Just Another Try

Slam. The sound was a lot louder than the farm hand expected.

At first, he thought the signposts had fallen over. Only just this morning did he see all six lodged into the ground. Paint still dripped off them. He wondered who had the honor. The bunks were only half full last night, but the farm hand couldn’t remember who was absent.

He raised his head, grabbing the rim of the hat with one hand, while the other was wrapped around a thick piece of string. Or at least, what Derrick called string. Boots covered in mud, he stood in the middle of a barn that smelled like it had gone years without a wash, he waited for another slam. Slamming, loud noises, and generally anything deeper than a growl wasn’t a part of the farm’s usual routine.

“ARGHHH!”

He let go of the string. It wasn’t one of the others who was yelling, but Derrick himself. A pig who lay in the corner of the barn turned his head. Yelling so early, the pig thought. How rude. Walking through the mud, the farm hand decided against turning outside and heading straight to the main entrance. It would allow for too many questions. A woman and a young girl headed inside the main house not even five minutes ago. Two of the others had gotten a look at the early risers and ducked back into the forest.

A can of Mountain Dew lay abandoned in the yard. No telling which one did it. Maybe the newbies. When he bent down to pick up the litter, a strange sensation left his hand feeling numb.

The glove shook in front of his face. He could only wince and wait for it to pass.

Hand still shaking, he marched onward. Pushing through the side door, he noticed at least three other sets of boots had tracked mud through the back of the main house. A thumping sound hummed against the walls. Couldn’t have been laundry. That was his job. Certainly, it was too early in the week, at least for Derrick’s preference. Maybe the others, the ones who appeared shortly after him, finally cued in on how to help.

“Come on, come on, come on!” Hunched over the counter, a small pool of sweat surrounded Derrick’s feet. A few knocks on the desk and the farmer looked up.

“Holey moley, was I really that-” but the farmer was cut off due to his own realization. Lips moved, only to spell out gibberish. Number Two did the same thing from time to time.

“Pretty much.” He curled his fingers at Derrick. “Do you want me to give the gloves a try?”

“No, that’s not how it works.” His sleeve was ruined with perspiration after Derrick wiped his forehead. “They’re so damn heavy today. I can’t even put them on my hands.” The farmhand moved toward the glove but Derrick screwed up his face and waved him away.

“Not right now.” A thumb was jerked in the direction of the main entrance.

Standing away from the gloves, he moved toward the door. The little girl, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes, was trying to read every brochure possible. Her mother’s hoodie was too small, yet it didn’t stop her from laughing at her child’s excitement.

Derrick pushed against the door, but he patted the farmer on the shoulder. “Let me.” Voice calm, he pushed through the door, tipping his hat to his boss and then to the customer.

“Howdy, miss.” The words were a few pitches too low. Already he had caused his face to be speckled with scarlet. The woman brushed out a strand of black hair.

“Why, howdy sir.” She returned the introduction, trying to go even deeper, but instead she broke out into a coughing fit.

He laughed along with the customer. Mirella, the name of the mother, and Cecilia, her daughter, drove all day yesterday due to some familial mishap. She needed to give her kid a break. More importantly, she wanted to reward her good behavior.

“Just so you know, I don’t run this place, but I can still get you started.” The mother daughter duo still seemed excited at the prospect of a tour capped off with a fully stock petting zoo. He dug around in the drawer at the front desk for a pair of maps, all the while sneaking glances at Mirella. Handing them over to the pair, he explained the prestige of the farm, the acreage, and all the history that could be learnt along the way.

“Will he be able to join our tour?” Mirella’s big brown eyes narrowed, expecting him to misspeak or worse, to catch him in a lie.

“If he doesn’t join you at the first stop, Derrick will meet up with you both at the cows.”

“The place seems huge.” Mirella looked around at the empty room and nodded toward the exit.

“Don’t worry. I’m sure you’ll meet the rest of us. We’re friendly, I promise.” The added twang caused the last word to come out in a mumble.

“And if you’re not, I know how to talk to a manager.” Mirella wagged her finger and smirked, apologizing immediately. “I’m sorry. Even for a joke, that was too far. You’ve been nothing but nice.”

Cecilia waved her hand. At first, she was afraid to speak up, but eventually she said her piece.

“I read that cows have five parts to their stomach!”

He laughed and so did her mother. Bending down, he took the map from Cecilia’s hand and traced the brown path around the stall.

“Now, that sounds right, but I thought Derrick said they have four compartments. But I’m sure the sign there will prove one of us right.”

“Ok!”

Mirella smiled, thanking him. He held the door for them both, promising them Derrick would catch up soon. Mirella opened her mouth, maybe a protestation or another question, but turned her head and chased after her daughter. Only when Derrick’s voice called him to the backroom did he return to his creator.

