Hayseed

Emile, 2011

Usual caveats apply.

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St Hicks was small, really just a store and post boxes on a dead end path surrounded by farmhouses and acres and acres of corn.  The nearest 'civilisation' was the drive-in and community hall in Pumpkel nearby, and they were both closed.  In fact, St Hicks was so small that on most maps it was just a dotted line through the fields like a forgotten forest trail.  So it was easily passed by, by motorists, mapmakers, power and telephone companies, even the Amish (traditionalists, sure, but not that backward).  The most modern thing in St Hicks was the Steeple family's John Deere tractor, at least they thought it was John Deere, it was hard to tell through the rust.

When Barnaby Steeple was born, there were only three houses on their 'side' of St Hicks - the Steeples, the Smiths and the Pikes.  Jack Smith was a year older than him, with straw coloured hair and freckles, and had been his best friend in the world, until he was six, when he needed to go to school.  Instead of subjecting him to Pumpkel Elementary, the Smiths moved away.  Then there was the Pike house.  Just when Barnaby was born, Fred Pike's parents had driven off the road and died. Fred, then a tender 17 year old at a distant high school, had to come home, bury his parents in the St Hicks churchyard, and then take over the farm.  He'd never gotten enough money to leave again, though he hated it, and the Steeples respectfully avoided 'unhappy Mr Pike'.

For the most part, their worn out house, the rotting Smith House, the barn of Mr Pikes and the acres of fields were the limits of Barnaby's whole world. Even the store was too far to walk, and his father showed no interest taking him along when he had two older, stronger brothers ahead of him.  As soon as they were gone, his mother kicked him out of the house so she could indulge in her own affairs, although as far as Barnaby worked out, they mostly involved the a wine bottle and the radio.  So he roamed the fields and played in the outhouses on his own, permanently filthy with dirt and mud.  When he went to Pumpkel Elementary, the other kids teased him for being black as coal, and after a few weeks, the effort of getting him there was too much, and his brothers were embarrassed, so they left him to be 'home schooled', meaning a child labourer, on the farm. 

Years had passed, and today, Barnaby was turning 18.  Actually he didn't know it, since the Steeples had never bothered much with his birthday, but by the end of the day he would know it well.  Barnaby's day started at the crack of dawn, when the rooster crowed in the fields.  Barnaby's tender naked body was stiff on the cold straw, but he stretched and yawned until his toes curled, before staggering to his feet.  These days he slept in the Smith's house, or what was left of it, since his brothers had demanded their own rooms in the house.  It was a good 10 minute walk away, and rain, hail or shine he walked it by moonlight every night and at dawn every day.  Still naked, he padded outside to the horse trough and picked up the scrubbing brush. His skin was the same permanent dark tan everywhere except where the dungarees covered him - from his arse to his knees, and his crotch to mid-thigh, with one thin strap of white flesh from his right arsecheek to his left haunch, where the one remaining shoulderstrap held them in place.  And even though he only had the lightest dusting of brown hair on his barrel chest and flecks of pubes poking above the sagging crotchline, he was terribly embarrassed by his "filthy stinkin' body", as his parents called it, and tried his best to cover it up with the threadbare denim.

