Running the Gauntlet

At 3:45 a.m., my dad flipped the light switch on.

"Get up!" he growled. "In fifteen minutes, I'm coming back with a glass of water!"

I rolled over on my back but didn't dare to open my eyes. The sudden light would have been too harsh. I felt heavy and hopeless. This was no way to spend the summer before starting college. My muscles were still sore from yesterday and the smell of a hundred cows still lingered on my skin in spite of last night's shower. The hour itself seemed inhuman, not a time for people to be engaged in any activity but sleeping. My dad was obviously some sort of mutant life form who didn't need sleep, who never tired no matter how much toil he subjected himself to.

As I lay there, the dread of the coming day on my chest, I could have slept for a thousand years. I had gone to bed at 8:30 the night before, but had tossed and turned, dreading the present hour until past 11. Then, giving up, I turned on my bedside lamp and picked up the Stephen King book beside it. The story was actually a novella in the Bachman books. Rage was its name. A kid named Charlie Decker shot his teacher and took his classmates hostage. Then the class bonded while the outside world panicked. The story was so cool I wanted to dive right between the pages. The main character shared my name and my own sense of teen angst and it gripped me like a vice until nearly 1 AM. Finally, I laid it down, turned off the lamp and was asleep in a matter of seconds. Only a moment later, it seemed, my dad, the inexhaustible ogre, came to roust me.

I knew I had to move before sleep claimed me. I dreamt of going to the bathroom, urinating and returning to put on my socks, then my shirt, then my jeans. Just as I reached for my Braves cap, a cold, heavy wetness struck me in the face.

I yelped and leaped from the bed, instantly furious. Daddy was standing in my doorway holding an empty cup and wearing an expression of malevolent glee.

"I told you to get your ass out of bed, scopher!" he said. "Don't let me come back here and find you not dressed!" I didn't know what a scopher was. My dad was the only person I'd ever known to say the word.

He left the room again and I wiped the water from my eyes with my hands, still angry, but resigned to my fate. I repeated the activities of my dream in reality now, regretting my father had been forced to douse me with water to wake me up. I really hated to let him down, although it seemed my every breath was a disappointment to him.

In only a few moments, I was ready and making my way out of the house to his old beat-up GMC pick-up. He was already waiting for me. When I climbed in and shut the door, he cranked the truck and we began the ten-mile drive to our dairy farm.

On our way, we drove through the center of town. The bank clock showed the temperature was already 83 degrees at 4:15 a.m. It was going to be another scorcher. I groaned inwardly, thinking of the flies and gnats that would soon be swarming around me as they relished the hot South Georgia summer. My dad, of course, didn't feel the heat and hardly acknowledged the affects of annoying insects. He was steel. I was jelly.

We stopped at the drive-thru at Hardees. He ordered us both sausage biscuits and coffee. I hated coffee but always drank it without complaint. As we drove around to pick up our food, I was horrified to notice two high-school classmates I had graduated with only a month ago. They were standing in the parking lot with a group of four or five other kids. Obviously, they had been out all night carousing. I wondered at the extreme juxtapositions of our places in life and hoped they wouldn't recognize me.

But they did, and both waved to me like I was a long-lost brother. I waved half-heartedly back and they made their way over to pay their respects.

"What's up, Gaunt?" Zack said to me through the open truck window. The smell of his liquor breath was stronger than my cow smell.

"Not much. Got to go help my old man this morning," I said, in my trying to fit in voice. "What are you up to?"

"Just throwin' back a few brewskies, Gaunt. You know how it is."

"That's cool," I said.

"Alright, Gaunt, take it easy. I'll give you a call next time we have a party."

"Alright," I said, knowing it would never happen. I didn't get invited to parties because I didn't drink and hardly talked. My nature made me a social outcast.

"Gauuuunt!" Rodney exclaimed, taking his turn at the window. He looked to have gone deeper in the bottle than Zack. His eyes were glazed and blood-shot, but he appeared to be in a friendly state of mind all the same.

"What's up Rodney?" I said.