“Gonna give her your name next?”

Derrick was still huffing and puffing by the time the farm hand joined him in the back room. If anyone else had been with them, they would have thought it wise to call the hospital. Derrick, after all, a lean, lanky, and fit man, should have no trouble trying to lift a pair of weather-beaten brown gloves off a desk.

“I didn’t know you gave me a name, yet.” He reached for the gloves, inspecting them, and trying to turn them over. “Are you going to go out to meet them?”

“In a second. I need another farm hand. Sterling told me at dinner last night he spotted some wolves in his yard.”

“Will the new guy get a name?”

“Do you want one? Kenward Slice likes his.”

The farm hand turned his head away from Derrick. Being the first meant he was more mature and developed than the other farm hands. Kenward was the third, but even for someone much older than the rest of the workers, he exhibited a staggering level of immaturity. Just last night at dinner, Mr. Slice thought it wise to pick up his mashed potatoes, roll them in little balls, and pelt the other farm hands.

A good ole fashioned food fight, Kenward declared.

His mind snapped back to the gloves. “If you tell me to pick them up and put them on you, the weight shouldn’t be a problem for me.”

“Yeah, for you. They’re still gonna snap my wrists off.” Derrick pressed down on the gloves and pulled at the fingers. “Feels like they’re waterlogged or something.”

Then, Derrick’s voice quickened. “Numero Uno, press out the gloves until all the water is out.”

Mind going blank, the farm hand extended his fingers and started to massage the gloves. Pressing deeper into the fabric, they felt as if they had been submerged into a pool, a lake, or simply a bathtub.

Pressing further into the glove, the farm hand tried thinking back to when he first came to be. His entire skull grew hot, as if small flames danced around his temple. Hypnotized by the command, he kept pressing into the gloves.

Derrick waved a hand. “Alright, that’s good enough.”

Still, the farm hand couldn’t pull himself away. Face strained, he looked at Derrick, confused.

“GREAT GOOGLEY THAT WAS A LONG HIKE!” Kenward’s voice bellowed out throughout the valley. Even with both doors closed and all windows shut, the pair could make out his laughter.

“Shit, sorry. I’m still learning how this thing works.” Derrick hurried over to the door. On the second time of asking, he was able to relieve the farm hand of his duties. Hooting and hollering, two other voices yelled out. The other farm hands would be happy, and above all surprised, at getting let off their duties so early in the day.

A series of instructions buzzed inside Numero Uno’s head. Only one seemed to be the most relevant to Derrick at this time. “I think we have to be near you to\ obey again.”

Derrick raised his hands to yell but stopped. “Dammit, I think you’re right.” He turned to the gloves. “Right, better get back to the task at hand.”

In the middle of the table lay the gloves in a small purple puddle. It was easy to ascertain this puddle wasn’t borne from an excess of oil nor some chemical substance. Small, little stars floated around the table. When the farm hand looked closer, he could see miniscule golden shapes fall off the leather.

“That lady,” Derrick began as he fitted the gloves onto his hands. “You think she’s going to notice?”

Their brown hair fell across their foreheads in the same way: tired from a long day’s work. Three freckles marked the same patch of skin beneath each left eye. Only his voice was different—more restrained—as a fog lifted from forgotten words with each passing moment.

“I think she would. Perceptive, she seemed.”

Derrick shrugged. Standing back and away from the farm hand, he rubbed the gloves. The farm hand had seen the process before, but never indoors. He stepped further away from the gloves, pinning his back to the wall.

“Yeah, she does have a kid. Probably protective as well.”

Clouds of purple dust sprang from the glove. Covering Derrick and the air in front of him, the dust began to swirl around the farmer. So it wasn’t the wind the other day, thought the farm hand. It really was the gloves.

As soon as it was over, as soon as the dust started to cut through the air, it hung, full stop, and then collapsed onto the ground. A third Derrick, fully clothed, stood ramrod straight. Their cheeks were smothered with pink stars. Even the clone was smudged in the fresh mud Derrick had accumulated this morning.

Their boss opened his eyes. He spat. “Yuck. Every time.”

Derrick patted the other clone on the back and turned to Numero Uno. “Mind taking him to the bunks? I think he should be good for a patrol of the grounds around lunch.”

The farm hand did so. Not because it was an order and not because Derrick was nice, but it just made sense. The farm wasn’t just a home. It was akin to something in the recesses of his mind, something called Jenga blocks. Latched together, they were all required for the tower to climb ever higher into the sky. But if someone so much as ripped apart one of the blocks, the tower would wobble, until its destruction was imminent.

