Sleep Before Waking

Riding Plow

by Caitlin Carrigan

“Stop Corporate Hog Monopolies” the broad sided barn screamed in white and red paint two stories high. A side trip to by pass the drive through New York City from our home in Massachusetts had turned into a serious distraction from the intended course to Florida. Not simply due to the green dunes and the hypnotic farm roads that could always present an alternative route to wherever it was that you were going, but I had somehow managed to leave my only working credit card back in the lovely state of Mass, and was now stranded in a hotel room in Pennsylvania Dutch Country with no way to pay the bill, waiting for an overnighted package from home.

When stranded in the Amish country, with little money, or manners by which to entertain yourself, the best choice, is to drive around aimlessly. Katie and I were doing just that, and as we unleashed the collecting smoke from the newly opened windows, we took in the sudden stench of what could only be the afore mentioned hogs.

“Stop corporate hog monopolies?” I recited, confused by the obvious importance of the statement. The words instigated a round of laughter between the two of us that persisted for several winding turns in the road. We were in the mood for mild entertainment, being as predisposed toward humor as we were in that state of mind. It was quarter past noon and the afternoon that would otherwise consist of bored hours passed in a three star prison, was instead being spent on the roads outside Intercourse, Pennsylvania. I had a rule about smoking before noon, having known many stoners who were advocates for the ‘wake and bake,’ and decided to leave them to their club without request of acceptance. I was not one of those people, and though I may have partaken quite a bit during that time in my life, never did I partake before noon. Part of me felt overjoyed that this barn in the far reaches of green pastures had waited until a quarter past noon to appear in the distance.

We were both lost in thoughts, no words between us, save for the sporadic bursts of sudden reminded laughter. I may have been trapped in Pennsylvania, but as I was finding out, there was no nicer place one could want to be trapped.

“Where are we going?” Katie asked as we reached a stop sign at the end of Maple Street.

“I don’t know. Right or left, it looks like.” I had a map, I had a keen sense of direction, I had a pension for Hostess cupcakes, and I didn’t care. If I ended up sleeping in my car that night due to an inability to find my way back to the hotel, I’d be just as rested in the morning, if not more so, being without that nagging sense of having no where to flee to. I decided to turn left, knowing that as the map stated, we would eventually end up near something interesting, though shortly thereafter, I forgot what. The car rolled along the pristine roads as though it had been there before, and before long the river of pavement turned to a mine field of divots, a sudden stretch of dirt road.

“So,” Katie suddenly started, followed by a long and contemplative pause. “I think I’ll roll another spliff, and then, we may, or may not smoke it.” This resulted in a bit of a chuckle from both of us. This road trip was encouraging a bit more criminal activity in both of us than we were used to.

Katie had hand-eye coordination to rival a surgeon. Though she may not be able to perform a triple bypass, per say, she could, however, roll the perfect joint with one hand while riding a bike and reading the latest installment of Bass Fishing Weekly. This gift was not often called upon at her place of employment, but if they knew of her gifts, they might rethink her job requirements. As she licked the gluey paper against her fingers, the car jolted hard on the right side, sending her book and golden nuggets of grass streaming into the air. She lashed out to catch and cover what she could, but it was far too late to save it, and it sprinkled down like a light snowfall on my car floor.

“Sorry about that. This road sucks. I think Pennsylvania wants us dead.” I assured her, praying that she didn’t threaten my life for driving us straight into a pot hole the size of a local prizewinning sow. We hadn’t seen it, but we heard of it.

“That’s all right. It wasn’t anything important.” She assured me and proceeded to flick the flint of her lighter and set the dubey aflame. As I held my hand up with fore finger and thumb slightly spaced, I found myself glancing at the clock. It was now 12:45.

A Maelstrom of sparks and smoke emitted from the tip of the joint as she practiced the age-old past-time of ‘puff, puff, give.” The roadway grew ever more hazardous, but neither of us took notice, my car now creeping at a safe and suspicious pace. We rolled along listening to strange alternative bands from Pennsylvania, by chance, not purpose, and found ourselves again, lost in comfortable thought. We both had become so accustomed to the ease of this country drive that neither of us took notice as we approached the looming brown barn. This one did not read any anti-corporate slogans, nor did it rise above parked red tractors. It stood quietly in the middle of no where, at the end of a very treacherous dirt road. It was the end of the road that made me take notice. The road ended at the barn door.

“Katie? Where are we?” I asked, suddenly getting a bit giddy. My normal reaction would be to stop and check the map, but as Katie was in the middle of passing me a brightly lit roach that was sure to burn my fingers, my mind approached the situation a bit differently. I burst into tears, laughing. My fingers, now no longer under my direct control due to my giggling, clamped down directly on the burning ember, singeing my fingertips and dropping to the floor. Katie dove to retrieve it, now cold from the pressure of my clumsy grab. As she found the tiny dank paper, I called to her in desperation.

“Katie, oh my god!” She sat bolt upright, worried by my tone. The barn doors just a few yards ahead of us had begun to open.

