Cash Crop or the Oily Bird Catches the Worm

Tess Kincaid's Magpie No. 81

Abandoned Farm

Mark Lassiter parked the brand-spanking-new Mercedes in his designated parking space by the entrance to the shiny new office building. He regretted having come in his new car instead of using his shabby and worn old truck.The track from the main road to what he still called the farm was deeply rutted, heavy machinery and trucks had deepened the old hollows and potholes considerably. Everything was happening so fast, he was running just to keep abreast of developments. The track would have to wait.

Still, he was here now; as he took the few steps to the big glass doors he greeted several construction workers busy clearing piles of rubble from the front of the building. The sun reflecting from the plate glass windows stung his eyes; he made a mental note to get himself some of these large sunglasses he saw on the noses of many of his workers.

He entered his office. Here too everything was new, his big desk unused and clear, the leather chair plump and smooth. His secretary came in through the connecting door from her own, smaller office, holding a sheaf of papers in her hands. "Good morning, Mr. Lassiter," she said. Something else to get used to, all his life he had been 'Mark', the only Mister he knew was the bank manager. Even he called him "Mr. Lassiter, sir", now.

His own hands, calloused and sun-damaged, took the papers from her. "Must do something about these hands too", he thought. As he sat down, the chair deflated,  a rich sigh emanating from under his backside.

"The board meeting is at 10 sharp", his secretary advised him, "perhaps you'd care to read through my notes first?"

Damn the woman, he'd never taken orders from any female in all his years on the farm, and he wasn't going to start now.  He glowered at her.

He bent his head over the papers; for six months he had been telling her to use bigger writing, these tiny, faint letters were no use to him; he could barely make them out. That fool of a secretary kept the writing small deliberately, he was sure of it. He persevered, reading and trying to understand the intricacies of a newly established business, a business he apparently owned, although all these people, whose salary he paid, were telling him what to do.

Abruptly he pushed his chair back, got up, and left the building. Long strides took him across abandoned fields where he had not long ago  struggled to grow potatoes and corn. Breathing deeply, he came to a halt by the remains of  an old barn waiting to be pulled down. He leant on the shell of a rusty truck, half sunk into the earth, giving the worn tyre an affectionate kick.

He knew there was no going back to the old days, but since the day  they'd come and told him that there was oil under his poor fields  he'd been doing his very best to get used to being filthy rich.