The pair went out the back door. Along the side of the barn and through a small trail covered in weeds, the farm hand made his way to the bunker. Hooting and hollering, something must have been wrong with the gloves. Command wasn’t the right word when talking about a magic instrument. No one can command a glove for anything. Yet Derrick was still left with a mess to clean up.

Soon the latest clone was laid down. Wrapped in a blanket, he left the same note that he did for Two through Eighteen.

Feet pounded against the back step. Fists hammered against the door. The farm hand stood up as a pair of long shadows were cast over both himself and the sleeping clone.

“A little early for a nap, don’t you think?” A deeper voice. Another set of boots pounded against the floor. They belonged to heavy breathing and the occasional snicker.

Again, he checked the pulse. Normal rhythms. Nothing too out of step. The farm hand’s head bounced off the underside of the bunk. Rubbing the top of his skull, he cursed himself.

“Looks like that hurt more than yesterday,” said the farm hand at the doorway.

All three of them had brown hair and a lanky frame. The man at the entrance didn’t have the same bushy locks. Instead, parts of his hair were cut close to his skull. Other parts had been burned off. A thick flak jacket hung over his body.

Their brother always seemed a few inches taller than the rest. He merely chuckled, his mouth struggling to crack a smile.

“It’s not too early for him.” Numero Uno kept rubbing his head, long after it was healed. “He had a late night around the edge of the property, nailing down new signposts.” Inch by inch, he shuffled in between the farm hand with the ruined haircut and the lumbering man.

“Funny. Mister Six was out there all night.” The farm hand took a giant step away from the door and patted Mister Six on the back. His hand slipped into a mass of flesh and bone. “Doing something with the ruined bales of hay. Weren’t you bud?”

Mister Six smirked and attempted a grunt.

“All night? I don’t remember such order.” Numero Uno kept his voice light.

Mister Six reared his body around the farm hand to get a look at the sleeping man, but he was stopped by a single hand on his shoulder.

“Are you sure?” Sharp teeth poked out of the smile. Harsher, pearly whites glistened.

“I can promise you he was out working hard.” Numero Uno turned Mister Six around and pushed him toward the open door.

Small clumps of dirt caught the corner of his eye. “Unlike you two. Now, you both were told to get where? To patrol? And now I must make sure this room is spotless, so I have to bust out the mop and find the broom Kenward just swore he put away.” A quick bite in his tongue prevented his voice from cracking.

“All that would be a lot easier if you had those fancy gloves, don’t you think?”

Numero Uno ignored the question and guided the pair toward the back door, their bodies no longer taut with anticipation. The farm hand joined his brothers outside, taking care to lock up. Grey clouds caused a chill to creep through his bones.

“Well, if you see any newbies, send them our way.” The other farm hand returned the pat on the back. It was a tough slap, the kind that leaves a guy a little jumpy.

Mister Six let out a series of grunts. A complicated good-bye, their intonation was a little harsh for Numero Uno to believe they honestly wished him well. He peered into the small window. A similar looking chest to his own rose up and down, unbothered.

Eyes closed, previous commands from Derrick flashed across his mind. Mow the south hill. Check the gate near the lake. Fix the planks in the old barn.

Numero Uno hurried to each site. Out of the corner of his eye, he didn’t see dust this time, but people. Customers trickled onto the premise. One farm hand who looked exactly like Derrick waved as the mower drove down the slope of the hill. Jerking, his body threatened to flop off the side. Already the grass looked greener.

The gate no longer sounded as if it was going to fall off the hinges. Planks in the old barn laid flat. He was the only farm hand present when he attended both work sites. Yanking, pulling, banging, the screws on the gate wouldn’t move. Even the wood looked cleaner, a miracle out in the middle of their grey valley.

Bouncing, jumping, when he was done moving in the barn, he bent down low. A measure tape lay in the bag right at the entrance of the barn. The temptation to measure twice, in case he had to fix the wood once, was strong. Numero Uno took a deep breath. He had to trust the others. Derrick sure did.

He made a mental note as he headed back to the visitor center. All the jobs were well done. It was the first time in three days that his legs began to grow tired. Maybe because there was no command to return to Derrick when he was done with his rounds. Maybe because he really was tired, someone worked to the bone. He hiked back up to the barn, raised his hat, and observed the growing crowd.

Neither the overcast nor the rain from the previous days deterred their enthusiasm. Shadows on the hill broke through the forest. The others, too, understood what the crowd meant. They walked on toward the visitor center, about a dozen pairs of feet. Hiding their faces, giving their backs and extra slouch, the Derricks were ready to get to work.

So was Numero Uno. To his right, Mirella handed fresh feed to a fat cow. She waved, catching him first. Derrick was bent down behind the stall, just out of sight, pink dust ballooning out of his hand, as more and more feed fell to the ground. Numero Uno returned the wave, lowered his hat, and went back to work.