whyte shoots a glare at the hot head and holds three fingers up. ¡°Three. You take what we give you. There is no currency here, so your payment is food. If you work well and follow the rules, you will be rewarded. If you don¡¯t, you will be punished.¡± He folds his hands and inclines a nod. ¡°Have a good day, gentlemen.¡±


    We watch in silence as he turns and walks through the yard and up the steps, shoes clicking on the porch before returning back inside the white house.


    Mr. Gibbs walks to the front of the line. ¡°You heard the man, let¡¯s get to work.¡± He cuts between us and begins walking towards the field. A couple follow after him. Red motions the rest of us along. ¡°Let¡¯s go little doggies. Move,¡± he says.


    As we approach the barn, I notice all the usual things that a barn might have lying around. Shovels, mattocks, hoes, a post hole digger¡ªall showing signs of rust from years of use on the farm, the wood handles aged and splintered. Off to the side there¡¯s a well, not like the kind that you pump water out with a handle, but the old style well with a hole in the ground, bucket and rope. Closer now to the large oak tree near the barn, it¡¯s bigger than what I thought. The trunk is scarred with what looks like many hits from an axe or large knife.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°Home sweet home,¡± Mr Gibbs says as he stops in front of the large open doors. ¡°There¡¯s bunks inside for the four of you, so that means some poor sumbitch is gonna have to manage for himself.¡± He peeks inside and looks all around. I step closer to do the same but keep my distance. ¡°If y''all want, you can take turns on who gets the beds,¡± he says.


    ¡°Why are we here?¡± a man asks in a shaky voice. He forgot rule two.


    Mr. Gibbs gives him a stern look of warning. ¡°Rule two, no talking.¡± He takes a step and picks a couple of shovels lying on the ground against the wall before handing one to me and one to the man who just spoke. ¡°Take these. I got a job for each of you today.¡± He passes three more shovels to the rest of the guys. ¡°Let¡¯s go.¡±


    It¡¯s so much easier when you keep your mouth shut and do what they say. There¡¯s no trouble that way. No risk. Just go with the flow and everything will be alright. Maybe after we figure out what the hell is going on, we can be so bold to ask questions. Mr. Whyte said they¡¯ll answer our questions in time. Just give it time.


    Mr. Gibbs walks us to the back of the barn and Red makes sure that we follow. He¡¯s extra cautious now that we¡¯re holding shovels and hangs back a few paces, but his body language doesn¡¯t convey fear. More like anticipation. Eagerness, even. He¡¯s the kind of guy that¡¯s looking for a reason to snap.


    ¡°You, here,¡± Mr. Gibbs commands a man and points to a spot on the ground. He takes a couple steps to the side and commands me to do the same. I obey. He then tells the other three to take their spots alongside us, all spaced apart to form another line. Two of the men don¡¯t want to, but reluctantly give in after a moment¡¯s pause and a prodding from Red. After everyone is in place, Mr. Gibbs meets Red at the front. They both stare at us, briefly, before Mr. Gibbs speaks. ¡°Your job for today is to dig a hole. Each of you will dig your own hole¡ªno helping one another. You will make it eight feet long by four feet wide by six feet deep.¡±


    ¡°A grave? You¡¯ve got to be shitting me,¡± the hot head says. ¡°I¡¯m not digging a damn grave¡­ unless it¡¯s for you.¡±


    Mr. Gibbs crosses his arms and narrows his gaze. ¡°Seems like Donald here doesn¡¯t want to eat tonight. He also just volunteered to sleep on the floor, or wherever the hell he likes, so long as it¡¯s in the barn.¡± He walks in front of the hot head named Donald. ¡°You just broke rule two for the last time today, son. You wanna press your luck further?¡± Mr. Gibbs¡¯s hand moves to his hip. Opposite side the whip, a bowie knife hangs, sheathed from his leather belt, his hand poised to pull the blade.


    Donald sees the blade. We all do given the angle that Gibbs is standing. He wants us to see it. Part of me wants to see him pull it. What would happen if he did? Would we all commit to the fight? No. Everyone would stand and watch.


    A sly grin creeps across Donald¡¯s face and he nods, slowly. ¡°Alright, farmhand. I see how it is.¡± He drives his foot on the shovel and buries the spade into the ground, his body tense. After he tosses the dirt to the side, he looks at Gibbs. ¡°You better watch your back,¡± he threatens. Gibbs cocks his head and squints in amusement. ¡°Dig, boy,¡± he replies, then steps back to take his place beside Mr. Red.


    ¡°Anyone else have anything to say?¡±


    Nope.


    I start digging and place the dirt neatly beside where I already imagine the hollow ground being.


    In rarity, Mr. Red speaks and causes me to give pause, his sinister baritone sending chills down my spine. ¡°Most men don¡¯t last a week on the farm. The graves you dig are for you ¡ª it saves Mr. Gibbs and I the trouble of burying you when you¡¯re gone.¡± He spits in our general direction. ¡°But that¡¯s only if you give up, or break the rules. Now, if you play it right, everything will be peaches and tea. Understand?¡±


    ¡°Yessir,¡± I say, and hear a couple others acknowledge along with me.


    Mr. Red nods. ¡°Good. Well what are you all waiting for? Start digging.¡±


    I start digging again.


    This grave¡¯s not for me, though.


    An hour goes by in the blink of an eye. It¡¯s funny how time passes when you¡¯re busy with a task. Especially one that makes you question your own mortality. And damn¡­ I just got here.


    As we dig, Mr. Gibbs fetches a bucket of water from the well. ¡°Take a break. We don¡¯t want you keelin¡¯ over before the hole¡¯s dug,¡± he says. We take turns dipping into the bucket, the taste of iron and minerals sitting heavy on my tongue. After a quick drink, we return to the task.