"Just having a good time in C-town, you know?"

"Oh yeah," I replied. I assumed by C-town he meant Camelia, Ga, the town I'd lived in since I was eight. Camelia was a humble burg by any measure, hardly deserving of a moniker as flamboyant as "C-town."

"Hey, Mr. Perry," Rodney said. "Y'all out this late cruising for chicks?"

"Nah," my dad said. "We're about to cruise down the road and see some Betsys though."

"Betsys? Mr. Perry, you a trip, man! You a straight trip! See ya around, Gaunt!"

Rodney walked away, sipping from a bottle covered with a paper bag as if he were a common wino.

I glanced over to make sure it was truly my father sitting in the driver's seat. I had never before heard him refer to his herd of dairy cows as "Betsys."

My father didn't look back at me. We received our biscuits and coffee, and were off again.

I drank my coffee even though I hated it and ate my biscuit even though I preferred not to eat so early in the morning.

"What's this Gaunt bullshit?" my dad said, half amused.

"Short for Gauntlet," I said. "They started calling me that after a guy wrote in the paper that I punished people like a gauntlet on the football field."

"What the hell's a gauntlet?"

"It's a method of torture Indians used to use on prisoners. They'd all line up in two rows with sticks and other stuff to hit somebody with, and then the prisoner would have to run between them. They called it running the gauntlet."

"That's real cute," he said, unimpressed. We rode the rest of the way in silence.

While my dad prepared the parlor for milking, I went out into the pasture to gather up the cows. This was the only time of day that I didn't despise being forced to surrender my summer to helping my father at the dairy farm.

I could hear the croaking of a hundred bullfrogs from the swamp that bordered the pasture and the music of as many crickets as well. The sky seemed to hold twice the stars as could be seen from town. I liked to let my imagination loose while staring up at them. As I watched, a shooting star suddenly streaked across the night. Seeing it filled me with a spiritual feeling and banished all of my dissatisfaction for a moment.

I carried a flashlight and did my best to avoid the larger cow patties. Most of the cows were hunkered down and sleeping, but rose willingly at my approach. They knew the drill. I only had to walk behind the slowest, #47, an old grandma who had birthed her share of calves. Three of her daughters were among the herd as well.

Soon, all had made their way into the holding pen. Some who had recently been separated from their calves bellowed mournfully, still hoping to locate their missing babies. The concrete floor, which was made pristine by a high-pressure hose after every milking, was soon completely covered in feces and urine. My father had made the parlor ready, and I went down to join him. We opened the gates and eight cows ambled inside and took their places. The vacuum of the milk machines pulsated rhythmically and the milking began. My father and I worked together fluidly, hardly speaking. Before attaching the milk machine, we washed every udder and dipped them with iodine, then dried them off with a paper towel. When the milk ceased its flow through the hose which carried it into a large cooling tank, I removed the machine, dipped the teats in iodine, and sent them on their way. When eight cows were done milking, we let them out and eight more took their place.

We repeated this process until all one-hundred fifty or so cows had been milked. The milking always went as smooth as clockwork until the last twenty or so holdouts, which usually included the chronic incorrigibles, the first calf heifers, who were still learning the ropes, and the sick ones whose milk had to be dumped because of the antibiotics in their systems.

In the most honest part of my soul, I enjoyed milking the cows. I liked seeing the contented way they walked into the barn chewing their cud and letting down their milk so that it leaked from their udders even before the machine was applied. I liked learning to recognize nearly every cow in the herd only by the distinctive appearance of their bag. I even enjoyed the physical nature of the work.

I would never admit any of this to my father, however.

The last cow in the holding pen this morning was cow #35. She was not a youngster, and had just had a calf three days before. #35 was especially unhappy over having her baby taken from her after so short a time. She had had a solid black bull and my dad had sold it promptly for seventy dollars. She had never been the picture of cooperation in even the best of times, and was a nasty girl to boot. She was covered in mud and shit and I hoped my father would be the one washing her udder rather than myself.

