The Wind Through the Fence

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The fucking thing was heavy. Sixteen pounds of metal on a two pound piece of ash. Eighteen pounds. Already heavy when the foreman handed it down from the truck ten minutes after dawn held a match to the morning sky; by nine o'clock it weighed a god damned ton. By noon my arms were on fire and by quitting time I couldn't feel where the pain ended and I began. I'd eat too little, drink too much, throw up and shamble off to bed, praying that I'd die in my sleep rather than hear that bugle.

The bugle, man. You couldn't stop it. Only one thing in the world more relentless than that motherfucking bugle, and they were the reason the bugle got us up. To build the fence. To fix the fence. To extend the fence. To maintain the fence.

The fence, the fence, the god damned fence.

We talked about the fence. Nobody talked about what was on the other side of it.

Each and every morning the bugle scream would tear me out of the darkness and kick me thrashing back into the world. Almost every morning. They gave us fence guys Sunday off. We were supposed to use the day praying.

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