Fear overcomes him. He stares at me wide-eyed, metaphorically crapping his pants. Kid probably expects soap in his mouth or some shit.
“Fuck fridge?” Laughter no longer quiet, tears build in the corners of my eyes. “Man, that one earns you a realfuck. Give’r.”
Stomping his foot, he balls his hands into fists and yells, “Fuck!”
And without being told, he slowly trudges down toward the tire, muttering a string of expletives that I’m sure his uptight, pantsuit-wearing mother wouldn’t appreciate. Sweat beading on his upper lip when he gets back to the top, he puts the tire down with the gentle touch of somebody setting down a newborn baby, smiling to himself when it stays put. Doesn’t feel like a good time to tell him that we could’ve left that one where it landed, since eventually we’ll need to cover this entire thing anyway.
“One tire down, about a million more to go.” I slap him on the back.
And for the next hour, we work alone, taking frequent, dire water breaks and sweating our fucking bags off under the summer sun. Thanks to parched mouths and heavy breaths, we don’t talk a lot, but this feels different than the other days. Neither of us complain, nor do I need to encourage him along. We’re simply two ranch hands working side by side.
Finally a couple other guys show up to help, and that allows for slower movements and a snack break. We chat a little bit about our hobbies—I razz him about his silly video games, and he roasts my thrifted T-shirt collection.
Both of us are panting as we grab tires from the quickly dwindling pile. Jonas pipes up, “You think cows like the taste of hay?”
I squint at the rolling, sun-soaked hayfields in the distance, brushing sweat from my upper lip. “Nah. I think it’s like salad. We kind of just eat it because we have to.”
“My mom likes salad. I think it’s disgusting.”
“Your mom pretends to like salad to convince you to eat it. Bet she’d rather eat pizza. Bet the cows would, too.” I follow him through the soft dirt, skirting around another ranch hand.
When the last tire hits the tarp with a small cloud of dust, we collapse in the shade under a nearby oak tree.
“Shit, that was some tough work.” I peel the sweat-drenched shirt from my body and fan my face with my cowboy hat. “Thanks for your help today, dude.”
Swallowing hard, Jonas leans back against the tree and wipes his filthy hands across his thighs. “Please tell me we don’t have anything else to do now.”
“If you see Denny or Austin coming toward us,run.” I laugh under my breath. “No way in hell they’re making us do more work today.”
Jonas hands an empty plastic water bottle to Betty, who gleefully crunches it and tosses it in the air for herself. She followed him up and down the silage pile relentlessly, sticking close to his heels and nipping each tire he threw down, like she was reminding it to stay in its place.
“Matter of fact, let’s get outta here before they can try to give us another task.” Hands pressed to the cool earth, I push myself up to stand, relishing the crackle of my spine and the hard-earned ache everywhere else. “I’ll give you a ride home today, if you wanna stop for ice cream on the way?”
“I don’t have any money.” His nose crinkles.
“I think an ice cream is the least of what you deserve after today. That was some seriously hard labor, and you killed it, dude.”
With a bashful grin, he stands up. “Thanks.”
I scoop my shirt from the ground and my nose turns up immediately. “On second thought, let’s hit the showers in the bunkhouse first. I don’t think they’ll even let us into the ice cream shop smelling like we do.”
Jonas smells his armpit and comes away with a disgusted look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I smell like roses.”
“Bullshit. I can smell you from here.”
“I don’t have any clean clothes, so I’ll wait until I get home.”
“Suit yourself. But if you start stinking up my truck, you’re riding to town on the flat deck of my pickup.”
I start toward the bunkhouse, Jonas and Betty hot on my heels. With each lumbering stride, my muscles relax and the roaring pain searing through my body dulls to the typical ache. Turns out being a ranch hand for your entire adult life is a touch hard on the body.
“You back here tomorrow?” I ask. “Was planning on going fishing.”
A darkness falls over his face, and he drops his eyes to the ground. “Nah, hanging out with my dad.”
“That’ll be a lot of fun, I bet.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t sound convinced. Knowing what I do about this kid and his apparent disdain for conversation, I don’t push for more. Not after the day we had.