That is, if he could get her in the barn. She was obviously determined he would not succeed in this endeavor. However, she underestimated my father. He was nothing if not tenacious. #35 would find herself either dead of exhaustion or in the milking parlor with a machine attached to her giant, muddy bag. It was her choice.

I watched from the parlor as he attempted to bring her in. As my father walked behind her, she strolled with infinite slowness to the entrance of the barn, and at the last moment decided to turn around. My dad leaped in front of her, yelling epithets and throwing his arms in the air, but she paid him no mind. She realized her distinct size advantage and would have trampled him thoughtlessly if he had not leaped out of her path at the last possible instant.

After repeating this charade five times, my father's fuse grew short and explosive. I could see what was coming.

"That goddamned hussy wall-eyed bitch!" he said, panting and red-faced with rage. "Charlie! Get me that axe handle!"

I cringed, knowing what awaited old #35 wasn't going to be pretty. I made haste to do as instructed.

I handed it to him and returned to the parlor, not wanting to watch, but knowing I would be compelled to.

Holding the stick by his side, he walked toward the back of the pen where the old girl waited with a smug look on her face. As he approached her, she began walking slowly towards the open door of the barn again, pausing to bellow for her lost calf a couple of times as she went. When she reached it, she once again thought better of entering. She turned around and prepared to walk over the puny human who blocked her way. But before she took another step, he whacked her with all of his might across the bridge of her nose.

"Mewewew!" she screamed, shocked by the pain, and amazed that a being of such small stature was capable of inflicting it.

Panicking now, she tried to turn to pass him on the other side, but this attempt resulted in taking another vicious blow. Now, wild-eyed, her nose filled with blood, and frothing at the mouth from fear and pain, she turned away from her tormentor and entered the barn. When she had reached the furthest stall, I slid a steel bar behind her, blocking her backward path. While she still shivered with fear, my dad rushed down to the parlor and began to roughly wash the mud and shit from her filthy teats. Lifting a leg, she attempted to kick away his hand, but this attempt brought a flurry of punches against her flank.

"Be still, you goddamned slut!" he said. "You ain't good for nothing but burger meat!" In another minute, he'd managed to successfully attach the milking machine to her teats, but as soon as it was in place, she promptly kicked it off. This provoked another flurry of punches which #35 likely hardly felt, being the big girl she was. He attached the machine again, each cup swallowing her teat with a satisfying whump. As soon it was in place, however, she kicked it off again.

I saw my dad turn positively apoplectic with fury, and knew I needed to step in.

"Let me put it on," I said.

"Go ahead," he said, sounding almost relieved. "I'll go get the damn slut her shot."

"You're a good old girl," I said in soothing tones to her, when he had left the parlor. "You just hold on, alright?"

I connected the machine again, letting her adjust to the feel of each cup for a moment before sliding on the next one. She eyed me distrustfully, and when the machine was in place, she lifted her leg again, but did not kick it off. She didn't disturb the milking machine again. A few moments later, my father came in with the shot, came up quickly behind her, and placed the needle adeptly in the muscle of her haunches. It was done so swiftly, she failed to even register the event. In a few moments, her milk ran dry. I removed the machine and let her out into the pasture to nurse her bloody nose.

The time was 8:30. I began the chore of washing the barn down, hoping we'd be home by 10. Of course, I generally had to redo this job at least three times, as it never passed inspection with him the first time. As I attempted, with zen-like concentration, to wash every last piece of cow feces and spilled feed out the door of the barn, I heard the dairy tank truck come up. It had come to collect the milk in our tank to transport it to the Flav-O-Rich company in Atlanta. I could hear the driver talking to my father.

"Mr. Perry," he said. "How's it going?"

"Hot as two hells," he answered. "Damn cows' milk has dropped to shit."

"Oh yeah," the man answered. "Milk's down all over. Those girls ain't interested in nothin' but findin' a shade tree in this weather."

"Cain't say I blame'em," my dad answered.

"Mr. Perry, I'm going to give you a compliment and you can take it as you will. I've got thirty-five dairies on my route and I look forward to coming to your place because it is by far the cleanest, neatest, most well-kept dairy that I travel to. It shows up in your production too."

