Summer Sweat (Spruce Texas)

His nostrils flare. I watch the gears turn in his eyes, searching for a comeback, for a snide remark, anything.

A victory has never felt so sweet as it does now.

Until the tiniest smirk teases his lips. “Hmm … Maybe you’re right.” He takes a step back, appraising me. “You are a big, mature, grown-ass man now, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. You bet I am.”

“I bet you are. You’re a big, grown-ass man … ready to take on big, grown-ass challenges.” He nods, as if admiring me. “Let’s go. Still got the cattle left to show you, then we’ll call it a day.” He turns and heads off.

I’m left to follow him.

With a sudden, suspicious feeling of reluctance.

When we arrive at the cows, he gives me a long lecture about milk. The guy talks a mile a minute—I’m convinced he does it on purpose just to confuse me—but all I do is stroll along, my eyes jumping from cow to cow, naming them in my head. Betsy. Boopy. Boobie. Milky. Milko. Madam Milks-a-lot …

“—when it comes time to artificially inseminate them.”

I stop in my tracks and face him. “Say what?”

“And when that day comes, we’ll get a nice long glove on you, right up to your elbow, and uuup your long arm goes, straight up the cow’s—”

“Wait, wait, wait, hold on.”

“What?” He faces me, innocent-eyed. “It’s part of the job, too. Better to learn it sooner than later.”

“My arm …?” I can barely say it. “… goes up the cow’s—?”

“Sure does.”

“You want me to … to fist-fuck a cow?”

He gives me a hearty slap on the back. “Don’t worry, Hoyt. You’ll get exactly what you want: big, grown-ass man stuff to do. And what’s manlier than impregnating a cow?”

I stare ahead at whichever cow I just named. Madam Milks-a-lot. She stares back at me, chewing on whatever is in her mouth, sad-faced and silent.

It’s official.

I hate Harrison.

The day—and my miserable tour—comes to an end. As I head for the bunkhouse, Harrison walks in another direction. I learn he doesn’t live with the others. “I stay in a small guesthouse. Straight across the yard from your mudroom, in fact. Don’t worry,” he adds tauntingly, “I’ll keep an eye on you. We start first thing in the morning, so you’d better get plenty of rest. Trust me, you’ll need every minute of it.” With an amused smirk, he takes off, marching his juggernaut self the other way.

I stare after him. I’m sore in places I didn’t even know I could be. I’m starving. I’m exhausted.

I’m still thinking about my arm halfway up a cow’s butthole.

Can I really do this?

In the evening, I’m last in the bathroom to take my shower, which is one of the most refreshing experiences I’ve ever known—even though I come out of it still feeling like I got crap stuck under my fingernails and in my hair. Then I join a table full of my other housemates for dinner, which Emmalea cooked. Apparently a few of them take turns cooking the meals. I scarf down my plate like I haven’t eaten in a week. The whole time, I get looks from the others. Hateful looks. Guarded looks. Downright irritated looks. Even while they’re seemingly busy chatting, I keep feeling their eyes on me like I’ve unknowingly insulted all their mothers.

Finally, I snap. “Someone got a problem with me?”

The table falls silent.

“Well?” I ask, mouth full. “Someone think I don’t belong here? Wanna laugh at me some more for not being able to wrestle a pig down on my first day? Is that why you all keep lookin’ at me?”

An older man next to me blinks, his chewing stopped.

A bearded fellow on my other side squints at me uncertainly.

It’s Emmalea, dead across the table, who replies. “I don’t think anyone here has a problem with you, Hoyt. Long as you put in the work, do your share, you’re welcome to a seat at this table.”

Someone else, a skinny man with sunburned skin, deep crow’s feet, salt-and-pepper hair, and a mustache that’s a minute away from swallowing his face, mutters, “Also maybe, uh, chew with your mouth closed. You sound like a Gabbanabba.”

I swallow my bite. “I sound like a say what …?”

“Ignore him,” says Emmalea. “Eat and relax. Fred likes to make up words. He’s half-senile.”

“Four eighths,” he corrects her, then sips from his beer.

“Four eighths is the same as—Never mind.” She lifts her fork like a baton. “Anyone got somethin’ else they wanna voice to the rookie? Get off their chest? Or can we all go back to eatin’ and pretendin’ like we aren’t noticing Miguel’s out-of-control hair?”

Miguel—whose long, straight black hair covers half of his face like a curtain—glances up from his plate. “Haven’t made it to the barber,” he says. “Cale and Edison are always so freakin’ busy this time of year. I’m not gonna bother them.”