    The day passes away and the sun begins to set. We¡¯re all drenched from sweat and on the verge of collapse. I look to the other graves and see that we¡¯ve all dug the holes to completion and within specifications. I feel the fatigue and see the same in the rest of the men, even Donald.


    Through the direness of it all, I feel good with completing the task. It¡¯s not an easy feat to dig a grave by hand.


    Mr. Gibbs and Mr. Red are pleased and dismiss themselves for the night. Before they go, Mr. Gibbs speaks. ¡°Remember this day. Let it sink in real good.¡± He nods towards the barn. ¡°Now, get some sleep. We start work at five in the morning. Goodnight, gentlemen.¡± And with that, they walk to the mansion.


    Each of us watch them disappear into the distance. We look to one another in disbelief. Each of us saves our conversations for the confines of the barn¡ªour only known sanctuary on the farm.


    * * *


    It¡¯s dark inside.


    ¡°What in the hell is going on?¡± the man with the shaky voice says as we gather around the center of the barn. He¡¯s the weakest of the bunch and wears his emotions on his sleeve. He¡¯ll probably be the first to go.


    ¡°How about we get to know each other first since we¡¯re all in this together,¡± another guy suggests. Exactly what I was thinking.


    I speak up first. ¡°Cole.¡±


    ¡°Nice to meet you, Cole. Abram,¡± the guy says. I can already see that we¡¯re similar in temperament and I feel more comfortable around him compared to the others.


    ¡°Benji,¡± the weak, timid one says.


    ¡°Donald.¡±


    ¡°Yeah, we know,¡± Abram says. ¡°And you?¡± he asks the last man.


    ¡°Larry,¡± he says and begins to chew on a fingernail. His eyes are shifty, his body skittish.


    Benji shuffles his feet. ¡°Now that we¡¯re all best friends, I¡¯ll ask again. What the hell¡¯s going on?¡±


    It¡¯s a good question, and one that I¡¯ve been asking myself all day. I shake my head and look for anyone else to answer.


    ¡°We¡¯re fucked, that¡¯s what¡¯s going on,¡± Donald says.


    Everyone seems to agree¡ªme, to some extent.


    ¡°How old are you?¡± I ask him.


    ¡°Thirty three.¡±


    ¡°Me, too.¡±


    Abram looks like he¡¯s just seen a ghost. ¡°What?¡± I ask.


    ¡°I¡¯m thirty three,¡± he says.


    We look to Benji. He gives a shaky nod and looks at the ground. Every eye turns to Larry. He spits a thumbnail out and looks around the barn, eyes wide with amazement at the wooden beams and straw-covered ground.


    ¡°No way,¡± Abram says. ¡°Okay, so it¡¯s a coincidence we¡¯re all thirty three.¡±


    ¡°And that none of us knows how the hell we got here,¡± Donald added. ¡°For fuck¡¯s sake, I can¡¯t remember anything before today.¡±


    ¡°Me neither,¡± I say. ¡°It feels like a dream.¡±


    ¡°More like a nightmare,¡± Abram says and walks to one of the barn stalls. I join him, finding a scarce amount of stray and petrified manure inside. ¡°Where¡¯s the animals?¡± I ask. He shrugs and turns back to the group. Larry squats to examine a bug crawling on the dirt floor.


    I look to Benji. ¡°Can you remember where you¡¯re from?¡±


    His eyes shift up towards mine, but he quickly avoids contact. ¡°California.¡±


    ¡°Okay. That¡¯s good. How about you, Donald?¡±


    ¡°Kentucky. Why?¡±


    ¡°Anything else? What did you do for work? Construction? Military?¡±


    He furrowed his brow searching for an answer. ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t know.¡±


    I look to Abram.


    ¡°Tennessee,¡± he says.


    ¡°No shit? What part?¡±


    ¡°Memphis.¡±


    ¡°Nashville here.¡±


    ¡°Oregon,¡± Larry chimes in. ¡°Thirty three.¡± He lays his finger on the ground and allows the strange bug to crawl on his hand. ¡°Aquarius.¡±


    Donald crosses his arms. ¡°So for some damn reason, we¡¯re all thirty three. We¡¯re from America, and apparently, we don¡¯t know anything aside from that except for our birthday.¡±


    ¡°I was born today,¡± Larry stated, bringing the bug up to his eye for examination.


    ¡°Whatever,¡± Donald says.


    ¡°So what¡¯s the plan?¡± Benji asks in earnest, his eyes begging for an answer. He¡¯s scared. Perhaps we all are; he¡¯s just showing it a bit more than the rest. No. I¡¯m not scared. Intrigued, maybe.


    ¡°It¡¯s two against five,¡± Donald notes. ¡°I say we wait until one of them is alone and then take him out.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Abram says.


    Donald steps to him. ¡°What¡¯s not to know man? The way I see it, our past be damned. We¡¯re here, right now. They¡¯re running the show and we¡¯re being treated like dogs. We don¡¯t know a damn thing, and they have the upper hand. I¡¯ll be damned if I sit and take it.¡±


    Larry begins whistling Stairway to Heaven by Led Zeppelin and interrupts Donald¡¯s plans. He dances with the bug as it crawls up his arm. Donald turns to him. ¡°The fuck¡¯s wrong with you?¡± Larry ignores him and continues to sway with arms wide, eyes locked on his tiny, new friend.


    I walk outside to clear my head and look up to find the full moon lighting the farm. The land looks so peaceful. So innocent. I feel Abram walk beside me.


    ¡°Donald makes a point. We need a plan.¡±


    ¡°I know.¡±


    He looks to the sky and inhales deep. ¡°You know we''re gonna have to break the rules.¡±


    I nod, knowing all too well the truth in the words. I know the truth in the consequences of breaking the rules as well, and the repercussions that follow in doing so. Cause and effect.