"Is that a fact?" my dad answered. I could tell by his voice that the comment pleased him. I hoped it would mellow him out for a couple of hours, but doubted it.

"Yep, that's a fact!" said the man. "Lots of them fellas'd like to know your secret."

"Shit, there ain't no secret. Just hard, dirty, damn work!"

"That's about what I figured."

The milk truck driver was a talkative fellow and he engaged my dad in small talk for another thirty minutes. I finally finished washing down the barn and then tried to inspect the job as thoroughly as I knew my father would. Not seeing so much as a single corn kernel, I determined it might pass.

I went out to the shit-covered holding pen and hooked up the big high-pressure hose. I always enjoyed this job. Pulling and guiding the hose worked my chest like a bench press and it was always a challenge to try to wash the concrete slab all the way down before the well-pressure dropped and the water cut off. There was also just something innately satisfying about pushing shit forward with a hose. Another fun aspect about the hose washing was that the on/off switch was located about fifty yards from the base of the slab. This made it necessary to turn on the switch and then sprint back to the hose before the water had made its way to the nozzle. If you were too slow, it meant attempting to catch the hose as it spewed a high-pressure stream and writhed about like an epileptic eel, splattering your face with shit all the while.

I had used my stopwatch to time the water running down the length of the hose. Eight seconds, give or take a couple of tenths, was the norm. I was just fast enough to make it, barring a slip, or other unforeseen circumstance.

By the time the milk-truck driver left, I had washed down the barn and replaced the hose. Feeling proud of myself, I considered fixing up the calves' bottles and feeding them. Daddy usually did this while I cleaned the barn up, but the milk-truck driver had set things back a bit.

"Chollie!" my dad called to me. I could tell by his tone I had committed a faux pas of some sort. Whenever he left the "r" out of my name, it meant trouble.

I walked into the barn expecting the worst.

"What's this shit in the corner?" he said, incredulous, pointing at the floor. I walked over fearfully, and saw a very small clump of mud that had somehow escaped me.

I didn't say anything, but simply grabbed the water hose and began to wash it down the length of the barn. I felt crushed inside.

"Damn, son!" he said. "Cain't I ever get through to you to do things right the first time?"

"Just missed it I guess," I said.

He shook his head, disgusted with me, but seemingly resigned to my incompetence. Finally, he left to finish up the rest of the morning chores.

By 10:30, we were on our way home again. Driving home, we passed the city jail. Apparently, today was visiting day. Black men stood talking to their women and children through the fence that incarcerated them. I noticed but one solitary white face among them.

"Nigger women and nigger babies comin' to see their nigger daddies," he said. "When you get my age, Camelia won't be nothin' but a nigger town. They spit out babies every other day and the white folks don't. Just a matter of time before they take over. Too bad somebody can't make some kind of spray to put in the air to wipe 'em all out, or something to put in the water. Some kind of nigger-zapper. It'd make the world a better place."

I knew he made these types of statements as a sick joke, but I made no comment. We rode the rest of the way in silence.

I always felt the worst affects of my mothere's death -nearly a year ago- from cancer when my dad and I returned from the dairy. She had always had a big breakfast cooking for us, and if my father had been particularly harsh to me, she would see it in my face. I was never very good at covering my emotions even though I would never tell on him. Then he would have to answer to her, which I always enjoyed. Now, though, there was no one to check him, and no breakfast waiting for us either.

Daddy did scramble us some eggs and put on some coffee. I couldn't take coffee again, so I mixed a glass of chocolate milk for myself instead. When we had eaten and washed our plates, I made my way to the shower.

The heavenly feeling of hot water running over my body after a morning of milking cows was always proof of God's existence to me. I watched the dirt and cow shit wash off of my skin and swirl down the drain. The smell, however, was not so easily banished even after three separate soapings.

Soon, I was prone on the couch, sleepiness setting in now with a vengeance. My father's routine on Saturday mornings was to watch the Miami Vice episode he had recorded the previous night. He always watched the show intently, and I tried to stay awake, but the words of Crockett and Tubbs soon incorporated themselves in my dreams. It was nearly one o'clock when he woke me up again.