He was only ever naked at the Smith house, where he was alone (or so he thought).  And since his brothers and father told him his man-stink was not proper in front of a woman, he had to scrub himself down every morning before going to breakfast.  The brush wasn't nice, harsh wiry bristles that scraped his young flesh, but he did as he'd been shown, and dipped it in the cold water, pushing the hard bristles against his underarms and brushing furiously until the skin glowed pink.  The brush always tugged at his underarm hair, and it grew sparse and clumpy as a result.  Once he'd scrubbed both underarms and untangled the ripped hairs from the bristles, he dipped the brush again and began to attack his crotch.  Even though it stung like crazy, he obediently washed not just the crotch and dickroot, but scoured the shaft (both sides), and even scraped the head, trying to jam the bristles into the foreskin with every swipe.  This was torture, and he only ever could do a few swipes, pausing between each one to get his breath back, befoe he had to wipe tears out of his eyes.  Then his ballbag, between his legs  and finally forcing the brush between the crack of his tight bubble butt.   The sting was crazy on his butthole and he danced as he did the last part.  It took him a few minutes to recover from the cleaning, and worst of all, the smell sometimes lingered afterwards, and he noticed now he was older, the ripeness on his dickflap and arsecrack never seemed to fully go away.  His family noticed that too.  So he pulled on the filthy dungarees, and began the slow walk across the fields in the sun, wondering what hard work he'd have to do today.  His father still ran the farm, and since he was such a dunce, he couldn't be trusted with a routine of his own, but had to be told what to do every day.  He hoped it as woodchopping, he really hated cow milking, but his brothers were away again, so he thought maybe both.

But when he raised the latch into the squalid Steeple kitchen, he was surprised that instead of his folks having tea, there was 'Young Mr Pike'. He wasn't so young anymore, his 35 years were more than twice Barnaby's, and in a place where the breeding age was sweet 16, he was older than some of his classmates fathers in Pumpkel.  But he had seemed so young and adrift when he'd arrived that morning many years before, as Mrs Steeple sucked her day old babe, that the name had stuck.  Truth be told, Fred Pike was a grizzly man nowadays, hard labour and hard drink had taken their toll, and he loomed over Barnaby's mother like a wolf - no, Barnaby thought, like a bear, exactly like a grizzly bear, eyeing his food.  Barnaby followed his gaze down to the table, where his mammy was scratching out something on some paper.  Not wanting to seem stupid, he sidled up, gazing at the sheaf of papers covered with fine print, spoiled (he thought) by the two scrawls on the bottom.

"Um, ma, what's that there" he asked shyly, struggling for a way to find out without letting on he couldn't read, and failing.  Fred looked down at him, not angry like his daddy, or jeering like the other boys, but a cold, hard look, like he was staring through him at something behind him, or inside of him.  "Can't read?" he asked, seemingly not him, but his mammy, who just grunted.  "See's you came at jus' the right time Mr Pike" she responded.  "He'll be eighteen in a day, an adult in the law, and he'd have to do this hisself, and you'd be pulling mule's teeth to get him to even hold the pen right, ain't that so, Barby"  He flinched at the name, his schoolboy nickname they always used to taunt him.  Fred raised an eyebrow but didn't say much.  "Just as well you came jus when you did, so we can fix this up proper like.  Barnaby, since you is so fas-cin-ated, I'll tell you what this is.  Mr Pike here needs some help down the farm, he can't run it right alone.  Someone strong, hear.  Seems he bin saving up some time now, and he jus so happened to save enough for a Com-bine Harvester, just like they got over the way.  Now some folk, they jus keep it to themselves, get rich and get the fuck out of here, like your sissy friends the Smiths did, but not Mr Pike here, he's a good Christian man.  So we agreed here, all proper and legal like, that neighbours do what they should - and share.  Your father and brothers, they get full use of the harvester, whenever Mr Pike here don't need it, all we gotta do is pay for petrol, and you know what a difference it'll make your poor brothers work, don't you.  All Mr Pike needs in exchange is a little labour from you.  Fair's fair, I say, so I signed it today, a proper job, just when you're being a man and all..."

Barnaby shrugged, unsure how to answer.  Fred Pike scared him, especially now, gazing wolfishly at his mop of auburn hair.  "Uh, I gotta work Mr Pike's farm too?  But I barely get much sleepin time..."  But his mamma was shaking her head like she always did when he was a bit stupid.  "No, bless me, however did you get so dumb.  My lamb, of course you can't work both, that's the beauty of it.  With the new harvester, we can get twice the work done with less, so we don't need you anymore.  No, you'll be living with Mr Pike and helping him, full time."  A shiver went down Barnaby's back.  "For a while?" he mumbled.  "Jus' as long we need the harvester, m'boy, just a while.  Now, run along, Mr Pike doesn't like leaving his farm much, do you - bless I don't think I've seen you outside that fence for an hour!  So go along Barby, mush.  You can collect your scrubbing brush on the way."

