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A loud huff and a thump.
A cabbage spun around
A handful of coins jingled.
A door shut
This was the regular. Be it inspection of a vegetable, ore or a fish being slit open in front of them with a swift strike. That was the joy of the countryside. At one point the City-Slicker would say they come from a time lost. A time of unity and one with nature, after all there was:
No tip begging;
No forced smiles;
No paperwork.
No health and safety yearly lecture
There was one house though that always brought back that decrepit bitterness of broken city dreams that stung. Gripping the fresh bag of potatoes outside this cursed house, the City-Slicker turned farmer rearranged their face a couple times from exhaustion to a smile. Within mere moments of opening the door, both the blessing and cursing of the house could be heard and smelt.
Vegetables boiled to a sweet hum.
The smell of home cooking sprinkled with love.
TV blaring in black and white.
Met with it’s audience’s grumbles and mumbles.
With a loving smile between the pot and lid, the farmer set the bag on the table. Fluffing up the collar and adjusting the straps of the dungarees the old lady fluffed her more than the City-Slicker would do with the sheep back on the ranch. These old-time friendliness that you could from a tight knit village was more sweeter than even the finest quaaludes. An addiction that was paid for in kindness and sometimes the extra curricular work.
“You having these tonight? Need help peeling?”
A gentle smile, a question back that they really don’t have too. A shaken head and thrown up and caught potato both generations stood side by side. While the elder lady could sheer potato’s skin like it was nothing and the City-Slicker’s cack-handedness was at a crawl, Shared stories of the City-Slicker’s grandfather, the time the son left the valleys of green and grey. Sweat poured from heads from the steam that made the knife chip a bit of skin but there was patience. A softness. As money was paid for the delivery of the potatoes, the overwhelming black hole in the other room drained more colour.
They can’t even peel a potato.
They want to be paid for errands we’d do for free?
They probably put those chemicals on the potatoes.
They bring the smog and malls with them.
The City-Slicker was told to ignore the ramblings of the old man but her eyes furrowed in a much more plotting sense. There was no need for them to make these sorts of comments, but one rule the urban cities did teach was that respect was always earned by mere hard work and bending your back over. No. You needed information and a point of weakness, just as they would do with their credit card opening the door they got locked out of.
There was one man in this entire village who had that sort of power. A man who embodied the survival instincts of nature, with the recycling of the city. There were no exact streets in this place by sitting on a log behind the boiling camp fire that night, tossing the payment of coins up and down in one hand. Resting their head on a book in the other, rehearsing the same script over and over against in their head. With the sounds of rattling cans and rustled bags, the elder man with enough white shaggy hair to be shaved like sheep gave a gentle warm smile. Waving the book, his eyes lit up.
It’s funny because you never come empty handed.
You always come so openly and never by stealth.
Perhaps you understand me more, perhaps you are using me.
Or perhaps we are one alike from the judgement of the town.
Passing book and coin over to the rugged survivalist, they moved straight to business over smoked fish. George was the target, the grumble old man whose voice was as cold as the metal of his wheelchair. Flicking through his beard, shook his head and gesticulated with a fish bone at the City-Slicker.
“That man is the pinnacle of the old guard. His judgments cut through me and then wonder why I bear fangs to strangers.”
Flicking punting the book a couple inches with the tip of her boot, the City-Slicker adjusted their tie underneath their dungarees. Even the most hungry of wolves can be satiated with a bone and meat given in earnest, both sides taking a defensive stance means the war is forever stalemate. This was useless for the peasant soldiers who wished to keep tending the fields instead, as both George and the City-Slicker wished to do.
“George eats eels, they are spiced to hell and back, Evelyn leaves hers for me.
It’s different though now, there’s nothing but paperwork in their trash.
Don’t know what their grandkiddo is up to...
but they ain’t helpin’ them.”
Grandkid? The City-Slicker wasn’t aware they had a grandkid, from the many underhanded comments from George, they pieced together that is more than likely one of the workers in the mall. George’s resentment to the mall, phrasing of ‘Honest work’ all began to stitch together. Rubbing across their chin, asked what sort of papers but the hair man took a chunk of fish out with his teeth and shrugged it off. Bureaucracy was meant to be the City-Slicker’s domain and that little ol’ Linus had filled his side of the deal. Bidding him goodnight and day the man grumbled.