"Charlie, wake up. We've got some work to do," he said.

We didn't have to milk the cows this afternoon. My father's hired man, Ed Holly, was doing the job. There were still many jobs to be done, however. I preferred milking to most of these. The milking was structured and defined, unlike many of the other tasks involved on a farm.

I sat up, my eyes full of sleep and feeling like I weighed four-hundred pounds. I forced myself to stand and walk to my room to change into a pair of shorts. The afternoon heat was not meant to be endured by humans wearing jeans. Except for my dad, of course, who didn't count.

The Stephen King book lay on the bedside table waiting patiently for me to delve again into its pages. I thought of how sublime it would be to sit down and read this afternoon rather than going again to toil beneath the hot sun and my father's tyranny. I picked the book up and took it with me. Maybe it would be a slow day, I reasoned. Besides, books to me were like security blankets. Just holding one in my hand made me feel better.

Feeling ridiculous wearing work boots with shorts, we set off again to the dairy. The bank clock in town now gave the temperature as 97 degrees. The AC in the truck had long since broken, and no move had been made to have it repaired. Mirages of heat hovered above the highway in front of us. The hot air streaming through our open windows did little to cool me. The oppressive humidity added to the feeling of grogginess that still clung to me. To escape my misery, I opened my book and began to read where I had left off with Rage last night. Daddy always seemed offended when I read a book in his presence.

"Why don't you look where you're going sometime instead of always keeping your nose in a damn book?" he said.

"I've been on this highway a hundred times," I answered. "I don't think I'll be missing anything."

"Well, don't you know something to talk about?"

I looked up, irritated, wanting to know if Charlie Decker was going to get out of school alive.

"I can't think of anything right now," I said. Then I went back to my book.

"Damn good company you are," he said.

I shrugged my shoulders and began to read again.

Less than five minutes later, I was surprised when he pulled off on the side of the road. Curious, I looked up from my book, and saw that we had parked behind a neglected looking Chevy Impala. Standing beside it, with forlorn looks on their faces, were two young black women. One was holding an infant.

He got out and I followed him, reluctantly shutting the book.

"Car trouble?" he asked them.

I watched them assess him, trying to discern if he had come to help or harm.

"Yeah," the one holding the baby finally said. "We got a flat."

I looked at the back left wheel and saw she spoke the truth.

"Do you have a spare?" he asked.

"Yeah, but we ain't got no jack. You got one, Mister?"

"Yeah, I got one," he said.

He opened the tailgate, climbed in the back and rummaged through the accumulated equipment until he found it.

"Where's that spare?" he said.

The woman without the baby opened the trunk and showed it to him. He took it out, leaned it against the car and went to work, getting the jack in place and turning the crank.

"Want me to do anything?" I said to him, feeling useless.

"Naw. Just keep them company for a minute," he said.

"Ok."

I looked at them and they looked back at me. I was struck suddenly with the awkward, self-conscious feeling that always came over me in social situations.

"How old's the baby?" I asked, hoping the child was an appropriate source of conversation. From the way the girl's face lit up, I knew it was.

"She's seven months," she said. "We went to see her daddy this morning. He's locked up right now. It was the first time he got to see her."

"Oh, ok," I replied. "What's her name?"

"Loquatia," she said.

"That's a pretty name."

"Yeah, my mama made it up. We all like it."

I couldn't think of anything else to say, so I stood there watching my father work. He had the car jacked up now and was removing the lug nuts. The two girls continued to stare at me.

"Where you go to school?" Loquatia's mother asked.

"Westwood," I replied. There were two schools in the county. Westwood was an all white private school. The other, Mitchell-Baker, was a public school and 85% black.

"Westwood?" she said. "You play football?"

"Yeah."

"Your name Charlie Perry?"

"Yeah," I admitted.

"My brother say you ain't a bad football player for a white boy, but our team could kick y'all's asses."

