Then they did the mud dance.
They stomped on the mixture for five to ten minutes at a time, then Calvin would pull one end of the tarp and then the other to flip over the thick, heavy “dough” that they were making, then they’d stomp it again. As they stomped, they talked and laughed like brothers. They made up a rap called the mud rap, and each one added a verse each time as they stomped heartily in the cold morning.
When the straw and mud were thoroughly mixed, they dumped the whole pile near one of the rear tires of the truck, and then began the whole process again.
This process went on for over an hour, and at the end of that time, they had enough mud/cob mixture to fill the tires.
Next, they jacked up the truck and removed the tires one at a time. Calvin showed them how to use the tire iron as a lever to remove the rubber from the bead without pulling off the whole tire. Then they stuffed. They stuffed and stuffed. And they pounded. Pounded and pounded.
When they could not get another ounce of cob into the tires, they finished, remounted the tire, and went to the next one.
“When we drive down the road, the cob will heat up and expand and fill what’s left of the cavity,” Calvin said.
“Are you sure?” Stephen asked.
“No!”
“You aren’t sure?”
“Nope! I’ve never done this before! I just told you that my father saw it done. It’s supposed to work, though.”
“Dude, your mom’s kind of intense,” said Calvin as they were pounding the cob down into the last tire with a rock that they’d found in the woods. The truck had slid down an embankment and down a smallish hill. They both knew it would take all the strength they could muster to get it up the hill, back onto the road, even under ideal conditions. They were working to better their odds.
“Yeah, she is.” Stephen looked into the distance, as if he were thinking of another time.
“What happened to your dad?”
“Oh, he was killed in a subway accident. Years ago. He gave up his life saving this woman he didn’t know. Jumped down on the tracks and lifted her up and…” He split his hands apart, helpless to find the words.
“Yeah, people called my dad a hero, too. He died to keep from hurting someone else.” Stephen looked at him blankly. Calvin continued, “It’s not really the same thing, but it is. Kind of.”
“Yeah, bro. I hear you.”
So, the conversation went on this way. The boys talked and worked. Occasionally, Veronica would come back to check on them, and she would encourage them through the process. She would always mix her little pep talks with object lessons. The boys would listen intently, and, as the sun crept across the morning sky and started to blend into afternoon, they completed their work.
The line of military-style vehicles pulled up in a straight edge on a long road that ran through the heart of Pennsylvania farm country. The lead vehicle, an odd looking RV that seemed to have some kind of plated armor that made it, from a distance, look like a spaceship or a dinosaur, pulled into a small rounded driveway. The drivers were driving with purpose toward a destination known, apparently, only to themselves.
They pulled into the small driveway and stopped at a checkpoint on the private driveway. The men driving the military vehicles showed some kind of credentials, and then there was a conference, and then the vehicles proceeded down the drive and dipped along a long winding road that led up to a farmhouse. They pulled in with practiced precision and lined up in beautifully stacked rows. The vehicles were orderly in their performance and worked together as one in a mechanical ballet.
The last few vehicles did not enter the driveway. They didn’t stop at the checkpoint and they didn’t follow the others up to the farmhouse. These few continued down the farm road, heading somewhere else.
The RV called ‘Bernice’ was parked behind the farmhouse, and inside the odd-shaped RV sat two men. One of the men looked like a cowboy, and the other looked like a leprechaun. A wee bit, anyway. They got out of the lead vehicle, the cowboy and the leprechaun, and they walked up to the doorway of the farmhouse. From a distance one could make out through the late afternoon haze the cowboy tipping his hat to the person who opened the door. The cowboy tipped his hat, and the leprechaun bowed at the waist. The leprechaun then did a little dipsy-doodle shuffle of his feet as he walked in behind the cowboy, and the door was shut behind them.
Red Beard looked at Clive. Red Beard’s real name was Pat, but by now we all know him as Red Beard. That’s what Clive called him, too. The two men found themselves seated in an old-fashioned drawing room. In the corner of the room was a small, simple table with a kerosene lamp. The light was evening out in fine shadows across the floor. Red Beard leaned back in his chair and said, “Let me tell you a story…”
Clive looked at Red Beard. “Tell it.”
Red Beard looked at Clive again. “Well, I think I will…” He gathered himself in order to give the story the weight it deserved.
“There was once this man who started a business. It was a small business. The man struggled. He scrimped and saved. He beat the bushes to find new customers and worked the ice cream socials at the local church. He joined the PTA.” Red Beard paused.
Clive put his hand out, as if to stop him. “But did the tax man get his share? That’s all I care to know.” Clive flashed his best Sam Elliot smile. Red Beard spread his hands out before him.
“Of course. Indeed.”
Red Beard continued. “So, his business was coming down to a crisis. It was one of those situations where sometimes you get the bear,” he paused, “and sometimes the bear gets you… but, in this case, the bear was just about to have the final say.”
Clive put his hand out to stop him again. “You know if you change bear to beer in that story, it still reads the same…?” He chuckled to himself and Red Beard paused.
Again, he smiled. “Indeed, it does.”
“So, the man finally begins to make it,” Red Beard said, “you know? And he hires a sales force. And his tippy-top sales guy — his very, very best — turns out to be a loafer.”
Red Beard leaned over to whisper to Clive, as if conspiratorially, “I lean and loaf, at my ease…” He indicated with his hand across the ground… “observing a spear of summer grass…” He acted out the drama, and looked at Clive as if the words spoke for themselves. He wanted Clive to know that he had an eye for such things. He was a loafer, he seemed to say, but practiced and studious about it.
Clive also looked down at his feet, at their feet. He too imagined how lush and green this farmland was, the imaginary farmland under their feet, how valuable it could be.
“So what happened to yer feller? The loafer?” Clive watched as Red Beard came back into his thoughts. Clive had never left his.
“So, this guy’s sales force was incensed. Right? The whole lot of them. As a group. Pissed off. They couldn’t put up with such debasement. Naturally, it did not matter to them that the loafer had the best numbers in the office. How did he get them?! That was the question. And the loafer didn’t help his cause any. He’d spend a couple of hours a day doing his sales calls, and then he’d go across the street to the Y and play cards. He’d gamble all day with his feet on the table. On the table! Can you imagine it?”