Pioneer Village

Just after 11:45 AM, Martin Shackleford came through the door of Bettie's, a dismal, outdated local hangout, and walked dejectedly into the dim interior. A blast of superheated air wafted into the none too cool building after him. He stopped for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim light after the bright late-August sunlight outside.

Bettie got up from her old threadbare recliner and almost rolled toward the bar. The chair sat beside the struggling, rattling old window air conditioning unit so the corpulent woman could stay as cool as possible. Between her weight, diabetes and poor eating habits it was almost all she could do to make the trip from her chair to the bar or grill, prepare, then deliver the order to her customers. Many times, the regular customers ordered and carried their own drinks and meals so she wouldn't have to. On particularly bad days, she had one of the local unemployed older ladies come help her. Sometimes they worked as waitress, other times they cooked and did it all while she sat in her chair or was ostensibly in town purchasing supplies.

The air-conditioner and her small portable TV on the back of the bar was the only noise in the building excluding her wheezing and clomping as she walked. She almost glared at Martin when he took his usual seat at one of the mismatched tables scattered around the room. All the furniture had been picked up at flea markets or rummage sales. None of it matched the other pieces in the room.

Bettie stood for a moment then, in exasperation asked, "What'll it be Marty; your usual, or are you just going to sit and take up space?"

Marty glanced at the back bar to see the sign one of the regulars made Bettie. Yep, it read "Grumpy Bettie" today. He rested both forearms on the table top and stared down at it for several seconds without answering. Bettie was beginning to become upset because he was ignoring her when he finally answered, "Yeah, I guess. Just as well let you have my money instead of the damn bankers. At least you need it."

Marty got up and walked over to the bar. Before Bettie turned away and began preparing his hamburger and fries, he said, "Instead of a Pepsi gimme a draft. I need one today. The soda isn't strong enough for this damn day."

Bettie looked at Marty in surprise. Almost none of her usual lunch customers ordered beer during the day. Most of them were farmers or laborers and a little alcohol could precipitate a serious accident. Early in the afternoon some of the retired folks and drunks began filtering in and had a drink or two but rarely did a working man order one with his lunch. It was usually iced tea or a soft drink.

"What's got into you Marty? You look like someone shit in your lunch bucket and you sure know you don't need a beer if you're working around your machinery. Are you taking the day off?"

"Yeah, I guess. Got a letter from the bank yesterday. Said if I didn't catch up on my payments, they were going to take the farm. I spent almost two hours with that snotty loan officer and didn't get anywhere today. All she would say was I had to pay up. Said no way would they even consider extending the loan. Asked me why I thought they should throw good money after bad. Wasn't like this when George and his family owned the bank. This bank they sold out to doesn't give a shit about us. All they care about is the damn money, the bottom line. I don't think that woman even knows what a beef or crop in a field looks like. You've seen her all dressed to the nines and sleek and pretty. I bet she washes the dirt off that nice new Lexus she drives every day when she gets back to the city where she lives."

While he was talking, Bettie pulled his beer and set it on the bar. She said, "Huh. I'm sorry. What are you going to do?"

"Damn if I know. Try to find a loan somewhere else but I don't have much hope. Ever since Trump got into it with China and they quit buying agricultural products from us all the farmers have had to tighten their belts. I'm not the only one having trouble paying their loans but some of the guys I've talked to at least managed to get their bankers to work with them. I made it longer than some of them did. Might have made it all the way if Jenny hadn't had that accident and died on me. Of course, the damage award not covered by the insurance just did me in. That's what the majority of the mortgage money is. I thought I was home free when I managed to keep the farm after that but I guess not. Fucking bankers. Sorry."

"Yeah. Well, it'll be a minute." She looked at his beer mug and continued, "That's about gone. Want another before I cook your burger?"

Marty looked at his nearly empty mug, nodded and finished his first one in a couple of quick gulps. He stood waiting while Bettie pulled his second beer. She set it on the bar and said, "Here's your brew."