"He's probably right," I admitted.

"Long as you know," she said.

Fifteen minutes later, Daddy had fixed the flat. Loquatia's mother fished a twenty dollar bill out of her purse and offered it to Daddy.

"No ma'am," he said. "I don't want your money."

"Are you sure, Mister?"

"I'm sure," he said. "Nice meetin' y'all."

We got back in the truck and were on our way again.

"I thought you wanted to wipe 'em out with some spray or something in the water," I said.

"You think you're a real scopher, don't you?" he said.

I didn't answer. We didn't speak for the rest of the way.

When we reached the barn, Roosevelt, a very large bushy-bearded black man who sometimes took part time work from my father, was standing outside.

"Rosey!" my dad said to him, the picture of joviality. "You look like shit! What the fuck do you want now?"

This was the standard greeting he reserved especially for the man. My dad apparently liked him, although as far I could tell, he had few endearing qualities and was a shiftless, drifting bum

Daddy wasn't lying about his appearance. His eyes were bloodshot. The overalls he wore with nothing underneath were ripped in several places and one strap was safety-pinned in place. His shoes were Nike sneakers with a holes in the toes without shoestrings or socks. Food crumbs and other bits of trash clung to his beard. He reeked of sour liquor and body odor.

He laughed, apparently quite pleased by my father's greeting.

"I need me some work," he said. "I'm broke and hopes you can give me somethin' to do."

"Oh, I can find you somethin' to do," Daddy said. "I got just the thing for you."

He went again to the back of the pick-up and pulled a sling-blade out.

"Walk around the electric fence and cut down all the grass and trash underneath it," he instructed. "I don't want all that crud shorting out the circuit. Let me know when you're done and I'll give you something for it."

"Alright, Mr. Eddie," he said. "I sure does appreciate this."

Quite happy now, Roosevelt made his way to the electric fence with the sling-blade. I had done the same job three times already this summer and hadn't received a dime for it.

"How much are you going to give him?" I asked.

"Fifty bucks if he does it half-ass."

"That's fifty bucks more than I got for it."

"You get room and board," he answered.

He walked back to the truck. "Get in," he said. "We've got some cows to move."

I got in and we drove around the barn where he kept a large stack of bags full of feed. We loaded six fifty-pound sacks in the back, and then rode down a short dirt road to where his tractors and trailers were parked under a shelter.

He backed the truck up to connect it to his largest trailer, which could hold about ten to twenty cattle, according to their size. I jumped out, grabbed a steel pin out of the back and went to let down the jack on the trailer that was made to lift or lower it to the right connecting height. I always had to think about which way to turn it, and seemed to always twist the handle in the wrong direction on my first attempt. This never failed to irritate my father.

I turned the jack handle three times around before I realized the tong was going down rather than up. I quickly reversed direction, hoping he hadn't noticed.

"Goddamn, son!" he yelled from the truck. "You sure you ain't retarded?"

I made no comment. Soon, the trailer was successfully attached. I rushed around and jumped in the cab with him.

We drove a short way back down the highway to the gate of the pasture where Daddy was keeping his herd of about twenty young heifers and a bull. He wanted to move them to another pasture several miles away, as they had eaten the grass down to nubs in this one. Around the fence, he and I had constructed a makeshift corral three days ago out of old gates and wire. We had placed a feeding trough in the center of the corral as well. The plan was to lure the cattle in with the feed, close the corral, and then load them on the trailer. I noticed that the nose of the truck was going to be jutting very close to the edge of the highway after we had gotten the trailer in place. Also, to get it in position, it would be necessary to pull across the highway and back the trailer across it.

The heifers, unaware of their scheduled move, were nowhere to be seen. Their pasture extended back into a wooded area about a mile away from the gate. He pulled the truck and trailer across the highway and parked.

"You back the truck into position and put out the feed," he said. "I'll go out there and get them. Two of us would rile them up too much."

