Electrical Box at Elevator

by marksluce

The swash spitting out of Walter Witt’s mouth sizzles in the molten afternoon. “Hell, son, I been buckin’ grain for nigh 25 years, and damned if I ever seen scoop jockey work like you. Your brother Lyle would’ve already had this stuff down the screen.”

Harold Talley can’t tell Mr. Witt to shut his yappin’ piehole—instead he sucks in hard on his left cheek, releasing the sweetness of two lemondrops. He shoves the grain scoop deep into the sunglow yellow seed piled in the back of the truck, and pushes it, nearly backhanded, toward the undersized hopper door. The grain waterfalls out and through the screenings that will carry it into the elevator. The dust, worse now with his increased exertion, leaves thin, abstract ribbons on Harold’s tanned arms.

As he tries to move toward the back of the bed, Harold’s pull-up boots sink in the mounds. He stumbles and tries not to listen to Witt’s puff about molasses, tortoises and FDR. Instead, begrimed and handkerchiefed like a upstart bandit, Harold just pulls harder on his cheek.