Crater

I.

It’s the week the world will end, but we barely register it at all. Another Cadillac pulls up in front of the gas-station, I run out in my cheap clothes, “I-SERVE” written across my blue overalls that stretch from pale ankle, to pale neck. The smell of gasoline is on my gloves.

“May I assist you, Sir”, I smile as I pull off the rubber cap on his tank and fill up his car. I see my reflection in the powder blue of his bonnet, in the chrome of his wheels, I see a young man trying his best to smile, a young man with black hair, light blue eyes. I am Irish, I am American, I—

“Keep the change”, says the man. He’s wearing a pinstriped shirt, suspenders, and patterned leather loafers. One foot carelessly dangles from the car, and he pulls out a newspaper. “Kid, put that in the trash for me”, he pauses and adds, “or read it. You might learn something, then you won’t have to pump gas for a living”.

I nod, and look away. I need to look away to grit my teeth.

I hear his voice again, “say, why do they make you wear that anyhow?”

I turn, my eyebrows finding a firmer footing somewhere between curiosity and uncertainty.

“Wear what?”

“It’s sort of like a prison jumpsuit, don’t you think? It’s sort of… never mind”, he waves his wrist.

“Anything else I can do for you, Sir?”

He shakes his head with stinging nonchalance, and the pinstripes and powder-blue goes away. He assumes that I don’t read newspapers, I see the headline:

“U.S. Begins Blockade of Cuba: Grim Warning Issued to Russia”

Men like that assume a lot.

An itch, I rub my ear only to realise that I have oil on my glove. Doesn’t make much difference. I am Irish, I am American, I’m also in a blue jumpsuit with oil on my face.

This isn’t what I had hoped for.

My plan had been to try to go to college. They all said that I had the smarts for it, but smarts had never been the problem in this country. What it always came down to—was money. So, I stayed at the farm, worked hard, and then the tedium set in.

Farmers around here talk about how lucky we all are to live in this part of the world. How beautiful the rolling hills are, the long grass, the fields, the glorious sunshine. They gush like Willa Cather over every boulder, over the open sky… See anything enough and it gets old.

They say too much, and they also say the world will end…

Another car pulls in.

Rinse and repeat.

…I hope so.

II.

“We are in the Goldilocks zone”. I’m at home, work done, work begun. The barn doors are wide open, and Pa is leaning against a tractor inside.

“Yep, the wind runs straight, but isn’t too strong. I know where it is going. Moisture is good. Yep, today’s the day.” Today we burn it all: a controlled burn of what’s left of the Summer crops in the field. An old radio is turned on beside the tractor.

I hear a voice through the static, “President Kennedy will make an announcement this evening…” It sounds concerned, like a voice with something to lose.

He hands me a drip torch: more diesel fuel, more gasoline.

If the field is too dry, things can get ugly fast, but I agree that it’s the right time and so I start the burn. I look over at Pa. He is standing upright now, facing the radio. His arms are crossed tight. I can’t see it, but I know he has his hand against his mouth.

More concern, more worry.

I pour more burning liquid onto the roots, see the foliage on fire. I have to admit, this feels good. There is something cathartic about setting things alight, especially when everything stays so painfully the same.

Sure, the seasons come and go, but then they come again. I could walk this farm in my sleep, I know every crack in the tarmac on the road to the gas station. I remember once that there was talk of a new railway, and the thought that all the land might be bought up, the barns torn down. I secretly wanted it to be so, but nothing ever came of it.

So here we still are, and here I am, burning.

If my father knew how much I was enjoying this, he would call it ‘childish’.

In my mind I go further. Maybe the newspaper got to me, or the man on the radio, or maybe it’s the smell of smoke and the flicker of the flames. But, for a moment I close my eyes and imagine this place a crater, I imagine the flash of light, and the rolling waves of smoke engulfing all the farms, I see the houses shattered and splintered. The boulders smashed, the grass torn up, the crops gone.

I indulge it just for a moment, just for one delicious moment. Everything would be easier, everything would be better if—

“Jeff, make sure you are concentrating on what you are doing”, I hear Pa shout. My eyes are open again.