Without waiting for a reply, he began his way into the pasture. Chagrined, I studied the mouth of the gate and tried to mentally back the truck into place. The gateway was wide enough so that it should have been an easy job. The problem was that I couldn't back a truck with a trailer. It was just not a skill that I possessed. For the life of me, I could not understand why my father would take it upon himself to bring up the cows and leave me to back the truck up. I considered running to join him and simply telling him I wasn't capable of the job, but knew what sort of response that would likely bring. I watched him in the distance and estimated it would take him a good thirty minutes to come back with the herd. I had no choice but to give it my best shot.

I cranked the truck, took a deep breath and put it in reverse. Almost immediately, the trailer began to twist away. I tried to correct it, but I turned the wheel in the wrong direction, and the trailer twisted away more sharply. I stopped, pulled the truck straight again and then into reverse. If the wheel was turned to the right, I reminded myself, the back of the truck would go to the left. This, in turn, would cause the trailer to turn to the right. So all I had to remember was, if you want the trailer to go right, turn the wheel to the right. Simple. Except for me, it wasn't.

On my second attempt, I kept the trailer reasonably straight until I came to the edge of the highway. Then, I stopped to look for traffic. I saw a car far down the road and decided to let it pass. Who knew what problems I might have as I crossed? It was best to play it safe. Eventually, the vehicle passed, but now another was coming as well. I waited a solid five minutes for the highway to become satisfactorily clear of traffic. Then, I began to laboriously back the trailer across and towards the fence. I was doing well until the trailer was only a few feet away from its intended destination. I was too far to the right, but then I overcorrected and the trailer approached the fence in an almost diagonal position.

I pulled up until it was straight again and noticed a truck coming far down the highway. I decided to pull back across the highway again. Then, I had to start all over again. This attempt resulted in a similar sequence as the previous one. Over and over again, I repeated the charade, becoming increasingly frustrated with each failed effort.

I looked into the rearview mirror to see if my father was coming yet with the cows. I knew he would be beyond furious to discover I had not yet put the trailer in place, especially after all the time I had been given to do the job. I was soaked through with sweat and feared his anger and the shame I would feel in myself for not being able to accomplish what he had expected me to.

I tried to keep my cool and focus again on the task at hand. Once again, however, I could not guide the trailer into position and was forced to pull up to try again. I felt the situation was hopeless, but couldn't bring myself to quit until it was taken from my hands.

Twice more, I tried without success. The cows were coming now, meandering toward the gate, pausing at times to pluck the stunted grass. The corral door was not even open for them yet and the feed was not in place. I knew this would not suit my father. Feeling desperate, I began to pray for a miracle. I told myself to relax. Pretend I was Daddy. If he was driving, he would simply back the trailer up to the gate and be done with it. If he could do it, so could I. But it was not to be. I backed to the edge of the highway, waited for traffic to clear, backed across, watched in horror as the trailer twisted away, and pulled up to try again, nearly crying in frustration.

Now the first of the cows were nearly to the gate. I could make out my father walking behind the lone bull.

I blocked out everything but the trailer and the gate behind me and gave it another shot. With my heart pounding and sweat stinging my eyes, I managed to keep the trailer behind me as straight as an arrow until I reached the edge of the highway. There I had to stop and allow a stream of cars to pass. I looked in the rearview. My father was coming. There was nothing I could do but wait for him.

Then he was at the door. I saw his face and knew my worst fears were realized. He was red-faced and shaking with fury.

"You're a dumb piece of shit, son!" he said to me. He jerked the door open and pulled me out of the cab with such force that I nearly stumbled to the ground. The door slammed as he jumped in and stomped on the gas. The truck's tires squealed on the grass and then went careening backwards toward the gate. The trailer shot back and stopped with a lurch in the perfect position.

Daddy jumped out then, unhooked the trailer, and then squealed tires again, pulling the truck forward to where I stood.

"Get in!" he told me. "I'm taking you home! I'm sick of having such a little baby for a grown son. I've done my best to try to teach you how to do things, but you don't never learn a damn thing. I'm tired of it. You don't want to do nothing but go around with your head in the clouds or buried in a book all the time anyway, and I can't get a bit of decent help from anybody. I ought to pack my shit up and move away. You and your sister can stay with Ma or fend for yourself. I don't give a damn which. I got one son and he's so sorry, he ain't hardly worth killing."