“Shit! Shit!” She hissed as she wrapped her palm around the incriminating evidence and brushed the last of her pot and the papers into her other hand. From beyond the barn doors, four black bulls were suddenly visible. Beyond them was an ancient plow, the kind one sees decrepit and rusted solid on the side of a farmer’s field. Yet atop this slowly emerging vehicle, was a gallant and confident man, standing on the bench where a slower farmer might sit, reigning up the muscular beasts as they pulled the plow along. His forearms tight and rippling, were seen beneath his rolled up linen sleeves. His legs strong beneath the neatly pleated fabric of his blue slacks, he leaned back, a roman soldier barreling around the corner’s of a coliseum race. He was descending the hill toward us, our car now parked at the foot of his very long driveway. He may have been glaring beneath that rust colored beard, but I was too frantic to find out.

“Oh my god. We finally found the Amish.” Katie announced as I threw the car into reverse. We were trapped in a space too tiny to move, surrounded by fenceposts and oncoming steer, a sight that would delight the average tourist, but to two stoners, the gravest of images one could imagine. The plow was coming, and there was nowhere to go. I stomped on the gas pedal, lurching the car as we barreled through a pothole. With very little room to maneuver and desperate to flee, I proceeded to panic, my escape quickly becoming a twelve-point turn. With every switch in direction, I would check to see how close our pursuing friend was.

“He’s coming. He’s coming! Go, go!” Katie yelped, laughing frantically as I finally managed to veer free of his fence posts and straight back down that pass of cavernous divots. My wish for speed was answered by a vision of my car rendered useless by the side of the road, a flat tire and no spare, with only an Amish farmer to ask for a phone. I drove as quickly as the road would allow, which was no faster than the four steers behind us would pull their master. As we tootled down the road laughing ourselves red, I saw the pursuant gaining on us in the rear view.

My belly ached and cramped, my throat hoarse from the bellowing laughter, my head throbbing. I began to fear if I didn’t stop, I might die of an aneurism. Suddenly, a process which I had experienced few times in my life took hold of my innards. My legs clamped and fought, my mouth opened to scream in joy and protest, but no noise came forth as I quickly realized I was about to piss myself from laughing. In the short distance behind us, I saw the plow round a large mound in the road and disappear into the adjoining field. Relief and discomfort set in, no longer in need of flight, I was now very aware of my saturated jeans. The guffaws slowed to a stillness of exhaustion and breathlessness, as we reached that longed for paved road. I turned right, and we headed off toward civilization, and hopefully a bathroom.

A moment of calm passed before Katie chuckled.

“Should I roll another one?”

The bathroom had been pristine, and on this occasion, that was much appreciated, as I seldom had the need to slough off soiled jeans. I had wrapped myself in a skirt and was now sitting in my newly gassed and primed vehicle awaiting Katie’s return from her search within the shop for liquid and sugar. I sat vacant, staring off into space, concerning the locals that passed with my sporadic giggling. I watched the cars pass in the roadway, wondered where they were going, and if they knew the way. I wondered if many of them had frequented the Kum Esse diner that stood just across the way, boasting a world famous Strawberry Pie. I wanted to taste that strawberry pie, see for myself if this braggart of a diner had something worth bragging about. Yet, my mind wandered too quickly as Katie returned with snack foods and motivation to again hit the undetermined path. We settled ourselves back into the habit of roaming without cause when my mind wandered back to the events of the day. The constant giggling was one effect of the memory, but there was a more nagging sensation I was feeling, a sensation that embarrassed me slightly. It was lust.

“So, Katie?”

“Yes?” she asked between jelly beans.

“Did you know Amish men were so attractive?” I asked.

“Of course, didn’t you?” she jabbed, mocking me in my moment of honesty.

As we stopped at a traffic light, now a sign of true populace, an older Amish gentleman in straw hat and scruffy gray beard barreled past us on an electric scooter. Part of me felt jolly at the sight, the other felt robbed.

“I thought they refused electricity.” I protested.

“No, I think the theory is, they don’t let it run their life. Something to that effect.”

“Well, that’s crap.” I announced as the light turned green and we were off again.

Quiet comfort returned, a pleasant change from the rules to which we had to abide when in other company. My mind again wandered to the farmer atop his steed, vest unbuttoned, flowing out around his broad frame in the breeze. His hat had been tilted just slightly, his clothes ruffled just so. I wondered if he was married off yet, had he any children, had he gone on a wild Rumspringer. I knew he must be the maverick of his village with his Indiana Jones stance atop his steed driven plow.

“I think I want to shag an Amish man.”

“All right, there’s one now.” She joked as a young man on roller blades passed us going in the opposite direction. The whole of Pennsylvania suddenly felt as though separate from the rest of reality. We were aliens in this place that culture had somehow severed, leaving the real world on the far end of Connecticut. That desperation we had felt while confined in our hotel room was something the locals didn’t feel, the fear that there was nothing to do. The difference was, here, the locals knew there was nothing to do. It was a bit sad to think people had been spoiled by this scenery, by this culture, by these roller blading Amish men in tilted hats and unbuttoned vests, riding electric scooters and laboring on farms with rippling biceps. As I returned to the hotel to find that long awaited overnight package, I knew I could be on my way, as unhappy a thought as that may have been. Despite my new attachment to the place, I knew I had acquired all I needed from Pennsylvania; the knowledge that there is nothing sexier than an Amish man riding plow.