Lit eZine Vol 9 | p-11 | FICTION | Old Ways

SHORT STORY

OLD WAYS
by Joe Ducato

Halfway across the flatlands, men on dirt bikes came upon a stopped vegetable wagon. The wagon sat lopsided. One of its wooden wheels was off and lay at its side. The wheel was split from the hub to a spoke. A dirt farmer knelt at the wheel, humming a heartbreaking song he’d picked up once from an old cowboy. The farmer lifted his head. He could tell right away that one of the bikers had no soul. The farmer had been born with that ability. The other biker, the one with a soul, stood assessing the wheel.

“Split down the grain,” the one with a soul said. “Wood’s dried out.”

“Seen its day, old man,” the soulless one added.

The dirt farmer scratched the stubble on his chin.

“Long time has passed since me and my father made them, but they were built to last. Still years, still miles to go.”

The soulless one laughed, got off his bike and walked to the back of the wagon.

“What you got back there?”

The farmer stroked the broken wheel as if it were a content dog.

“Potatoes,” the farmer mumbled.

“They’re full of dirt.”

“That’s how they come,” the farmer said, looking off.

The soulless one turned serious.

“You need to vamoose, old man. I have business here soon.”

The one with a soul looked at the empty shafts and reins at the front of the wagon.

“What happened to your horse?”

“Run off,” the farmer said. “She never cared much for me, nor I for her. When she was a pony, I named her Lucifer. She never forgave me. She wasn’t a cargo puller at heart. She fancied herself a show horse. Guess she saw her chance and took it. Isabel— now that was a horse. Lucifer knew my heart belonged to Isabel. Everyone knew it. How it goes, I guess.”

“I’ll help you,” the one with the soul said. “I’ll go back and get my rig. It has a winch. I can lift your wagon and tow it wherever you’d like.”

The soulless one mounted his bike and kick-started the engine. He turned to the one with a soul.

“Knock yourself out, Samaritan, but Mr Potato Head better be gone when I get back.”

The soulless one sped off.

The one with a soul inched closer to the farmer and the wheel.

“I’ll go get my rig, no charge.”

The dirt farmer spat.

“I make my own. I fix my own.”

The one with the soul stopped, grimaced.

“We don’t have much time. You don’t know who that man is, what he’s capable of.”

The farmer stroked the wheel at the split and looked out.

“They never fallowed the land, the ones who came. Didn’t believe in old ways. Takes too much time, they said. Now nothing grows here but bitterness. Nobody cares to read the book of dirt no more. Doesn’t suit their ways. I need glue. If you want to help, get me some glue.”

“I can do that if you promise to work fast!” the one with the soul said, then started walking towards his bike.

The farmer stopped his stroking.

“Techwynn Mann. He makes the only glue I’ll use. His barn is 10 miles that way.” 

He pointed.

“It’s the barn with the sunrise painted on it. His wife is an artist. Techwynn makes his glue from scratch. Best around. Tell him it’s for the old goat. He won’t take no money.”

The one with soul asked, “What if this Techwynn isn’t there?”

“He might be down at the Legion. You’ll have to wait then. He’ll come back if he’s not plastered.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Ten miles— that way,” the farmer repeated.

The one with the soul tapped his foot nervously and wiped his brow. The farmer groaned something inaudible.

Exasperated, the one with the soul saddled his bike and rode off. He returned half an hour later with a mayonnaise jar filled with a brown, syrupy substance and a paintbrush sticking out of his back pocket.

The wheel now lay across the farmer’s lap, and he frantically worked at roughing up the wood with a pocket knife. On the horizon, yellow mixed with red. The one with the soul placed the jar and brush by the farmer’s side.

“Hurry,” the biker said. “No place here for old men after sunset.”

“No place for old men anywhere,” the farmer grumbled, then lifted the jar to his nose.

“The guy’s a friggin’ genius when he’s not plastered.”

“He said the same about you,” the one with a soul half-smiled.

The farmer offered the young man a sniff.

“Good for drinking, wallpapering and a dry cough!” the farmer advised.

The one with the soul squatted.

“Let me help you.”

The dirt farmer pushed the brush into the glue and slowly stirred. The farmer noticed the worry on the biker’s face.

“I got 2 speeds,” the farmer stated. “If you don’t like this one, you’re really not going to like the other.”

“You don’t care. Do you?” the youngster asked.

The farmer focused on the task.

“No, son, I care a lot. We could use some dirt.”

The one with the soul found some moist ground under the wagon, bent down, scooped some dirt into his cupped hands and poured it in a pile next to the farmer. The farmer stuck his finger in the dirt, brought it up to his mouth and tasted it.

“It’ll do. Smudge some on the wheel, on the split. Make sure you get it into all the scrapes I just made. There’s an art to it.”

The one with the soul rubbed the dirt into the wood as the farmer resumed stirring. The one with the soul turned to the cart. Its shadow was now long.

“Did you see Lucifer out there?” the farmer asked.

“No,” the one with the soul answered, rubbing.

The farmer removed the brush from the jar.

“I buried Isabel on the farm, in a spot where the water still reaches, where the grass is still green and grasshoppers regularly jump over the barn. Isabel loved to eat grasshoppers. I shouldn’t have gotten a new pony right away, but I had to get the potatoes over the flats. That’s enough.”

The one with the soul stopped rubbing. The farmer tested the glue with the tip of his finger.

“Perfect! Techwynn’s glue can fix broken dreams.”

The farmer slowly got to his feet.

“What do you need?” the one with the soul asked.

“Rope,” the dirt farmer said, “back of the wagon.”

The one with the soul retrieved a long strand of rope and practically threw it at the farmer, who snagged it and began cutting it into small strands. He used it to tie the wheel together along the split, and then he set the wheel down. The sky had turned deep red. The farmer folded his knife and dropped it into his pocket.

“Now it has to cure.”

The one with the soul threw up his hands.

“I give up! Why don’t you listen, for God’s sake!”

“Because,” the farmer raised a finger, “Because I know God will protect me.”

The one with the soul leaned closer.

“Have you ever thought that maybe God sent me, a man with a winch, to protect you? Have you ever considered that?”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” the farmer said, looking at the wheel. “You’ve got it backwards.”

The dirt farmer and the young man with a soul stood quietly beside the wheel and the wagon as the sun set. Somewhere a coyote began howling a heartbreaking song he’d picked up once from an old cowboy.