Too early to tell

I

Just south of the Ohio, Interstate Four snakes its way among the ridges and hollers connecting Grayson and Greenup. Along the way the road’s winding reveals travelers a new landscape around every twist, tucking fragrant fields of lush tobacco soaked in sun between tree-studded hollers laden with shadows. Folks familiar with the bends command the roads wider than their lanes and drive as fast as they are brave…or foolhardy. Less frequent visitors are deliberately unhurried, equally slowed by the vibrant visage and the overwhelming desire to keep four tires on the winding pavement.
In the early hours of a July dawn, a dark van slowed to sidle half way through a particularly tricky turn that climbs the crest of an embankment before turning away and sinking to the belly of a tree flanked valley. The van’s side door swung open as it neared the sharpest point of the curve, exposing a rusty drum that was immediately sent skidding off the pavement then tumbling down the steep grade deeper into the foliage. Revving its engine, the van sped out of the turn and disappeared, skidding around the next crook in Four’s folds. Meanwhile the discarded barrel continued its slaloming careen before crashing into an ancient stone wall barely visible from the road.
Beyond the wall, tucked amongst the overgrowth, I watched my newest project from behind a grime choked window. I took a moment, and then stepped to the porch of the low-roofed cabin that hadn’t seen sunlight or a paintbrush since before my time. I silently lit a cigarette, gazing in the direction of the road and the latest delivery. It occurred to me that I had spent four years living in this rugged patch tucked beneath ridges between Grayson and Greenup and I was actually growing fond of my surroundings. The whimsical thoughts subsided with the growing glow of day and I flicked my cherry, and tossed the butt into the fading Folger’s can resting beneath the same dirt soaked window. I took one last glance toward the road and went inside. Work would wait, breakfast was on.

II

I emerged from my rustic abode for a post porridge smoke and let the screen door slam behind me. My bear of a partner was still snoring inside, and would have a tantrum if he knew I’d let him sleep while a new project had sat outside for over an hour. The sun had risen, nearing its peak but only a few slim rays penetrated the thick forest and found their way to the porch while I enjoyed the late morning in silence.
It wouldn’t be long before Nial awoke; he always had a keen sense of when there was work to be done. I would catch some shit for not telling him immediately after our newest barrel had come crashing through the trees to its resting spot a few hundred feet away, but I needed the morning to clear my thoughts and prepare for the craze that was sure to come. I took a deep breath and listened to the silence as I slowly paced and thought about how I’d gotten to this point.
It hadn’t always been this bad. I used to enjoy the work. It used to please me to complete a project successfully and it excited me to wait for the next challenge to arrive. Now I dreaded the days that a new assignment was tossed into our yard like caustic litter. I felt a sense of impending doom every day that a new drop-off loomed. It was no coincidence that I lost my passion for the job as my partner’s enthusiasm grew. No accident that as the eagerness with which he dove into each new project grew my disgust for my job and my bosses and my profession as a whole began to dwindle. There used to be an art –a finesse—to my line of work. Now it was just one big bloody mess.


III

I awoke to the stale stink of cigarettes and the sound of my partner’s insistent pacing coming in from the porch. My temples throbbed and my tongue felt like it was wearing a sour sock. I needed a cup of coffee and a piss. I would have to ask Sam why he had neglected to wake me when our package had been delivered.
I stumbled from the john and brought my self to rest against the counter in front of the coffee machine and cursed at the little light that somehow made it through the trees and all the filth that clung to the windows. I could hear Sam breathing through the doorway, but didn’t look his way. I had grown sick of his face over the past few projects and knew eying him now would wind up hurting us both.
“You look like hell,” he finally exhaled. Just the sound of his voice made me want to scream.
“I feel like it,” I growled, “Why in the hell didn’t you wake me when the new package came in?” The only time he paced and whispered was when something had come down the hill. It pissed me off that he had kept it from me, because he knew the first day was my favorite day. He knew that most of the pleasure I derived from this work came with my day-one rituals.
I bolted the mug of coffee and pushed past him onto the porch. The smell of the day brightened me. The prospect of work to come invigorated me more than the grainy coffee had, and I actually smiled. I felt Sam slinking out behind me and my grin quickly subsided.
“I thought that with the way you were carrying on last night that you would appreciate a little extra sleep. That you could benefit from getting all your strength. And besides it’s barely been an hour,” he muttered after a short silence.
“I could give two shits ‘bout what you think, Sam,” I nearly shouted. I regained my composure, figuring it would be best to save my anger for what ever slime had been delivered this morning. I took a breath and stared off in the direction of our ancient wall and the barrel resting on the other side.
“I’m ready now,” I said, and grabbed my pry bar from its nail next to the door. We stepped off the porch and headed, without words, toward our newest project. I waded through the brush across what constituted our yard with Sam on my heels. As we closed in on the ragged wall that outlined our yard my heart rate quickened, this was my favorite time of the month.
I made my way around the stone hedge and the rusty drum, on its side, came into view. I quickly stalked to the ground where it rested and knocked fiercely on the lid.
“Anyone home?” I grunted. There was no sound. I kicked the barrel, and hefted it upright. I knocked once more and again, there was not reply.
“Shit,” I said, turning to Sam. “I hope he ain’t dead.” Sam looked translucent – like he always did on the first day – and mumbled something about DOA being implausible, but I was already turned around and had begun cranking away at the stubborn lid. DOA was highly unlikely, but if this son-of-a-bitch was dead already Sam would get an eye full for not waking me up when the package was ripe.
I finally jimmied the lid of the drum and tossed it at Sam. He never helped getting the package open, but he always wanted first dibs on that little envelope. He pawed at it while I peered inside. Their stories never impressed me much, that was his job. Mine was to introduce them to their new surroundings and make them wish they had never visited.


IV?

I hadn’t been wrong about Nial being upset with me for letting him sleep in, but I had enjoyed my time with out him. He had dropped the subject rather quickly though, and I knew that we would be in for a long morning. He was more than likely reserving his anger and hatred for our newest project. That was a minor relief for me, but would prove to bode poorly for our newly acquired friend.
He had recently began drawing an unhealthy pleasure from our job and it worried me that some of his aggressive behavior would spill out into the real world. I had always imagined that I would have a life after I retired, but it was getting harder and harder to picture my partner interacting with society if he ever attempted to live a life outside of our confined cabin. It was best that most of society was unaware to my existence, and it would be best if they never found out about Nial’s.
As he peered in on our newest project I tore open the package that was attached to the lid of every barrel that came crashing down our hill. The envelope contained all the information deemed pertinent to aid our attempts in gleaning information. I’m not sure that Nial had ever found a use for the envelopes. He had his own methods of extracting information from people, usually between their sobs and screams.