Bettie turned and waddled three steps to the grill and deep fat fryer to prepare Marty's meal. Marty picked up his glass and returned to his table. He thought about sitting at the bar but the stools weren't as comfortable as his usual chair and he really didn't feel like talking to Bettie if she felt compelled to spout some of her words of wisdom or, more likely, some of her verbal crap.

When he saw her dishing up his meal, he took his now empty mug to the bar and waited for her to set his plate down for him. She pulled him another beer without asking this time. He managed to get his meal, beer and the condiment bottles back to his table in one trip. He doctored his burger and sat wolfing down his meal and ignoring Bettie, the obnoxious TV she insisted on watching and the three or four other customers that filtered in while he ate. After he finished, he just sat, leaned on the table and zoned out.

After the lunch rush Bettie finally couldn't take any more and yelled at Marty, "Well, you going to just sit there all afternoon or you going to do something about this mess you're in?"

Marty felt a quick jolt of anger then, if anything, he slumped more. He slowly looked up at Bettie and said, "Don't know. I don't have any idea what to do right now. Put the burger on my tab and I'll catch up next time I'm in."

Bettie looked at the wall calendar and said, "Ya know you have to pay up before the end of the month. Ya only have four days left."

"Yeah, I know. Of fuck it." Marty reached into his pocket and pulled his billfold out. He dug in it until he found an old worn, folded up check. He stood beside the bar and filled it out. Before he put the amounts in, he asked how much his tab was.

Bettie looked in her book and found his page then added up the charges. She gave him the figure and Marty returned to writing on the check. He signed it and pushed it toward Bettie as he said, "I made it out for $150.00. Let me know when that's used up. The way things are going I may need a meal I don't have to pay for before long."

Bettie stood and watched without saying anything else as Marty walked across the room and out the door. She grimaced as the glare of the sunlight hit her eyes then turned and headed for her chair and the afternoons soap operas.

The next week passed slowly for Marty. He moved around in a daze. He tried all the local banks and none of them would loan him operating money or give him a new or second loan on his farm. He spent almost as much time in Bettie's as she did. When she asked him why he wasn't working all he said was "What's the use? I'll be damned if I'll do anything to keep the place up so the fucking banker can make more money when he sells it. I'm just waiting until they kick me out then I'll move on I guess."

That was the last straw. Bettie waddled up to him and slapped him so hard he almost fell out of his chair. He sat looking at her in stunned silence while he rubbed his burning face.

Bettie glared at him and said, "You miserable son of a bitch. You think you're the only one with problems? Hell, I have collection agencies calling me all the time. I was just lucky enough this shitty old building was paid for and I've been smart enough not to get a loan on it. At least I can live in the back room and my food is more or less free. You're still better off than a lot of folks hereabouts. Look at me. I'm a fat hog with so many health problems I can't list them all. You're young and as far as I know healthy as a horse. Sure, you had some problems and Jennie didn't help running that stop light and hitting that family but you're able to start over if you get your head out of your ass and try. Move on. Hell, see if Ronnie'll hire you for farm labor until you get another start. You know he's always looking for good help, especially during crop season. If you don't want to do that, get a job in town. Lots of folks do."

Marty sat looking at Bettie for a minute and then rose and walked out of the building without saying a word. He got into his truck and slammed the door. After he got his temper under control, he started the engine and drove, none too slowly, home.

After he got home Marty took his last partial bottle of whiskey down from the cabinet. He was still so pissed he began drinking from the neck of the bottle while he sat on his porch and looked over his back field. As he drank, he kept noticing things that needed doing, then said to himself, fuck it. Why should I fix things when the damn bank is just going to get it and it'll make the place worth more to them?

Unfortunately for his peace of mind, he couldn't get Bettie's tirade out of his mind. He kept thinking she was right. He knew how to do a hell of a lot of things. Surely someone would hire him for his ability to do something. Heck, a farmer was a jack of all trades and some, like him, were masters of a few. He had worked as a mechanic in the Army, then cross trained as a medic before he decided he really wanted to get back to farming. He could weld and operate heavy machinery. But, damn it, he was a farmer. He didn't want to work in some god forsaken city or even inside an implement dealer's shop all day. Damn it all to hell.