They walked across the field in silence, ten feet apart.  Even so, Barnaby could feel his eyes on him the whole way to the Smith house, boring into his back.  When they got there, Barnaby collected his meagre possessions and rolled them in an old shirt he'd found in an upstairs drawer.  Fred Pike spoke for the first time since they left the Steeple house.  "No, leave that, it ain't yours to take."  Barnaby grimaced to himself, and carefully unrolled his goods, unsure what to do.  "You don't need all that boy, just take what you can carry" he ordered, and he began turning on his heel, forcing Barnaby to grab at the pile quickly, to keep pace.  Baseball cards, an old photo of the Smiths, he had a fistful of keepsakes in one hand, and his spare dungarees in the other, wrapped around his scrubbing brush and pan.  Not much.  When he got outside, Fred was already standing on the edge of the field, lighting up another stogie.  When he finished puffing at it, he handed Barnaby the matchbox, gesturing at the house.  Barnaby stared at it dumbly, earning a sharp clip across the ears.  "Do I have to explain everything you dumbfuck" he burst out, puffing big black streaks of smoke as he spoke.  "I want you to go back and get rid of that cesspit, it's disgusting, and you live with me now."

Carefully Barnaby put down his things, taking the matchbox and wandering back to the house.  He loved the Smith house, even if it was rotting to pieces, it was a tangible connection to Jack, his only friend.  With tears welling in his eyes, he lit a match, dropping it quickly onto the threadbare rug.  The dry hall was like a tinderbox, and the floor came alight with a whoosh.  Too quick to even grab the extra possessions he'd dropped, he had to scrabble backwards to the door, coughing and spluttering, just barely making it out as the leaping flames shot up the wall.  He was coughing as he breathed, his front covered in soot, when he got back to Fred.  "Good boy" Fred said, patting him on the head, and handing him his pile.  "You'll do well".  As they trudged off, the heat of the burning house on their backs, Barnaby rummaged in the pile he'd been given.  Inexplicably, the keepsakes were gone, and his spare dungarees were singed, like they'd been burned by a cigar.

"You know, your mother was wrong about me" he said after a while, once they'd crested the hill that hid the Pike's house from his own.  "I leave the farm plenty, you know.  Fr'instance, I been down there plenty" he continued, gesturing his thumb at the smoking stump of the Smith house behind them.  He stopped and turned, so suddenly Barnaby almost bumping into him.  Fred put out his arms, his broad hands grabbing Barnaby's shoulders, holding him face to face.  It was uncomfortably close. "Yeah, I seen you, naked down there, rubbing yourself."  Barnaby bristled.  "Oh yeah, I know all your secrets, boy, I been watching you."  His hand slid across Barnaby's shoulder, under the strap of his overalls.  He fumbled with the material, sliding his hand down til his rough knuckles grazed Barnaby's teats, and his thumb was on the button.  In a flash, he'd popped open the left shoulderstrap, making the dungaree hang off the right one like a regular hick poster.  Hayseed as he was, Barnaby had never done this before, never in front of someone, and he felt awfully naked and exposed.  "Please Mr Pike" he began, unsure what to do, his hands still full of his gear.  But Fred's other hand was already sliding down the right strap, feeling at his other nipple, kneading it with his fingers as the thumb pressed down on the other button.  He let the bib fall down between Barnaby's arms, exposing his tightly muscled torso to the warm summer air.  Barnaby stood there, agog, as Fred kept kneading his nipples, right there in the open, in the middle of the field.  "Oh yeah, boy, you'll do well indeed..."