Debbie’s droopy eyelids brush dream images away as Farmer Frankl siphons her attention. Once again, Debbie is interrupted during her visit with her horse by Farmer Frankl’s constant ramblings about the state of the world.
“All summer (it was six weeks) every day, I worked away, digging that trench with a backhoe to drain water from the pond, and nobody said anything. Then somebody had to go and report me. Said I was doing something illegal. Somebody driving by. Some activist.”
“Yeah, somebody driving by every day.” Debbie’s voice carries edge. “Maybe the township supervisor, who lives around the corner?”
“Who? Him? Naw. He woonta said nothin’. He’s a republican.”
Debbie’s eyelids part like an opening curtain, and her eyes shine like movie stars. There stands Frankl, beaming like a fourth grader who has conquered three-syllable words. The same look Harold Pinshetter gave her when he beat Debbie for the fourth grade spelling contest. “Now I’m better than all of you stupid girls,” he said. And then he farted and nobody cared who won the spelling contest. Accept for Harold. He began crying because his victory had been cheapened, not by the fart, but by the other kids laughing at the fart.
From her gut: explosion. She bends over, arm tucked to her ribs, bracing against the heaves. Tears stream down her face, and all she can do is rhythmically spew with the heaving, “Gak gak gak…ah hah hah!” Brief gasp. “Oh oh ah huh huh huh!” Another breath. “Qqkk! qqkk! qqkk!!”
She grabs one of Frankl’s hands, bent over with saliva streaming from her mouth and snot gushing from her nose. Still she can’t stop.
“Heh heh heh heh…wo ho ho ho ho ho!”
“Glad I could make yer day.” Farmer Frankl’s voice flat.
“STOP IT!!! Eh heh heh haha…”
A horse farts.
Debbie drops to her knees in horror-movie pose, arms flung open, mascara running down her cheeks as she looks up at him, unable to speak, her face contorted with the violence her body withstands. Frankl shakes his head and turns back to the stall with his pitchfork while Debbie, still shaking, pulls straw from her hair.
In the space between breaths, they say, there is calm. Debbie takes a deep breath, and just before the release, in the space before exhalation, Debbie’s ears catch the sound of a single turd dinging off the side of Farmer Frankl’s wheelbarrow.
Debbie is now flat on her back, kicking her legs hysterically. She pounds her fists into the straw and writhes to and fro. Involuntary. She doesn’t want to do it. Her face and gut hurt from the clenching. After five minutes, she props herself onto her arm and looks over to Farmer Frankl, methodically wielding the pitchfork in yet another stall.
“This barn is more alive than you.” She holds back a guffaw, forceful.