The next morning a slightly hung-over Marty wandered into the local coffee shop where most of the retired men and a few of the local farmers stopped for gossip and coffee or breakfast (or all three). He was going to have to stop this habit soon. The coffee wasn't much—less than a dollar—but the fuel to drive into town came to at least $2.00 or $2.50 a day and he had been coming to town almost every day. That added up in a hurry.

After most of the men left Marty picked up the newspaper from the next largest town and began reading it. He went from front to back and, without thinking too much about it, he began reading the want ads and help wanted section. His initial thought had been to see if he could sell some of his possessions and machinery that wasn't held as lean security but his eye was almost immediately caught by an ad in the help wanted section. In large print, two columns wide, was a job that immediately caught his attention.

The advertisement read: WANTED. INDIVIDUALS FOR WORK SETTING UP A PIONEER VILLAGE. KNOWLEDGE OF FARMING, ANIMAL HUSBANDRY, MECHANICS, CONSTRUCTION, WELDING REQUIRED. OTHER CAPABILITIES ARE A PLUS. SHOW THE PUBLIC HOW IT USED TO BE DONE! FAMILIES ACCEPTED. CALL 800-123-1234 TO APPLY.

With mounting excitement Marty copied the phone number then got up and left, heading home. As soon as he arrived home he went to his office and made the call. A very businesslike man answered the phone and asked several questions about his life, capabilities and background. One question was more difficult for Marty to answer than the rest. The man asked, "Why are you calling us about the advertisement?"

Marty was stumped. Why was he calling? Finally, he decided to be brutally honest. "I don't have much choice. My wife had an auto accident and died. She was talking on her phone and ran a red light. She hit another car with a young family in it. By the time the lawyers were done with me I had to take out a large loan on my farm to pay the award, then the President got into his pissing match with the Chinese and they stopped buying farm products from us. I couldn't make my loan payments and the bank is taking my farm. I have nowhere to go, no family to help me and I don't want to work in a damn city. I think I would like working in your primitive pioneer village reenactment."

"Hummmmm. On the surface you seem to be what we are looking for. I think it would be worthwhile to see your Resume and do an interview at the very least. That is if you are still interested?"

They set up an appointment for the next Wednesday and Marty hung up. He began working on a Resume, never having one before. He spent some time on the internet researching styles and reading suggestions about preparing one. He kept having one thought—crap, did people really write things like this?

He finally completed his resume and attached supporting documentation as requested. He had several certificates of completion for military classes and his high school and college transcripts as well as his certificate from the welding school he went to. He hoped it was enough. To his surprise, he found himself really wanting this job.

Marty felt as if the interview went well. He was sort of sad he would be required to relocate if he was hired but it was what he expected. Besides, it might be a good thing to get away from home again and maybe forget the bad things that happened. Before he left the interview room the interview team leader said, "Thank you for coming in Mr. Shackleford. We will be in touch as soon as the selection process is completed. We anticipate notifications will go out in two to three weeks."

For the next ten days Marty alternated between depression and optimism. He felt as if he was strapped for cash and was afraid he wouldn't be selected for the job. He kept looking for work but so far, the one interview for the Pioneer Village was the only bright spot in his job search. He felt as if he had nailed the interview and would be selected but he was afraid he wouldn't be.

Finally, on the morning of the eleventh day after the interview he received the phone call he dreaded and looked forward to. When he answered the phone he heard, "Mr. Shackleford? This is Jones from Pioneer Corporation. Congratulations, you have been selected for employment with our venture. Are you still interested in the position?"

"Yes Sir. I sure am. Can you tell me where the work is and when I start? How about moving my personal items? Which position was I selected for? Has the salary been finalized? Things are getting a little tight here."

"Yes, I can answer some of those questions. You start in two weeks. We can assist in moving your personal possessions if you wish. Your salary is set at twice your current profit in local buying power funds as we promised. You've been selected for the generalist position. Now I must go as I still have several calls to make this morning. You'll receive the employment packet via FedEx within the next several days. I believe they were sent yesterday or this morning after selections were finalized. Please sign the contract and complete the employment forms then return them in the prepaid return envelope."