“I was, I am”. We both nod to one another, he has a kind look in his eyes.

“This is dangerous work, if you are tired I can take over”. I shake my head and continue… If things were reset, maybe I would do better, maybe I could find a better way. I have skills, more than that man in his pinstriped shirt at the gas station, and I am young too, strong. If given a chance, maybe I could—

My sister Ginnie interrupts my thoughts, “don’t have all the fun without me”. I am in a humourless mood. Ginnie has thick red hair, freckles, she’s tanned from working in the field, I can shoot better than her, but she rides better than me.

She is an invader here, in my domain of the flames.

“Give it here”. I ought to fight her for it, but I surrender easily to her.

“You go on home, don’t overwork yourself Jay”, we have the same light blue eye colour, only her eyes are kinder, like Pa’s.

In my mind the crater rolls back. Now there are other people in this world beyond the crater. Ginnie would no doubt be there, and I want that to be so, and Pa, and my mother, and—

…with something to lose…

It’s a controlled burn, Ginnie is in a better mindset for that than me. Still, my imagination burns brighter. I walk back towards home.

III.

The night is young and President Kennedy speaks. Further escalation, further panic.

I push aside Ginnie and my family for a moment, my dog Connie runs to me, she is a border-collie. She stares at me with wide eyes. “A walk, at this hour?” The things we do for those we love, the things we do for dogs.

“Soviet Union… Cuba… United States…” I am barely listening when I put my boots back on and walk onto the veranda. It’s cool outside, I see my breath in the air. I see the fields, the hills and the night sky. We see the stars here, they are still visible.

Pa opens the door. He seems calm, relaxed.

“So do you think it’s going to happen?”

“Do I think the world will end tomorrow? No”, he answers.

“How do you know?” I ask him, almost in provocation.

“Because tomorrow I have to start planting”. Again, he looks at me with kind eyes, his stare tears a hole in my dark fantasies.

“It doesn’t mean that times like these don’t get a person thinking”. He leans up against a beam of wood.

“I’ve watched you Jefferson, I can see that you are unhappy”, he says. “When I was your age I just wanted everything to disappear, I wanted to disappear”.

He pauses, and I don’t know what to think.

“You don’t see it yet, but disappearing isn’t an option. It’s easy to imagine the whole world vanishing, that’s the stuff of fantasy. It’s a lot harder to live in the real world, to deal with reality.”

“So I am childish, is that it?”, I ask him.

“No, I think you are a young man starting out, and you will find your way”.

I instinctively want to reject what Pa is saying. I search my mind for a bomb, for relief.

“Sudden escalation…” I hear inside the house.

“It’s humiliating, working at the gas-station”, I yell.

“Why waste energy worrying about what other people think?”

“Disarmament…”

“There was a guy in a blue Cadillac, he pointed out something and it’s been on my mind all day. He said I looked like a prisoner, that my overalls are like a prison uniform”.

“So what if he says that? Every person, even men in suits have setbacks, every person has their fair share of ups and downs, maybe he’s not had his yet, or maybe—say, did you say a blue Cadillac?”

I describe the car and the man in the pinstriped shirt to my father, he grins.

“There is a fugitive on the run, stolen Cadillac, I heard it on the radio earlier. I am guessing that guy knew a thing or two about jumpsuits”.

Appearances can be deceptive. Pa sees that I am more tired than I sound, I have dark bags under my eyes. No time today left to argue.

“Son, you’ve worked hard today, go get some sleep and we can talk more in the morning. Try not to worry too much about the future. There’s always tomorrow”.

He adds, “I love you”. He leaves me there, and heads inside. Ginnie sits cross-legged on the floor and Connie runs in to greet her. My mother and father sit down on the couch beside her, the scene is inviting, comforting.

I turn to look up towards the stars again, the air is moist, my eyes are moist. The world isn’t going to end, I think that I finally accept that. What’s left of the smoke from the burn dies away and I can see all the way to the mountains in the distance. I wipe my eyes and feel awake in the moonlight.

End.