    The universe always gets its due.


    ¡°Rules are meant to be broken, Abram.¡±

 TWO

    ¡°Rise and shine!¡± Mr. Gibbs shouts outside the barn, rapping a stick on the door.


    My eyes instantly open, mind reeling with the gravity of my current state.


    Why couldn¡¯t it have been a dream? What did I do to deserve this?


    ¡°Let¡¯s go. On your feet!¡± Mr. Red bellows.


    It¡¯s still dark inside the barn. I raise my head to see the two shadows moving by the light of the moon, barking orders from behind the closed door. The rest of the men beside me stir in their small beds, no doubt dreading their own reality in the waking moment. Donald¡¯s already up and walks to meet them. He slides one of the large doors open. ¡°You¡¯re late,¡± he mocks.


    Mr. Red laughs. ¡°Alright then, spring chicken, let¡¯s get at it then. I¡¯m gonna call you Cock from now on. Is that okay with you, Cock?¡±


    It¡¯s too early for this shit.


    ¡°Suits me just fine, Mr. Red, sir.¡±


    Mr. Red sucks air through his teeth. ¡°Good. Go on and grab one of those hoes out front and wait for the rest of us.¡±


    I roll out of bed wearing the same clothes from the day before and slog my way towards the door to join Donald. The two farmhands glance at me as I walk by to fetch a hoe for myself, but pay me no more attention than what I deserve. I know my place.


    I hear them bark at the rest, and the other four soon fall in line beside Donald and myself, each rubbing their eyes and muttering what I would imagine to be curses at whoever damned us to this existence.


    I feel the rough wood handle of the tool in my hand before throwing it over my shoulder. Sun¡¯s not even up yet. It¡¯s gonna be a long day.


    Mr. Gibbs leads the way, flashlight in hand illuminating the ground ahead. We walk in silence, away from the barn¡ªour only safe haven¡ªand into an unknown land. ¡°Careful now,¡± Gibbs says. ¡°Don¡¯t wanna break an ankle first day on the job.¡± He¡¯s right. I feel the uneven ground below my feet that I imagine cattle or groundhogs making. But I¡¯ve seen no cattle or groundhogs since I¡¯ve been here. That¡¯s not saying much, though. A farm like this; it¡¯s probably overrun with deer, turkey, and all kinds of wild game. The cows are likely to be elsewhere, grazing.


    Most farms have cows. I assume this one does, too.


    We walk for what seems like a mile when Mr. Gibbs finally stops. The sun begins to rise and casts its light upon the land. We¡¯re standing on an old corn field, the stocks broken and jetting from the earth like thick, broken weeds. I figure it to be about five acres.


    How the hell do I know what an acre is? I¡¯ve never lived in the country before, let alone owned a piece of land. Downtown Nashville is city streets and high-rises. An apartment on the ninth floor.


    ¡°Hope you boys got a good night of sleep,¡± Mr. Gibbs says. ¡°Because you¡¯re gonna need it.¡±


    I see the barren rows and know what needs to be tilled. It¡¯s going to be a really long day.


    Mr. Red points to the far end of the field. ¡°Start down there and work your way back here. Till it good or you¡¯ll be doing it over again.¡±


    Donald marches to the far end of the field like a man on a mission. I grudgingly follow as Abram steps in beside me. ¡°Don¡¯t overwork yourself. Keep busy but conserve your energy,¡± he advises.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry about me, Abram. I can play the game.¡±


    Larry skips ahead of us, holding the hoe out in front like he¡¯s dancing with it. He does a twirl and nearly trips. ¡°There¡¯s something wrong with him,¡± Abram says.


    I glance behind me and see Benji still standing where we left him, his head cast down, shoulders slouched. Mr. Red steps in front of him and points, his words muffled from where I stand. I stop and turn, waiting to see what happens, hoping Benji doesn¡¯t do anything stupid.


    Benji shakes his head.


    Rule one.


    Mr. Red clenches his fist and draws his arm up like he¡¯s gonna hit the poor bastard. He takes a deep breath and restrains himself. He leans close and whispers into Benji¡¯s ear. Whatever it was that Red said made Benji grip the tool with both hands and turn to join the rest of us.


    ¡°C¡¯mon, man. Don¡¯t linger,¡± Abram says and puts a hand on my shoulder.


    Instantly, my blood rises. I shoot a glare at him, something inside me tensing at the touch. I swallow my words, saving him from the sharp edge of my tongue. Don¡¯t ever touch me again.


    We take our place on the rows next to Donald. He¡¯s already working the ground like a pro, making it look easy. I square up, set my feet, and strike the earth. I make my row neat, straight¡ªten inches deep and no more than the five inch width of the metal blade. I till about ten feet thinking that it¡¯s not so bad. Then the blade hits something hard and I feel a numbing tingle run through my hands. I dig around the rock and try to pry it loose but the damn thing won¡¯t budge, so I drop the tool and begin to work at it with my hands. A drop of sweat drips from my nose and falls. I wipe my face with a sleeve, furrow my brow, and attack the stone with full intentions of not letting it get the best of me.


    A shadow fills my work space and I pause what I¡¯m doing to crane my neck up.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Mr. Red asks, a flash of light reflecting off his dark, Texas cop glasses as he regards me like a child playing in a sandbox.


    What does it look like I¡¯m doing? ¡°I¡¯m following last year¡¯s row and ran into this.¡± I straighten my back up and point at the rock like he¡¯s ignorant to it being there.


    ¡°Quit dicking around, Cole, and skip over it,¡± he instructed as though it were a simple solution to a trivial problem that anyone should have been able to see. It was simple and a good idea. I didn¡¯t even think of it. But it¡¯s in the way.