Marty wasted no time completing the paperwork and returning it to the Pioneer Corporation. In fact, he completed the paperwork the same day he received it and drove almost 40 miles to personally take it to the FedEx drop instead of calling them for a pick up.

From that point on he seemed to constantly receive instructions, information or information requests from the Corporation, either by text message or e-mail. Of course, as questions came up, he made use of the e-mail to request answers thus keeping the electrons flowing back and forth.

Since Marty had a nearly new F450 Dually and a 40-foot flatbed gooseneck trailer he opted to pack and take his own possessions. Besides, he found out the corporation would pay him the going rate for the move as if they hired a moving company for him. He felt he could use the money and the deal was done as they say. He had an old oceangoing freight container still in excellent shape he placed on the trailer then he built a ten-foot covered area on the front over the gooseneck for items that had to be dry. He packed his meagre household supplies and furniture inside the container first. Next, he packed his tools, seeds, saddles, tack and harnesses for his and his deceased wife's horses. He owned a few registered cattle, some chickens and horses he didn't know what to do about. Most of his livestock were tied up in the defaulted farm loan but he had held five cows, a bull and three horses out because they were not needed for the loan and they were his and his wife's dream. They planned to use them to upgrade their herds and sell a better grade of animal before the troubles hit. Luckily the animals were considered acceptable for display in the village and the corporation agreed to ship them to the location for Marty.

He even managed to load his small 30 horsepower tractor and a two-bottom plow and disc harrow on the trailer. He packed everything he could on, under and inside. To say he was dangerously overloaded went without saying but he did it anyway. He even took metal and tools that had all but worn out, but by god they were his and he would be damned if an effing banker got one damn thing more than he had to fork over to him.

Finally, the day arrived when he was packed and needed to leave the area in which he was born, grew up and lost his wife. He was sad to go but glad to be out of the area and out from under the headache and heartache involved. It took him most of two days to drive to the warehouse complex where he was to meet with his new employers and his fellow "pioneers". When he arrived, it was a busy madhouse. People were driving and running around on foot like a disturbed hill of ants.

After he checked in at the office, he took his rig to his assigned parking area. He was pleased to see he was near a bank of porta potties and was able to park under a nice shade tree. He decided to pitch a tent and sleep by his truck instead of in the warehouse in which the corporation had set up cots for the newly hired people. Families had a semblance of privacy through the method of hanging sheets of cloth on steel cables to separate off their sleeping areas. Single people were segregated by sex but had no privacy from their fellows of the same sex.

For the next three days eight to ten hours a day there were medical exams, briefings, fittings for "proper" pioneer style clothes and classes on the way people acted and spoke during the period they intended to simulate in their village. They were even given rudimentary instruction on building and use of period specific tools!

On the last day of classes there was a mixer and banquet beginning at 6 PM, attendance at which was mandatory. The notice informed everyone that if they did not attend their employment would be terminated. One family did not attend because they did not believe in drinking spirits or associating with those who did while they were drinking.

After the mixer ended and everyone was seated for the meal the doors to the convention center were closed and the food was served. Each person was served, literally, their favorite evening meal (or at least the one they told their employers was their favorite).

After almost everyone was finished with their meal a final celebratory drink and dessert were served. The officers of the corporation stood and looked over the assembled pioneers and watched, smiling, as the conversation slowed to a stop. Jones turned to an older white-haired man, nodded his head and turned to walk off the stage. The remainder of the men followed leaving silence in their wake.

PIONEER VILLAGE

CHAPTER 2

BY SW MO HERMIT

Marty slowly became aware of raised voices around him. Shortly after that, he noticed the room in which he sat was different. There were no linen tablecloths. The tables and furniture were rough, well-worn unvarnished wood, not the pressed wood and faux elegant furnishings he remembered from the banquet. He and those he could see nearby were still seated in the same places in the room but the room itself, was rough. The walls were bare lumber, whitewashed for sure, but obviously without the fit and finish he was used to.