I emerge from the bathroom as though everything is normal. Terrance ushers me upstairs to the attic, walking behind me without speaking. That’s where he will conduct the interview. The interview I don’t feel at all like doing. I don’t want him here, in my house, invading my space. I don’t want to answer his questions, but I feel I have to. It’s presented as a choice, but is it? Do I really have a choice?
“Okay, Junior. Whenever you’re ready. Visuals are set. Can you say something? I’m setting the sound levels.”
The attic is the hottest place in the house. I don’t get why Terrance thought it would be the best place to do these interviews. There’s empty space and it’s quiet, but it’s not like there are a lot of distractions downstairs.
He’s already set up two folding chairs for us. What’s most unusual is the placement of the chairs. Instead of sitting facing each other, I’m facing the wall, and Terrance is positioned behind me. He tells me to sit and relax. I sit. And I hear him take a seat behind me. I can’t see him, only hear him. A single lens on a tripod is beside him, facing me.
What should I say? Can you hear me? Hello. Hello.
“Perfect, got it. Don’t worry, Junior. It’s recording just fine. All good. Okay, so tell us about something.”
I want you gone. I’m not your friend. I want you to leave, I think. Get out of my house.
Like what? I ask.
“Whatever you want. Really, anything.”
I don’t know. What do you expect to hear?
“How about work? Where do you work; what do you do, Junior?”
He already knows what I do, but I guess I’m supposed to offer more details.
When I’m not injured like I am now, I work at the feed mill. Most of the work is done at the south end of the loading dock. That’s my post.
I pause. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t want to say a lot more.
“Elaborate. I’m listening, but I’m not going to talk. Just tell me more. Whatever comes to mind.”
The grain comes every day, at all times of day. I could have taken a different position, asked for a job with less lifting, less physical work. But I’m used to the work. I like working hard. I don’t like sitting around all day or wasting time like some guys. Mornings are busiest at the mill. They go by the fastest. I’ve always said it’s better to be busy than to be idle.
“This is great, Junior. Tell me more.”
Should I tell you about the grain? I ask.
“Yes, sure. Tell me about the grain.”
It comes in bagged or free. The bagged grain is easiest to deal with. It’s unloaded from trucks on wooden skids. I move the skids one at a time using a forklift. I move them from the loading bay to the pit. Everything goes to the pit first. It gets divided and moved around from there.
The free grain gets dumped directly into portable hoppers. Then it has to be bagged. We do that in the bagging stalls. It’s easy, mindless work. The boredom can get to you if you let it. It gets pretty dusty, too. You don’t even know it, but it’s there—like a layer or fine coating. You can go crazy bagging grain.
“Do you remember a time when there were actual farms around here, with animals?”
I think about it.
No, I don’t, I say.
“I guess those mega farms can be pretty nasty places.”
The poultry farms are the worst.
“You’ve been to one?”
No, I haven’t, I say. But that’s what I’ve heard. They say they’re awful places.
“Do they?”
They pack so many birds into each building. It’s wrong. They have elevators in those places, dozens of floors of birds living on top of one another. There’s zero fresh air. No natural light. They’re supposed to be vented, but they aren’t.
“You know a lot about this.”
I guess so, yeah. You can learn a lot by listening. The vents are always breaking and don’t get repaired right away. No one gives a shit about the vents or light or the birds.
“So you talk about this stuff at work? Is that how you know about it?”
I don’t talk much at work. Not usually. But I listen.
“And the guys you’ve worked with, they’ve told you stories.”
Yeah. I overhear stuff.
“So, these are firsthand accounts. And from those accounts, you’re forming your own opinions? Your own judgments? Or would you say these are the judgments of the guys at work?”
One of the guys who used to work at a poultry farm said chickens’ brains are smaller than his thumb. The privilege of being human is that our brains are big enough to decide the fate of other creatures. That’s what he said. Then he laughed.
“Did he tell you anything else?”
Bacteria and fungi outbreaks aren’t uncommon in those places. Lethargy and disorientation are the norm for the birds. Workers are supposed to wear masks, goggles, and gloves the whole time they’re inside the poultry barns. There are all sorts of ugly microscopic parasites that harm any kind of poultry. Very few birds, if any, are healthy.
“Why do you think you’re telling me about this?”
I don’t know, I say, after considering his question.
“That’s interesting, Junior. It really is. Have you ever shared this with Hen? Or is it just that this information, this memory is only coming back to you now?”
I don’t know, I say.
I hear him making some noises on his screen behind me. But he doesn’t say anything.
“You must be happy to work at the mill. Sounds like the right spot for you.”
Was I happy? Am I? Maybe, I think. How does anyone feel about their work? We work because we have to.
It’s just grain, feed, grain, feed, I say. All day. Time keeps moving. I’ve always thought that was a good thing. Until recently. I’m not so sure now. Is it good? For time to go by fast? And just the other day, that made me think about time in a different way. Why do we live in the time we do? What if—
“That’s enough for now, Junior. Thanks. You’ve done very well. One last question and then you can have a break. Can you close your eyes for a second?”
I close them.
“Okay. Now, can you see?”
You just asked me to close my eyes.
“I know, but I don’t mean it quite like that. Think about what I’m asking. Can you still see with your eyes closed?”
I can’t see you or what’s happening in the room right now.
“I know that. Can you still see anything?”
I wait. I keep my eyes closed. I clear my mind. I focus. What am I supposed to see?
Yes, I say. I can.
“What can you see?”
Right now?
“Yes, right now.”