    My hands grip the tool and I rise from my knees, wipe more sweat from my brow with my arm. I ignore Mr. Red and continue digging the ditch, skipping over the rock.


    I glance towards Abram who¡¯s nearby and witnessed the whole embarrassing ordeal. He¡¯s trying his best to stifle a sheepish grin and keeps his head down.


    A thought crosses my mind and I wonder why the rock was there if the same row was worked last year. Did someone skip over it last time, as well? I turn to bring it to Mr. Red¡¯s attention, but he¡¯s already gone to rejoin Mr. Gibbs in the middle of the field, fifty yards away.


    There¡¯s a certain melodic sound from a group working the ground; the sound of the tools hitting the earth in succession giving a nice tempo to keep pace with. Like a metronome, I time my strikes with the others and imagine them listening to the same music because we¡¯re all playing to the same tune.You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    Time passes fast on the farm. Suppose it¡¯s just that we¡¯re staying busy, but it¡¯s still surprising how quickly the day fades away. The farmhands haven¡¯t said much today; the only words coming from Mr. Red earlier when he instructed me like a child. They haven¡¯t even talked among themselves¡­ at least I haven¡¯t noticed them doing so. They take turns fetching us buckets of water from the well, and I welcome the sound of the four-wheeler firing up every time they push the ignition.


    It¡¯s a large ATV, camouflage. The kind with racks on the front and back¡ªone for guns and one for a deer. Or bear, hog, coyote, whatever. Farmhand.


    I¡¯m going to steal it.


    They drop the water off at the edge of the field, then park it to the side before rejoining the parched men at the bucket. We¡¯re all soaking wet¡ªsweat making our brown, ragged clothes stick to our chests and backs.


    I glance at the four-wheeler and figure it¡¯s a good time to break away from the group. I don¡¯t get five steps away before Mr. Gibbs asks me what I¡¯m doing. ¡°I gotta piss. Can¡¯t a guy get a little privacy?¡±


    ¡°What do you got to be ashamed of?¡± Gibbs replies, amused. ¡°We¡¯re all grown men.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll just go right over here,¡± I say and keep moving in the direction of the ATV. They ignore me and I hear them talk to the group. I keep walking.


    Almost there.


    ¡°Hey, that¡¯s far enough,¡± Mr. Gibbs calls out to me.


    I pretend I don¡¯t hear him.


    ¡°I said that¡¯s far enough!¡±


    ¡°Alright,¡± I say and take a couple more steps before untying my pants to relieve myself. I¡¯m close enough to make a break for it¡ªclose enough to see that they leave the key in the ignition at all times.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go. Now,¡± Gibbs yells out and takes a couple steps towards me.


    ¡°Alright,¡± I call back over my shoulder and finish my business. All eyes are on me as I rejoin the group, and a sinking feeling rises up in my gut. Do they know what I¡¯m planning? Is it that obvious? I whistle as I walk towards them, pretending that everything is normal.


    ¡°What was that?¡± Mr. Gibbs steps up to me and puts a hand to his whip. Mr. Red joins him and squares his broad shoulders. Both of them are bearing down on me with a serious gaze, one that bears consequences for doing something out of line.


    Everyone¡¯s waiting on me to say something and wondering what the farmhands are going to do. I go to speak but feel a lump creep up into my throat. ¡°I¡­ just had to pee.¡±


    Mr. Gibbs busts out laughing and Mr. Red wears a bemused grin on his freckled face. ¡°Damn, man, I¡¯m just jerking your chain,¡± Gibbs says and holds his stomach as his laughter fades to a chuckle. I look to the other men. They¡¯re all froze in place, surprised by show, and relieved that the farmhands didn¡¯t throttle one of us for something as trivial as taking a piss.


    I¡¯ll admit that the farmhands are hard to figure out. Most of the time, they¡¯re serious business. But every once in a while, they cut up and make jokes. Except nobody finds them funny. They¡¯re showing too much, though. I¡¯m beginning to figure out what buttons I can push and how they¡¯ll react. Sure, they¡¯ve got the upper hand, and everything¡¯s still all mysterious and shit, but they¡¯re giving away too much.


    ¡°Okay, break¡¯s over. Back to work now.¡± Mr. Red takes the water bucket back to the ATV and Gibbs steps in beside him.


    The five of us look at one another.


    ¡°What the hell were you doing?¡± Donald asks, keeping his voice down. ¡°Tell me you weren¡¯t thinking of doing something stupid like stealing that four wheeler.¡±


    ¡°Rule two¡ªno talking,¡± Benji reminds us with a strained whisper and looks at the farmhands nervously.


    I meet Donald¡¯s eye. ¡°I thought about it.¡± I glance over my shoulder to see them leaning on the machine, talking in earnest about something. Or someone.


    ¡°They leave the key in the ignition.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going back to work before you guys get all of us in trouble,¡± Benji says and walks away. Larry joins him and pats him on the back, reassuring him that everything will be alright.


    Abram closes the distance between the three of us and speaks. ¡°Say that you do steal it. What then? Where will you go?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s simple. To the nearest town to ask for help.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t even know where we are! What if there¡¯s no town within a hundred miles?¡±


    ¡°C¡¯mon guys, let¡¯s get back to work. They¡¯re coming back,¡± Donald cautions.


