Mike stood directly under the windmill, looking up at the metal
tower. The sun was hot and the old
rancher was remembering the tower his father had used more than half a century
before. Constructed of massive wooden
beams, it had felt substantial and at the very least had provided a little
shade while someone worked on it. This
tower was made of galvanized steel, and while it was probably much stronger
than his father's wooden structure, the thin metal angle iron inspired no trust
and provided no more cover from the sun than a young girl's bikini.
No real fan of heights, Mike hated climbing the tower, but once a
year he forced himself to climb, drain the three quarts of oil out of the mill
housing, and replace it with new oil. It
sure as hell wasn't any fun, but few jobs on the ranch were. Mike took a moment to look to the north,
toward the Brazos River, before turning back and reaching for the metal ladder.
His wife, Barbara, kept telling him he was too old to climb the
tower, pointing out to him that he was even older than the ancient Aermotor
702. The old rancher had replied that
between the two of them, only the windmill had a bullet hole. Besides, he had added, it was way too
late for him to die young. Still,
(though he wouldn't admit it), he knew Barbara was right. He was getting a little old to be
carrying tools to the top of windmills.
Just as Mike began the climb, a car pulled off the highway onto
the dirt road into the ranch. The car
crossed the cattle guard a little faster than the rancher liked, then slowed
and stopped next to the windmill.
Stepping back from the ladder, Mike put down the heavy leather tool belt
and walked toward the car as the door opened and a man stepped out.
"Government man," Mike thought to himself as he pulled
off a work glove to shake the man's hand.
"Howdy. What can I do for
you?" he asked.
The man was short, wearing khaki pants and a clean white
shirt. He held a clipboard in his left
hand while he shook the rancher's hand with his right. "Good morning. I'm James Stephens, with the Agricultural
Division of the Department of Labor. Are
you owner of this ranch?"
"Yes," Mike answered.
"We're doing a survey of agricultural workers: their working
conditions, how much they are paid, their benefits, and how they are
treated. I need to meet with your
employees."
The old rancher noticed that the man was neither asking nor
smiling. "Well," he said. "I'm semi-retired and I don't really
work the ranch any more. I lease out the
grazing land, so I've only got two employees left."
The government man frowned and made a notation on his
clipboard. "Very well. Still, this ranch was selected to be part of
the survey, so tell me about your two employees."
"Well, some of the work is done by Sergio. He has been with me for four years. He does general maintenance, uses the tractor
to clear brush, and repairs fences and such.
I pay him $15 an hour, and he gets paid for twice as many hours as he
actually works. I pay his Social
Security, and if he has any other benefits, then he's paying for them
himself. He's out of town this week, but
when he gets back you can ask him yourself."
Mike wasn't really paying much attention to the government
man--he was actually looking at the man's car.
It was a shiny new Chevrolet Tahoe hybrid and on the driver's door, just
below the words 'Department of Labor', was printed some kind of motto:
"Demonstrating A Strong Commitment to Farm Workers and Their
Families." The rancher wondered
when the government had stopped using modestly priced Dodge cars and exactly
how the expensive new hybrid car helped farm workers and their families. And why wasn't the government man concerned
with Mike's family? They had been in the
agricultural business on this land for over a century.
"And the other employee?" asked the government
man. "What of him?"
"Well, he's kind of a half-wit," Mike answered. "There's not much of a chance he can get
a real job. Though he does most of the
work around here, I can't really afford to pay him much. About once a month I buy him a bottle of
bourbon and occasionally he gets lucky with my wife."
"That's the man I need to talk to!" exclaimed the
government man. "Where can I find
him?"
Mike turned away from the bureaucrat and bent to pick up the
heavy leather tool belt as he once again faced climbing up the steep
tower. Not even bothering to look back,
the old rancher answered the government man,
"Right now, he's fixing the windmill."
Sounds kinda like my writing career. Too bad there's not a Department of Publishing to look out for me!
ReplyDeleteI wouldn't walk 5 miles out in the desert and whisper that to a jackrabbit. By the time you get back to town, the government might have added a new department.
ReplyDelete