I rise ever morn’ at 4:45 cause I got to piss so goddamn bad that my body forfeits the rest its been taking. I limp my way outside, dust poppin’ off of my joints like the lazy coals will soon be snappin’ in this tiny wood stove. I reach into the white ash and search for a trickle of warmth, then take a chalky cinder in the palm of my leather hand.
It’s always dark that early, cold too. Doesn’t seem to matter what season it is. I go behind the burnin’ barrels and toss in the cinder to destroy whatever’s leftover from yesterday. As the smolder begins and my bladder releases, my neck rears my head back and I look up above and take a big breath in and out. The air is so cold on my achin’ lungs - I almost get embarrassed how much it makes me shiver. I watch my clouded breath float up into the darkness and wonder which part of me was just taken away. My offerin’ for wakin’ another day.
I never do tire of the calm that comes with these quiet mornins’. I wiggle the last drops off the end of my pecker and put it back in my long johns, then just stand there till I get too cold to remain. Return to the bunkhouse and get the fire stirred back up, sit there all quiet and brew my coffee and sip away and smoke while I don’t owe nothin’ to nobody for an hour or so.
My boss, well, he’s a mighty mean bastard who runs this farm. He expects a whole lot from me and Davey, the other hired man - never is enough what we give. Kinda reminds me of my old man with his temper - though boss never does rise a hand, only his voice.
No matter how cross he gets with us though, he’ll have a bottle waitin’ for us in the shop at the end of the day. Sits down with us for the first drink, says the only nice things he’ll say all day, and then he goes when his glass is empty. Always leaves the rest of the bottle with us.
Hard to complain. Each time we say we’ll turn in early, but we never do. Bottle typically ends up on its side by the time the moon peeks out from its cover. I don’t so much fall asleep as I just wake up again. Not sure where I’ve been, or done or said, but I do somehow know that I’ve never strayed far - on foot or by tongue.
Other than the daily liquor rations, the wages is not much to speak of - though he does provide me with my lodgins’. Got this small old bunkhouse all to myself, lots more than many folk get. Davey’s in the big bunkhouse. Four beds in there, though I ain’t never seem ‘em all in use.
Some folk is always lookin’ for the next best job. Better pay, better anything. But not me. Make do with what I have - not built for much else I reckon. Some men is just born to labour.
When I wake ever morn’ I’ll be feelin’ too sorry to even think of leavin’. Feelin’ far too sorry to grieve whatever life might have been waitin’ for me down a different path. But that’s just an idle mind for ya.
Know I’ll get right by midday, move my body and get the sweat and blood circulatin’ about. Seems to flush away whatever parts of me ain’t so much servin’ me no more.
Still, I’ll take my insults from the boss just like I take my pay. Think about that bottle that’ll be waitin’ for me and Davey.
Sometimes, when I’m alone in the bunkhouse I press my thumb down onto my arms or my legs or my ribs, and I can still feel them old bruises the old man used to paint on.
Once the moon comes out and the fire burns down, I let my mind marinate in the brown, and wonder how big the cloud that leaves me tomorrow will be.
Every line is a winner. Every line is working as hard as the narrator works. Every line deserves a bottle at the end of the day.
Loved this line - like so many others in this piece, the reader gets a lot of character information with very little background or description: “Sits down with us for the first drink, says the only nice things he’ll say all day, and then he goes when his glass is empty.”