    ¡°We¡¯ll talk about it tonight,¡± I say. ¡°Let¡¯s just get this day over with.¡±


    * * *


    The inside of the barn is lit by a couple lightbulbs that¡¯s strung along the hay lofts. Everyone¡¯s scattered around the floor eating like a pack of starving, ravenous dogs that just found a rotting deer carcass on the side of the road. It¡¯s not roadkill that we¡¯re eating, though. Our meal¡¯s a spread of corn, bread, fruits and vegetables fit for a king. I¡¯m surprised that we¡¯re being fed this well, suspecting our meals to consist of some gray mush that they slop into a bowl. Donald¡¯s tearing through a cooked chicken¡ªa whole cooked chicken¡ªhis reward for working so hard and obeying the rules. Meat of the Day went to him. Maybe I¡¯ll get it tomorrow. That¡¯s if I¡¯m still here.


    I¡¯ve already imagined stealing the ATV and riding away multiple times, leaving everyone and everything behind. I wonder what everyone else would think as they watched me tear away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dust and the sound of a red-lining engine fading off into the distance.


    Donald picks through the remnants of a chicken leg and looks at me with bits of meat and grease smeared around his mouth. ¡°Tell us about this master plan you have with stealing the ATV from Mr. Gibbs and Mr. Red.¡±


    It¡¯s not much of a plan. Pretty simple, really. Just take it and ride like hell.


    ¡°I figure we wait until they¡¯re separated, then I¡¯ll make a run for it.¡±


    Benji shakes his head. ¡°They¡¯re never separated. Always together.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s right,¡± Abram says and reclines on the dirt floor of the barn, hands cradling the back of his head. ¡°It¡¯ll never work.¡±


    ¡°It will,¡± I assure him.


    Donald pushes his plate aside and wipes his mouth with a sleeve. ¡°One of them will have to use the bathroom or something at some point, and that¡¯s when we¡¯ll distract the other one while Cole here makes a break for it. If they do leave the keys in the ignition all the time, it¡¯ll work. I¡¯m in.¡±


    ¡°But what if they don¡¯t? What if it was just a one-time thing, and when they find out you¡¯ve been plotting this, they kill us all?¡± Benji states. He reminds me of a mouse. Not one of the cool ones like in Tom and Jerry, but a scared, shifty-eyed mouse. Scared, anxious people are the ones you gotta look out for. I¡¯ve seen the movies. They¡¯re always the ones who talk too loud or spook too easy when the killer or monster is near. They usually end up dying and nobody has any sympathy for them; especially when they¡¯re the reason that the other people around them get killed.


    Benji¡¯s the type that could get us all killed.


    ¡°It¡¯s a risk worth taking,¡± Donald replies. ¡°Don¡¯t worry Benji, you don¡¯t have to do shit. Same goes for the rest of you. I¡¯ll make the distraction while Cole makes a run for it, that way nobody else gets involved.¡±


    I nod my head in agreement. ¡°There¡¯s no reason for everyone to get punished if this thing goes south. Thanks, Donald.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t mention it. So you¡¯ll be coming back that night to pick me up first, then make rounds for the rest of the guys here.¡± It wasn¡¯t a question. It was a statement.


    I¡¯m not coming back.


    ¡°Sure.¡±


    Donald narrows his gaze at me, searching for a lie. He won¡¯t find one. I¡¯m a good liar.


    Larry stands up and stretches. He bends over and touches his toes, then stretches towards the sky again. After he¡¯s done, he looks back and forth to me and Donald. ¡°Why do you want to leave in the first place?¡± he asks.


    At first I¡¯m shocked that he said something that wasn¡¯t complete rubbish. Then I begin to weigh the question over in my mind. I want to laugh at the audacity of such a stupid question, but I don¡¯t. It¡¯s actually a good question. One that I haven¡¯t really thought about before.


    ¡°Ha! That¡¯s the dumbest thing I¡¯ve ever heard,¡± Donald says. ¡°You really are bat shit crazy, aren¡¯t you Larry.¡±


    Larry smiles in reply, but doesn¡¯t take offense, which surprises me.


    ¡°We¡¯re slaves here,¡± Abram states. ¡°Who wouldn¡¯t want to leave?¡±


    Larry replies. ¡°Are we slaves? I don¡¯t know.¡± He shakes his head and bends to touch his toes again. ¡°And who¡¯s to say that leaving would be any better?¡±


    Donald shakes his head, apparently through with Larry. He leans back on a bail of hay and picks at his teeth.


    ¡°Can¡¯t be any worse,¡± Abram replies.


    Larry stands up straight again and speaks. ¡°I¡¯m confused. Confused as much as any of you are.¡± I stifle a snort. He continues. ¡°But these people have the answers that we seek. They know who we are and how we got here. You won¡¯t find the truth out there,¡± he says and points outside.


    He walks to me and kneels beside where I¡¯m sitting. I adjust myself and don¡¯t like how close he is. His eyes are kind, true. Not so crazy.


    ¡°You won¡¯t find anything out there. Don¡¯t do it,¡± he says to me.


    ¡°Don¡¯t worry Larry. I¡¯ll come back for you.¡±


    He looks down with a look of shame and disappointment before walking away.


    You¡¯re not my damn dad, Larry.


    Donald chuckles like a drunk uncle at a party. ¡°Cheer up ladies. Tomorrow¡¯s gonna be a brand new day and full of promise.¡±


    Benji scurries to one of the cots and throws a blanket over himself. Larry walks outside and gazes up at the moon. Abram doesn¡¯t really care one way or the other. Donald closes his eyes, a wry smile upon his face.


    And me?


    I¡¯m tired.

 Thank You

    John¡¯s hands shake as he loads the magazine.


    A picture hangs in the rear-view of the green station wagon. It spins as a hot summer breeze blows through the open window; the faces of a woman and two children alternating with the blank white backing of the weathered photograph.


    Not now.


    John refused to look at it, willing himself to focus only on the bullets.


    Land of the free. The American dream. It had all been a lie. As the years flew by, his dream was slowly crushed by the ways of the world.


