Pants on Fire
878 Words
From the driver seat, Chancho ran through the functions of the different levers he had attached for engaging the drive shaft, the cam shafts, and the sickle bars. He had also installed a brake and a kill switch to cut access to the methane.
“No problem!” He gave a thumbs up toward Muddy who stood fifty yards away and continued to back up even as he returned the gesture. Chancho checked that his sombrero was secured to his head, released the brake, clicked the gas open, and hit the igniter button. Juice from the battery cranked the two-stroke engine roughly for a few moments before it chugged to life.
“Hiyiyiyiyia!” Chancho leapt in his seat, gloating in victory. “I told you it would work!” Muddy waved his arms. Chancho waved back. But Muddy shook his head and pointed madly. Finally he ran toward Chancho yelling, “Fire!”
“Fire?” Chancho looked all around before looking down. “Fire! ¡Ay dios mio!” The valve between the carburetor and the tank spewed flames beneath Chancho’s seat. He panicked. Trying to hit the fuel cut-off, he hit the ignite button sending another surge of gas into the carburetor. With a woof, the flame swelled to engulf the metal seat and sent Chancho sprawling over the edge of the platform.
During his hasty exit, his knee struck the levers to engage the drive shaft and sickle bars. The harvester headed directly toward a clump of goats grazing nearby. Growling, baring its teeth, and spewing flame, the harvester known as El Chupacabra bore down on the spooked herd at a full five miles an hour, until Chancho caught up with it and hit the kill switch.
Muddy ran up behind him as the harvester rolled to a stop. “Your a*s is on fire.”
Chancho was already dismissing him. “Yes, yes, I know. Just a little tweak and she’ll be ready.” He scratched his chin. “I guess I didn’t couple the valves tight enough.”
“I don’t think it will matter how tightly you couple your valve together. It’s on fire.”
“Huh? What?” Chancho snapped out of it. “What’s on fire?”
“Your ass.” Muddy pointed with his chin.
“My wah?” Chancho craned his neck. “Ah crap.” He dropped to the ground and scooted in the dirt.
Muddy said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone jump that high, and so gracefully.”
Chancho shook his head, trying not to grin. “It wasn’t so bad. Better than the Wright Brothers’ first attempt.”
“The Who Brothers?” Muddy pulled him up.
“Oh, never mind. Just some fellow visionaries who knew not to give up after simple setbacks.”
Minutes later Chancho had fixed the leak and rode a bit high in the saddle as the harvester chugged its way along the first two rows of cáñamo. The burned fringes of his pants revealed his reddened cheeks as they hovered over the cooling metal seat, but the machine gobbled up the plants just as he had planned.
The upper stalks fell one by one into the two troughs on either side and twisted gently downhill toward the back as the teeth on the cams removed all the leaves and buds, dropping them into the sack beneath. The machine left nothing behind but windrows of stalks as it rolled steadily forward. Catching up to the cáñamo gobbling El Chupacabra, Muddy leapt onto the sideboard.
The churning engine rattled through his bones. It was impressive. Days worth of labor passed before them in hours. It was as Chancho said—not laziness, but innovation. And all of it powered by manure and the sun. It was a dizzying time to be alive.
Maybe there was hope for the black Seminole as farmers—as something other than the military and political pawns they had been for two centuries. And yet, within the next twenty-four hours he would abandon his land, again. His was a cursed heritage, but while other peoples had gone to the grave, the black Seminole had remained in the land. He was still free. He had family to fight for, and he had the strength to fight.
As they reached the end of the first two rows, Chancho killed the gas and pulled the brake. “You did it, Chancho.” Muddy shook him by both shoulders. “You did it.” He knew it was exactly what Chancho needed to hear.
“We did it.” They looked over the field they had yet to harvest. “This is going to be the single largest harvest of m*******a the world has ever known.” It was hyperbole, but there were indeed five full acres waiting to be plucked from the earth. After a long pause, Chancho cranked the engine up and spoke over the mechanical racket. “We should ride northward first.”
Muddy nodded. “It will be the easiest way to escape unnoticed. But we’ll need to take the m*******a to my people in Brackettville. They can help us finish curing it.”
“I figured that.” Chancho rubbed his ear and shrugged. “We’ll find a way.”
Muddy knew that was Chancho’s way of saying his mind couldn’t handle anymore annoying details at the moment, so he dismissed himself. “I’ll pull the wagon around.” He leapt off the side of the moving harvester and made his way back to Tripalo and the wagon. He pulled himself up into the saddle. “Well, Trip, we’re gonna make a go of it, aren’t we?” The huge, black horse snorted and shook its mane.
- Writer
