Well, then sometimes they'd help out.
We'll continue this in two directions.
The first is the optimal result. It wasn't common, but it happened enough that it's probably why any of us survived 2020. And, remember, we're back in summer of 2019 when I was over in Iran.
The guy whose farm he took, the guy with the Browning ballcap on his head and the Winston dangling from his lip (in violation of the universal smoking ban in indoor public areas) pushes the ball cap up.
"Got a deal fer ya."
The guy in the Browning ballcap will teach him how to farm. The lawyer and his wife now work for him. The lawyer does what he tells him to do and he's not going to enjoy it. But the guy even knows where there's some furniture up for grabs and he knows there ain't none in the house. Do what I tell you to do and we'll make it through.
"Why? I mean, why would you do that?"
"I get a cut of the pay. An' cause that's mah John Deere you done fucked up. An' ah don't want it fucked up again."
There was, thank God, a lot of that. The two "good" farmers on my farms. They found out about Bob quick and told him they had no clue what they were doing. Teaching people who have no clue what they're doing, and are mentally and physically unsuited to farming, how to farm is ten times the trouble of professionals. And it was a very fucked up planting season. But Bob did it. And they didn't totally screw up.
The other five? They were . . . suboptimal results in various ways. I had to replace a lot of equipment over time. But the government paid for it eventually. Why not? It was the Bitch's fuck up in the first place. And the Congress let her get away with it.
But we'll go to the less optimal result. The farmers and store owner tell him the minimum he needs to know and suggest he call the USDA help-line. He points out it's overwelmed. The feed store owner finds a number for another help line. It's Army. See if they can help you.
So now we're back to the seed farmer.
He was not, in fact, in Blackjack. I won't say where he was except that it was "southern" and in prime farm country.
I never would have noticed if I hadn't been bored and listening to the techs answering questions. I always kept half an ear on that in case things were getting out of hand, as they frequently did.
This wasn't out of hand, it was the tone of confusion. That was nearly as good. So I hooked into the circuit.
". . . don't have any information on how to fix equipment, sir. We can give advice on crops and weather and pests but we don't have anything on equipment, I'm sorry. Have you tried contacting the manufacturer?"
"Major Bandit Six, cutting in. I've got it, Smedlap. Say problem again, over. Start at the beginning, go to the end and I'll see if I can help."
Tractor broken. Information I got doesn't work. Lawyer. Didn't know I was taking over someone's farm. Out of my depth. Army knows about farming?
Army knows everything. What kind of tractor?
I don't know.
What kind of spreader?
I don't know.
Get pen and paper. Go find out. Here's a number you can get through to me.
While he was gone, I considered the voice. The guy was clearly over his head and just a touch angry.
But it was also the middle of the damned night. And he was still working the problem. If he could get over the anger, there might be some worth to him.
He called me back.
"Bandit Six, if you've got the time, I've got the dime."
He had all sorts of information about the tractor and the spreader. All I needed was the model numbers.
"Oh, hell, yeah you've got the spreader on backwards. When they said 'reverse it' what they meant was just pop it in reverse then back out. You can't back it up. I hope you didn't break the spay arm. Okay, get ready to write this down. Memorize it. You won't be able to read it in the dark and do it at the same time. Do you have the lifting tines hooked up? Okay, I'll walk you through how to bring it back with the lifting tines, too. Get ready to write . . ."
It took about two hours to get through a fifteen-minute evolution. The guy wasn't getting much sleep that night. But we got the spreader back to the equipment shed.
"What were you using it for? It's not time to spread grass seed. Wheat? Why were you using a spreader to lay down wheat? Don't you have a planter . . . ?
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"Okay, calm down." Grin. "You're what I class as a C. That means there's some promise. You can get your back up and wroth and decide you're the expert here and then you're going to go to D and you'll be talking to my call center guys until you get tired of it and go back to the soup lines as an F. Or you might work your way up to A. But I'll give you the chance. It's late and it's about time for you to actually go to work. If you're willing, though, I'll walk you through a lot of shit and you might make a barely functional farmer . . . Yes, I grew up on a farm and I've got a degree in the shit. I'm about the only guy working this place who does so for anything farming beyond C-A-T equals cat, you're going to have to talk to me . . . I work nights. But that's not a problem. Because you're going to be getting up around . . . an hour ago. And you'll be going to bed around sunset . . . Yes, there's a reason. Are you listening? Is this actually sinking in? Because I'm not going to waste my time if it's not . . . You're welcome."
He'd been a lawyer in Memphis specializing in "environmental agricultural issues." He was, in fact, every farmer's worst nightmare. The kind of guy who environmental groups hired to sue farmers for drying out a plot of land that they considered "wetlands."
His wife started out the complete bitch.
We'd gotten beyond C-A-T equals cat by then. We were talking as he was getting ready for another hard day's work. He was fixing what he could find for breakfast. I asked him where his wife was. Asleep.
"Farming is team work. You're supposed to still be asleep. She's supposed to be cooking breakfast. Who's cleaning? Who's taking care of the garden?"
Getting his wife to sit down and talk to me was, I take it, not easy. But it happened.
"Bandit Six, this number is permanently connected to a nuclear tipped missile aimed at you, keep that in mind . . . Oh, Hi Roger. Mrs. Roger? Oh, that would be Miz Roger. Miss Roger-Not-Roger? We're going to have such a nice time. Hello, ma'am. My name is Bandit Six. Here is the deal . . ."
You and your husband are in deep cacky.
This winter things are going to be a nightmare.
The nightmare will continue into next year.
I don't care what the President and her ministers say, trust in me, I'm with the High Command.
You are an expert in whatever your field used to be.
You know nothing about farming or being a farm wife.
If you do not listen to me, you and your husband are going to die.
Did you hear me? Do you believe me? D-I-E.
Okay, here is lesson one. There will be many more. And you'll like them less.
" 'A man he works from sun to sun but a woman's work is never done.' That's not a complaint. That's reality. Your husband, in case you hadn't noticed, is now going out all day just about every day working his tail off. It's hard, brutal, necessary work. He's probably losing weight. He'll gain it back as he gets better at things and if there's food. But he will always be expending more calories in a day than you do. He will be working harder physically. You will be working constantly physically but at a lower level.