    Not my fault. Can¡¯t say I didn¡¯t try.


    Nervous fingers drop a round. Cursing, John leans to retrieve it from the floorboard, and bangs his head into the horn, causing pedestrians to stop and look.


    Grinding his teeth, John mutters another curse at himself as he straightens up, giving the impression that he¡¯s not about to do something stupid. Easing back into the seat, he realizes that nobody took much notice anyway.


    It was the lawyers, doctors, judges, and business folk that filled the sidewalks and crosswalks of downtown, and they didn¡¯t take much notice to anything other than themselves. They all walked the same way, talked the same way; like they were better than him.


    He knew robbing a downtown bank in broad daylight was the dumbest idea he¡¯d ever had, but he was out of options. And he figured something that crazy¡­ he might just get away with it.


    Sometimes you gotta go with balls instead of brains, he thought.


    Sweat beaded upon his brow as he looked at the entrance to the building and pushed the last bullet into the magazine. One cop on the inside wouldn¡¯t be a problem. One wouldn¡¯t be, but there would be more within the span of three minutes, give or take twenty seconds. That was the response time to the bomb threat he called in last week, so he calculated it to be the same on a robbery.


    Eyes closed. The sweet smell of fresh cut grass.


    Photograph turning slowly.


    He refused to look at his family one last time, and gripped the mask that he would put over his face.


    John clenched the gun in his hands as he slammed the magazine into the pistol and took swift steps into the bank.


    * * *


    The bank robbery didn''t go as planned.


    I couldn''t go through with it.


    No alarms sounded. The police didn''t show up. No high-speed chase ending in a glorious blaze of gunfire with thousands of hundred-dollar bills scattering across the freeway, fluttering in the breeze as I lie dying, face down on the cold pavement.


    No, John Crussel didn''t die today. Not because of the risk; I¡¯d do almost anything for my family¡ªgive my own life if need be.


    It wasn¡¯t the cop in the corner. From the looks of his age, he could barely aim a gun, let alone squeeze the trigger. And it wasn''t the average Joe carrying a pistol on his side that made me change my mind. He would have been the first to take a bullet to the head if he tried to be brave. And it wasn''t the bank teller who eyed me suspiciously as I patiently waited in line to hand her the robbery note.


    It was the picture of my wife and kids that hung in the mirror of my old, green station wagon that wouldn''t get out of my head. They were the reason that I didn''t pull the tucked pistol. They need me, and I can¡¯t leave them. I want to give them a better life; one better than I''d ever had or deserved. But I knew that robbing a bank, and getting away with it today, would be virtually impossible.


    I looked down, ashamed to have even come this close.


    There¡¯s got to be another way.


    Why am I even still standing in line? I thought. Get your act together, John, and get the hell out of here.


    I turned to leave, and that¡¯s when I heard them.


    "I can''t believe you made that much money from playing a damn video game," a man standing behind me in line for the bank teller had said.


    "Five thousand. Easy money," the other man bragged.


    I stayed put and kept my back to them, listening.


    "From a video game," the first man stated, his tone thick with disbelief.


    "Yep. Can even transfer money from your bank account into the game if you want. But it''s not what you¡¯d think a normal game would be. There can be real-life repercussions,¡± the man said, and began talking about the details of the game.


    ¡°Next,¡± the teller called.


    Alterlife, he called it. A virtual reality massively multi-player online role playing game. VRMMORPG for short.


    ¡°Sir. Next,¡± she called again.


    ¡°You¡¯re next in line,¡± the guy behind me said.


    ¡°Oh, right.¡± I stepped to the counter.


    ¡°How can I help you today?¡± she asked.


    Without saying a word, I grabbed a dum-dum sucker, cotton candy flavor, and held it up to her with appreciation.


    I left the bank, my mind reeling with the possibility of making money from a game. I''ve the slightest idea of what Alterlife is about, but I''m willing to try it. It''s a damn video game. How hard could it be?


    Couldn''t be any worse than robbing a bank.


    Safely back inside my car, I let out a sigh of relief. I took the picture of my family in my hands and pressed it to my lips.


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    * * *


    I used to be a gamer back in the day, and always thought myself quite good. A quick learner from an early age, not many of my friends could beat me. Had a Nintendo when I was five. Xbox in my teens and twenties. But when the kids came into my life, I quit gaming.


    There''s not enough time in the day when you''re struggling to keep a roof over your family''s head and food on the table. I¡¯ve been working construction for the past ten years, and have recently been taking jobs on the road because the money¡¯s good. But it seems that there¡¯s always another job to take, another dollar to make, somewhere. Luckily, I¡¯ve had a road job close to home now for the past couple of months, and have been able to eat supper with my wife and kids every night. I don¡¯t care how nice the hotel is, there¡¯s nothing like sleeping in your own bed.


    I wish I could have that every night.


    I fire up the car and hit the streets of Johnson City, Tennessee in search for the nearest store that might carry the game. To my surprise, and even more to my dismay, the first three stores were sold out. Driving down the bypass, I see a billboard advertising Alterlife¡ª¡°Your Dream Life is Waiting. What Are You Waiting For? Live It Now.¡±


    It¡¯s the first time I¡¯ve ever seen a game advertised on a billboard before. I can¡¯t believe I didn¡¯t take notice before today. This game must be bigger than I thought.Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    I¡¯m probably so far behind the curve now, I¡¯ll never catch up to the competition. Another missed opportunity. Still, I¡¯ve got to try.


    I pull into the mall and head to the game store, knowing all too well that it¡¯ll likely be sold out there, too. I quickly walk into the place with my hood pulled over my head and hands in my pockets like I¡¯m about to do a drug deal in some back alley. Funny, because I¡¯ve never used drugs before. Never even took a drink of alcohol. Every time I tell someone that, they look at me like I¡¯m either bullshitting or crazy. Call me a weirdo, I don¡¯t care.


