Barbeque

            by Ishan Mohindroo

 

            The drive up Fish Ranch Road had quite a few constant qualities; bad drivers, treacherous ravines just feet away from the edge of the pavement, and hairpin that cut into the hillside. On December 21^st, 1978, however, the drive was quite a bit different for Farmer Clem. Francis Laniard Clem never expected what awaited him on the farm lined desolate road way, nor was he adequately prepared, but his life would never be the same.

            The 1967 blue Chevrolet strained as the hill steepened, for it was laden with fresh bat guano and chicken manure for the cabbage patch. The fellow who said “There are no farms in Berkeley”, bless his soul, thankfully never encountered Farmer Clem. You see, Clem was a member of a dying breed of pioneers, a relic of times long past. He knew no one, interacted little, and was only dependent on the constancy of his life. It was for this reason, that Clem thought nothing of the scarecrow, or off the westerly breeze that was picking up.

            It was 5:54 in the evening, and being the middle of winter, the sun had set and the road slipped into darkness. A single headlamp turned on at the front end of the Chevy, a reminder that not all things last forever. Normally, Clem would listen to the radio car, but all of his attention was needed to keep the car on the dimly lit road ahead. The car rounded a turn and the manure bags jumped as the front left tire entered and subsequently removed itself from a pothole. Clem was as rubber, his body flaccid, he bounced on queue, his eyes remaining on the road.

            A high pitch whine followed by a thud emanated from under the hood, and the car rolled to a bumpy stop. Annoyed but contained, Clem blindly searched around the floor of the passenger side for a rusty blue tool box. The box belonged to him during his service in the Army, and housed the very same tools he used to repair jeeps on Iwo Jima. The door opened, legs flung over, and Clem was at his feet ready to serve once more.

            The engine compartment was a scene from Hell. Steam rose from various places, as well as a couple less identifiable gases. Bubbling green fluids made their way from the underside of the engine block along the slope in the road. Clem placed the tool box on the road, and pondered the situation.

            “Hiya partner, names' Travis,” a young and energetic young man in aviators exclaimed from a distance, awakening Clem from his trance.

            “G'evenin', got a jack?” asked Clem, solely focused on the task at hand.

            “Nope, sorry, but I got two hands you can put to use,”

            “I could use a beer,” replied Clem, pleased that the youth had not lost all their respect for the elderly.

            “Come right on up to the house, I got a few on ice,” Without waiting for a reply, Travis spun around and headed back up the hill. Clem dropped the hood and followed. It was completely dark by now, and as they headed up the smell of burnt rubber subsided, replaced by the warm smell of fresh ribs. 

            It was a flash of light from a passing car that alerted Clem to the scarecrow on the top of the hill, its straw hair swaying in the wind. “Why the scarecrow? You aren't growin' anythin,” Asked Clem, trying to make small talk. Travis turned his head uneasily towards him and answered;

            “For the hell of it,” Clem shrugged and kept walking, it was Berkeley, people did weird things. They reached an old barn that had been converted into a house. Brown wood panels lined the entire outside, and an owls nest protruded from a hole near the crest of the roof. It wasn't large, Clem figured that Travis probably lived alone, but wondered why such a young guy would live in these parts.

            There was no lock on the door, Travis just pushed it open. The inside was sparse, There was little furniture and the walls had a few pictures. The smell of cooking meat was everywhere. “Take a seat here in the kitchen, it ain't much but it's cozy,” Clem silently followed, and sat down on a cowhide sofa as Travis opened the old refrigerator and took out two bottles of beer. “Listen, I just cooked up a batch of ribs, way too much for just me, ya want some?”

            “Why the hell not, it might be a while before I can get out of here,”

            “Yeah, it will be a long time,” Travis hobbled over to an old iron stove where and uncovered a pot. In the pot were twenty four juicy ribs, steeping in their own fluids. Travis picked up a pair of wooden tongs and grabbed two, placing them on a metal plate as they dripped.  “Hope ya don't em messy,” Travis chuckled.

            Clem took the plate in his lap, and began to eat. Travis sat down in a rocking chair across from him. “So what do you do out here?” asked Clem.

            “Nothing much anymore, I used to be here with my wife but she left me,”

            “I'm sorry, I know how that goes,”

            “It's not so bad, I've gotten over it, she's moved on but in some ways she'll always be here,”

            “Well I'm glad you're at peace with it,” Answered Clem, busy with the second rib. “How long ago did she leave you?”

            “Bout a week ago,”

            “You sure have adjusted quickly,” answered Clem slightly shocked.

            “Yeah, it's all taken care of, just a few bits and pieces left here and there. We used to go sit up on that hill out by the road on warm nights. I still feel her when I go out there,”

            “We should go take a look at my truck if you don't mind,” Clem said, licking his fingers. “The ribs were excellent,”

            “Thanks, nothing but the freshest meat. I got a jack out in the shed, follow me,” Clem slowly got up, put the metal plate down on a coffee table, and followed Travis out of a screen door near the refrigerator.

            Once outside, Clem had a clearer view of the scarecrow. “That must've taken you a long time, to get it so realistic.” he mentioned.

            “Not really, just about an hour actually. The hardest part was hoisting it up on the pole, it was pretty wet and juicy.”

            “Why was it all wet? Hasn't rained out here in a few weeks,” asked Clem, getting curious.

            “Oh you know, when they're fresh they're kinda squishy and all,”

            “Didn't know that, never made one myself,”

            “Oh I don't make them either,” replied Travis with a grin. “Go take a look at it up close, its quite a piece of work, I'll head into the shed and meet you back at the truck,”

            “Alright” said Clem as they parted. The path up to the scarecrow was thin, and Clem had to keep his eyes focused on the ground in front of him. The slope became shallower as he approached the scarecrow, and Clem looked up. He would regret it for the rest of his unfortunate life.

            Above him hung the body of a young woman, feet nailed at the ankle to the wooden pole. As Clem moved his head upward, he saw the woman's spine from the front, where her chest cavity would have been.

            After a pause of a few seconds, it hit him. Clem felt sick to his stomach. He went weak at the knees, fell over coughing and throwing up. He was on the ground, his face buried in the short grass, taking desperate gasps of air between bouts of vomiting. The last thing he saw was a glint of moonlight on the meat cleaver that Travis was calmly bringing up the hill.