“I feel like I should say you are blackmailing me with a debt of kindness, but kindness is worth more to me than a coin..”
Seizing the rest of the night.the City-Slicker watched the back of the house, shrouded by the night as the lights went off and peered towards the garbage. As Linus had said, paperwork. Endless paperwork, not sorted into recycling and some stained with their own potato peelings. Signed forms, letters saying they had made a mistake. The City-Slicker wondered if anyone here cared about personal security but the distrust of the people inside the city was replaced with distrust of people outside of the village, so a paper shredder was the least of the village's worries.
Solicitor forms for a will and inheritance.
Another old bit of farmland now sold off.
A pension scheme from the Mart?
It had seemed pen-pushers were on the doorstep.
The next Tuesday when the new request of turnips were pulled up to the front of the door, the City-Slicker came armed with two fine black ballpoint pens armed and ready in their dungaree pouch.Which a good afternoon to Evelyn, another pat down and coins changed hands, but there no smile on the City-Slickers face but one of exhaustion. Ever to be kind to make up for other halves' monochrome world, the City-Slicker asked what was wrong.
“Paperwork got me down. Your Dedudedu probably never had to fill out 10 pages of forms..”
Voice trailed off as Evelyn offered the City-Slicker a cup of coffee brewed country style. Accepting the coffee, a voice rang out from the other room.
“Damn right we didn’t have to deal with all you printed paper contracts and clauses.”
A broken smashed grumbled sentence turned the City-Slicker’s fake exhaustion into a sly smile. Withdrawing a pen from their pocket, twirled it between their fingers.
“Well, you tell me how you want your turnips to grow, and I’ll show you how to wield the pen.”
The old man in a wheelchair had a face of offence in the hallway as he went to cross over into the kitchen. Evelyn gave some awkward hand gesture and the two diametric forces locked eyes. Two hands slammed on the table, two wrinkled hands slammed on the arms of the wheelchair.
“An’ how much are you going to charge me? I’ve already given both my legs to that damned suit…”
Matched back and forth, Evelyn placed her hand on the City-Slicker’s shoulders but taking a cool sip of tea and fluttering their eyes into a soft expression. The slimeball voice of a worker who had been brow beaten by managers enough pulled up a defence.
Dedudedu left no knowledge of farming and times past.
Alex has left you with no knowledge of the present.
If the pen is mightier than the sword.
Let us lay down our arms.
The cup of coffee was placed on the desk, a small snap of Evelyn trying to stealthily put away the vegetables pierced the silence. The slow squeaking of wheels pulled forward, the young farmer and the old farmer eased their posture as the wheelchair slid under the table. Taping the papers together, Evelyn’s eyes widened at the revelation. Deciding that tonight was the night for a special meal, the pen was passed across the table and the gift both ways was accepted. Progressed stalled when a form asked a certain question regarding the old man’s health, seeing his voice become a murmur and a look away, the City-Slicker placed the pen down.
“Oh don’t mind him it’s a--”
Evelyn started but the City-Slicker waved their hand in dismissal. Mentioning they don’t care, placed the envelope over the question, blocking it out. Signing the bottom of the forms out, passed the set back over to George, along with the sealing strip. Eyebrow gestures were shared between them as he wrote down and sealed the envelope. With a helpful stamp from Envelope the business was concluded with nods out of each other. Claiming their boxed of spiced eel, and declining any further hospitality, a two finger salute was given at the door.
That night in the most northern part of town, overlooking the moon lit lake, an old man’s head was bent back as a long dangly eel dangled above his endless pit of a mouth. Tongue licking and playing with the spices open and fresh. Mouth full, he posed a question.
“Health insurance? Soya’ know whattta happened to him then? “
Next to him the City-Slicker’s eyes widened as they withdrew their own skinned onion to crunch on from their mouth. Staying silent with just a few crunches, the wild man went back to his main meal. The tongue wagged and sapped the eel with a hideous noise. Dipping it in his mouth a long slurp withdrew the cleaned drained eel then threw the main meat of the ill into the lake. The action made the City-Slicker jump and keep one eyebrow permanently raised.
“So how was the old man? I saw him say hello to me yesterday, and called you a man too.”
Of all the people who lived here.
This man lived probably the furthest back in time,
Compared to some of the push back on certain topics.
Was light years ahead.