    Another empty game display case. Shit.


    I shake my head and turn to leave.


    ¡°Can I help you?¡± the clerk asks. A young man with short, bleached hair -- black roots showing underneath -- and bleached eyebrows.


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t happen to know when the next shipment of Alterlife comes in, would you?¡± I ask him, approaching the counter.


    He laughs in reply. ¡°Good one, man.¡± I glare at him and he stops laughing. ¡°Oh, you¡¯re serious. I¡¯m sorry, but I have no idea. Last I heard, there won¡¯t be another delivery until later next year.¡±


    ¡°Next year? What a crock of shit. Why advertise a game if you don¡¯t make enough copies for everyone to buy?¡± I bite back.


    He shrugs. ¡°It¡¯s a hot game. Everyone¡¯s playing it,¡± he replies as though I should know. ¡°Maybe the game creator didn¡¯t think it would take off like it did?¡±


    The heat rises to my face and I come to realize that this guy can¡¯t help me. ¡°Guess not. To hell with it then.¡± I turn to leave.


    ¡°Wait,¡± he calls before I go and motions me to the corner of the counter. He leans in close and keeps the conversation between us. ¡°Listen, I wasn¡¯t going to say anything, but you seem like you really want the game.¡± His eyes shift around the room, then find mine again. ¡°I got a copy, but it¡¯ll cost you.¡±


    ¡°How much?¡±


    ¡°Five hundred.¡±


    ¡°Five hundred dollars! Are you kidding me?¡±


    He looks around nervously and puts his hand up to shush me. ¡°Keep it down, man. Jeez. Look, do you want the game or not? You won¡¯t find one for any cheaper than that, I can promise you.¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t have that kind of money. Even if I did, I wouldn¡¯t spend it on a stupid video game.¡± I leave before things escalate between my fist and his face.


    The clerk holds his hands up. ¡°Suit yourself, man. If you change your mind, you know where to find me,¡± he calls to my back as I exit the store.


    * * *


    The virtual reality system ¨C NueView ¨C costs five-hundred bucks by itself.


    A grand just to play a damn video game. No way I¡¯m doing that. Don¡¯t have that kind of money anyway. Even if I did, Jenny would kill me.


    Through the city streets and out into the country I drive, taking my time. Across the green rolling hills, I take the long way home five miles under the speed limit, thoroughly enjoying the five-dollar cup of coffee that makes me feel better for pissing my day away. I used what change I could scrounge out of the car so Jenny wouldn¡¯t notice it on the bank statement.


    Out of all the things I could have been doing on my Friday off, I¡¯m running around town trying to find a video game that I think can make me a lot of money. ¡°Damn, John. You¡¯ve finally hit rock bottom.¡± I laugh at myself. ¡°First you try to rob a bank, then this¡­¡±


    I didn¡¯t actually try to rob the bank. It never got to that point.


    I shake my head, knowing this whole video game thing is a bunch of nonsense. I pull into a gas station to throw the coffee cup in the trashcan that¡¯s by the pump, then turn down the old dirt road that leads me home. The familiar sound of gravel crunching under my tires comforts me. It lets me know I¡¯m home.


    Rent is six-hundred a month. But for a three bed/two bath, that¡¯s about the best I could find. As long as my wife and kids are safe and there¡¯s food in the cupboards, I¡¯m a happy man.


    ¡°It¡¯s a man¡¯s responsibility to take care of his family. They come first, you come last,¡± my old man once told me. Those words have stuck ever since. He always made sure Ma and us kids were fed and clothes were on our backs, leaving little for himself other than the bottle. Sometimes I wonder if getting drunk was all he ever wanted. Suppose that¡¯s why I¡¯ve never taken a drink.


    I¡¯m not like you.


    Kicking one of the porch steps, it¡¯s in need of repair. I¡¯ll have to get on that soon.


    ¡°Jenny, kiddos, I¡¯m home!¡±


    ¡°Daddy!¡± my youngest screams and hugs my leg. Doctors said she wouldn¡¯t live to see her first birthday. Now, Carla¡¯s three going on four.


    I drop my lunchbox and pick her up in my arms. ¡°Carla. Daddy missed you so much. How was your day at preschool today?¡± I place her down as she talks.


    ¡°I played soccer. And ate all my lunch!¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s my girl,¡± I praise, rubbing her on the head. ¡°Did you score a goal?¡±


    She shakes her head. ¡°No. Not today.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s okay. There¡¯s always tomorrow,¡± I tell her and brush her cheek with my thumb.


    ¡°Hey, pop,¡± Ben greets me from the couch in the living room.


    ¡°Hey, punk.¡± I steal the remote out of his hand and gently shove his head. ¡°How about you help your mother with the dishes instead of watching TV? Look at her slaving away over the stove while you sit on your ass.¡±


    Passing the dining room table, I walk to my wife.


    If you¡¯d ask her, she¡¯d say the house is a wreck, supper is burning, and she¡¯s a hot mess. But she¡¯d be wrong. The house isn¡¯t that bad, the food is fine, and she¡¯s the most beautiful woman in the world. ¡°Hey, baby.¡±


    She shakes her head at me while frantically stirring a pan of meat sauce. ¡°I¡¯m sorry supper isn¡¯t ready yet. It¡¯s been a crazy¡­¡±


    ¡°Come here,¡± I interrupt and pull her close. After we kiss, she smiles and giggles like we¡¯re twenty years old again. She turns back to the stove. ¡°How was work? You¡¯re a little later than usual.¡±


    I didn¡¯t go to work, Jenny. I lied to you because I didn¡¯t want you to know that I was planning on robbing a bank today.