His words were daggers that penetrated my soul. I put my head in my hands and couldn't keep from crying. The tears came silently at first, but then graduated to desperate sobbing. I had never before felt so hopeless and dark in my entire life. I felt I was an utter failure and nothing was to be done for it. My father was a capable, vital man, and his son was completely worthless no matter how hard he might try to be otherwise. I had wanted to back the trailer into place for him with all of my heart so he would be proud of me. But I had failed at this very simple task and made him ashamed of me.

I looked up as we rode through town, seeing people on the street who recognized my father's truck and waved, with smiles on their faces. I wondered how many of them had felt as beaten as I did at this present moment.

We reached our house at last and he pulled only to the edge of the driveway and stopped. I got out of the truck, not forgetting to take my Stephen King book. I looked at him for a moment, but he did not look back at me. He kept his eyes straight ahead. The look of rage was gone from his face, I noted. I shut the door without speaking to him and he drove off again, leaving me alone with my book.

Still crying, I considered going inside, but felt I was not worthy of the refreshing air-conditioning the house would have offered. Instead, I went out to the tool shed in the back yard. I opened the door and was struck by the thick heat trapped inside its tin walls. It was as hot as a furnace, but just what I needed. A portable fan was situated on the shelf, but I chose to leave it off.

I had spent many hours here lifting weights and listening to music late into the night, dreaming of football glory. The whole town knew me as a sports hero who was also a good student with nice manners and a very shy nature, but in my father's eyes where I measured myself, I was nothing.

I came here now to try to gather my spirit from the depths. I sat on my weight bench and wept for over an hour. I had not realized so many tears were inside of me, nor could I understand why his words had affected me so profoundly.

A year ago, my mother had died and in some irrational part of me, I blamed myself for it. Now, I had let my father down too.

When the tears had dried, I allowed myself the luxury of turning on the fan. For another hour, I sat in the room with a blank mind, feeling oddly cleansed by my sweat and the river of tears I had shed.

Then I gave myself a speech.

"Charlie," I said. "You are who you are and you'll always be who you are. Daddy can think of you how he wants, but it really makes no difference when it comes down to it. There's a place inside of you that no one can touch and no one can break down no matter what anyone says or does to you, or what someone's opinion of you may be. That's the place you've got to live from."

Then I went inside, changed into a pair of shorts and a fresh t-shirt and returned to the shed to work out. I turned on my Jon Bon Jovi Blaze of Glory cassette very loud. Maybe I'll walk on the football team next year at Valdosta State, I told myself, hoisting up a set of bench presses.

Around 6:30, Daddy came home. I was reading in my room. Rage was finished. Now I was engrossed in the next story, The Long Walk.

He sat on my bed and put his arm around me.

"Charlie," he said. "I'm sorry about how I acted today. I shouldn't have lost my temper. I didn't mean what I said and I'll try not to let my anger get the best of me again. If you can give me another chance, maybe we can start all over tomorrow?"

I looked at him in amazement. I had never heard him apologize for anything before. In my heart of hearts, however, I doubted he would change much. He was as he was after all.

"Ok, Daddy," I said. "We can try again tomorrow."

"Ok," he said with relief, seeming as if he had just completed a dreaded task "See you bright and early in the morning. We've got a lot of work to do." He glanced at my book.

"What are you reading about?" he asked.

"This kid named Garaty goes on this long walk where if you stop walking, you get shot, and everybody makes big bets on it, but then. . ."

"Sounds good, Charlie," he said. He left my room.

I went to sleep quickly that night, drained physically and emotionally by the day that had passed. I dreaded the coming morning slightly less than usual. It had to be better than the day that had passed at least.

He woke me again at 3:45 AM by switching on the light.

"Get up," he growled. "We've got cows to milk."

I lay in the bed for just a moment before getting dressed, smiling to myself.

Another day to run the gauntlet, I thought.