More Jaundice (with thanks)
August 5 2008 Morning
I arrive in Topeka. It's hot. Kansas is hot.
I get outside the terminal, see someone holding up a sign that says "Mr. Orange." Mr. Orange has got brackets around it,
like a hard link. That's cute. The sign appears to be made of pulverized cedar shavings. As for the adhesive - I don't
know. I don't know.
We make our introductions. The guy holding the sign is IWhoSawTheFace. He smiles a lot, and his eyes are empty. I learn
later on that the man with him is RangyJoeyHondo. He doesn't give his name when he introduces himself. There are flies on his
face. He doesn't swat them away. They walk on his skin.
August 5 2008 Evening
The truck quits on mile five. We walk the rest of the way.
I learn in the processing shed that I've been assigned to live with wertperch. I am given wool clothing and led to a small
structure on the southeast hills, rising out of the dust like an exclamation point. I make no noise when I open the door,
but still, wertperch is looking straight at me when I walk in. As if he's been waiting.
He says nothing.
"Whatcha up to?" I ask, gesturing to some small brown slivers he has on a pan that looks like hand-forged tin.
"I've got trenchfoot from standing all the time," he replies, and pauses. "I can fix my feet, but not this - not what's hurting." He
almost gestures toward his heart.
"There are going to be stars tonight," he adds.
I don't say anything; we don't say anything. We don't say anything for a long time.
August 6 2008
Today, I learn to harvest wheat.
We use scythes forged from our own fire, hardened with hammers sculpted from ore dug from a small mine a mile East. I wear
gloves yclept knits out of chenielle; they quickly wear out. I use them to absorb blood.
Children from the neighboring outside farms ride up on bicycles and sit a distance away. I see them point. I hear their
voices rise, and fall, asking questions of one another which they know they cannot answer. As a gesture of goodwill, Swap
approaches them to teach them conversational spanish. He returns limping. He continues to harvest, trying to smile.
August 9 2008
Still, I have chaff in my nailbeds. wertperch removes it with a staple. In our shed, I smell the sweet stink of strawberries
fermenting.
"Making moonshine?" I ask, and laugh.
"Vinegar," he replies. "I have to clean the latrine."
"If you drank that now, what would it taste like?" I ask. "Would it taste like those little pop drinks they sell on the
outside, you know, those fruity numbers the teenagers drink when they're breaking the law?"
wertperch frowns, and becomes rough with the staple. I learn then that the word "outside" is not to be used here.
"It would kill you," he says, looking me straight in the eyes. "It would eat your guts. You would die screaming."
I avoid eye contact. His eyes are terrible, so terrible.
To be continued ...