    That¡¯s what I should have said. I should¡¯ve told her the truth.


    ¡°You know, just another day. Thankful for the overtime.¡±


    ¡°Well, can¡¯t say we don¡¯t need the money right now.¡± She gives me a peck on the cheek. ¡°I¡¯m glad you¡¯re home.¡±


    ¡°Me too.¡± I look at the pile of dishes in the sink. ¡°Dammit, Ben. If I have to tell you one more time to get in here and do these dishes, no more TV for a week.¡±


    He throws his arms out in frustration. ¡°Alright, I¡¯m coming!¡±


    I knuckle his head. ¡°Arghh! Quit it!¡±


    I wrap him up tight. ¡°I love you.¡±


    ¡°Love you, too, pop,¡± he wheezes out.


    A glass of milk is my ritual when I get home; has been ever since I was a kid. Except there¡¯s none in the fridge. ¡°We forget to buy milk?¡±


    ¡°No. We just didn¡¯t have the money for milk this week,¡± Jenny replies.


    I close the fridge. ¡°Devin just paid me back. What about that money? I gave you that hundred bucks. Where¡¯d it go?¡±


    ¡°Where does any money ever go, John?¡± She looks at me with spatula in hand, waiting for an answer. ¡°Bills, John. Bills.¡±


    ¡°Oh, you mean those things that keep sucking our bank account dry?¡± I play.


    She shakes her head with a grin and turns back to cooking. ¡°Yeah, those.¡±


    I wrap my arms around her waist and cradle her stomach. ¡°I know we¡¯ve got a lot on us with Carla¡¯s medical expenses, on top of everything else, but we¡¯ll be alright, babe. I promise. We always find a way.¡±


    She touches my hand. ¡°I know we will. And yes, we do always find a way.¡± She forces a smile.


    I hate when she does that; hate when she pretends that things are okay.


    Walking to the pantry, I feel the financial burden sinking in, like a rope tied to a heavy stone that¡¯s dragging me under water. I need to make some money fast. Maybe I could ask the boss man if I could get some overtime. Work has been slow lately, but maybe he can do me a solid.


    It¡¯s been a few months¡­ I could donate my plasma again. Last time I got sick, though.


    Or I could ask Mr. Jones at the end of the road if he needs anything fixed up around the house.


    The man from the bank comes into mind. I can¡¯t get his words out of my head. ¡°Five thousand. Easy money.¡±


    ¡°John. Did you hear me?¡±


    ¡°Huh? Yeah, I heard you, babe.¡±


    ¡°I hate it when you do that.¡±


    ¡°Hate it when I do what?¡± I ask, letting go of the pantry door, turning to her in ignorance.


    ¡°When you¡¯re not here, with us. When you¡¯re not present. Your mind wanders off, and I swear that sometimes, you¡¯ll just be gazing off for minutes at a time.¡±


    ¡°I think that¡¯s exaggerating a bit, don¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°No, I don¡¯t. Now, can you please go and help your daughter like I asked multiple times? I¡¯ve got to finish cooking.¡±


    My son will back me up. ¡°Ben, was I dazing off?¡±


    Rinsing a dish, he turns his head to reply. ¡°She asked you three times, dad.¡±


    I throw my hands up and go put Carla in the bath. When she¡¯s all washed up and drying off with the towel, I make her a promise. ¡°Daddy¡¯s gonna make everything okay. I promise. I¡¯m going to give you a great life. Nothing is going to stop you from living the way you want to live. Nobody is going to say what you can or can¡¯t do. I won¡¯t let them. I promise.¡±


    She looks up to me with her big brown eyes. ¡°Everything is already okay, daddy. You¡¯re home now with me and mommy and Ben. I love you.¡± She hugs my neck then runs off to get dressed.


    I remain kneeling on the floor, watch the water drain. Thinking.


    The innocence of a child is so special.


    They¡¯re not jaded by the world yet.


    * * *


    I spend Sunday with my family, and try to take my mind off of the black cloud of financial depression that¡¯s hanging over me. It helps to watch Carla laugh as she frolics around the playground. No worries, no responsibilities, no pressure. Just being a kid. Enjoying living.


    Two other kids run up to her, and Carla takes off after them.


    ¡°Looks like Carla made some new friends,¡± Jenny says happily.


    I was like that once. Carefree and full of life. But life has a way of beating you down. Just as persistent waters pound on rock, time erodes away at you and the next thing you know, you¡¯re on the closer half of seventy. Working for the man takes priority, determining how you spend your time and who you spend it with. Hell, I see the guys at work more than I do my own family on a daily basis. Something about that just doesn¡¯t seem right to me.


    And time keeps ticking.


    The days and the weeks seem like a slog, but the years fly by¡ªsomething the old-timers have always told me. Living as long as I have, I now have to say that I agree with them. And now that I¡¯ve lived long enough to grow a little wiser, I can feel the years speeding up as I get older. On a calendar they look linear, but I swear it¡¯s more of an exponential gain.


    Jenny¡¯s grabbing us a couple of hotdogs from a food truck, and Ben¡¯s staring at his phone. If it¡¯s not television or video games at the house, it¡¯s the damn cellphone. Always looking at a screen. It wasn¡¯t how I grew up, and I thought I would give him the same upbringing. Suppose times change and you can¡¯t give them everything you¡¯d like. Jenny wanted him to have a phone. Says it¡¯s for his safety. At least he has a part-time job to pay for it.


    Sunday is family day. And it¡¯s over in the blink of an eye, spent largely in part by dreading the beginning of a new work week.


    Sunday night, my wife and I watch TV in the bed. Don¡¯t say a whole lot. Both knowing we gotta work tomorrow.


    Monday.


    Mondays are a bitch.