Farmer’s Tan
By
S. L. Marks
Published by S. L. Marks at Smashwords
Copyright 2011 S. L. Marks
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Brandon Simms’ father had been one of the last great farmers in Northwestern Ohio. He had grown corn on a few hundred acres, another lot had been devoted to wheat, while his wife, Brandon’s mother, had kept her garden filled with tomatoes, squash, onions and what-not.
They lived on a huge spread in a white two story house that had originally been built in 1887 and modified as the decades passed. The sweeping front porch looked out into his mother’s garden, which stretched out more than a hundred yards to the McKinney Road in the distance. Beside the house, a gravel drive connected their home with the black asphalt ribbon that pierced the northern horizon like a knife.
Behind the house, an aquifer had been dug out of the ground when his father had been but a child, creating an easy accessible water source for the multitude of animals that raised and bred. But it also provided a swimming hole for those hot August afternoons and a smooth surface to practice his ice skating in the cold Ohio winters. A little ways beyond that pond, four large red barns interrupted the green landscape, housing assorted cows, pigs and the four dogs that roamed the property. It was a rural life, but one that Brandon had been born into and was more than content to live now after his 28 years.
Under the shade of the three apple trees in the side yard, Brandon had pulled one of his dad’s old tractors near the picnic table. The wooden slabs of the table were lined with tools and instruments as he attempted to get this archaic machine running again. Renovating this monstrosity had become more of a hobby than a chore as he had been re-building it for two years now.
The sun beat down ferociously on him as he bent into the hinged side that allowed him access to the engine. Sweat dripped down copiously from his longish brown hair, effectively blinding his eyes, but also washing the dirt and oil off of his face. His ruddy cheeks and aquiline nose accented his full cheeks and mouth, although covered with grime.
Shirtless, he walked from the tractor’s engine compartment and over to the table to find a different tool. He raised his beefy, muscular forearm, attempting to wipe the sweat from his brow, but instead only smeared more dirt on to it. His biceps bulged at the exertion, seemingly to burst out of the tight constraints of the skin that covered them.
Picking up a heavier screwdriver, Brandon stood under the shade of the largest apple tree for a moment and silently wished for a breeze to break the monotonous stillness. His 6’1 frame bristled with muscle from his thick neck and broad shoulders, down through the well-defined pectorals and finally ending at the small waist. Light brown hair covered his chest, sticking out at odd angles around his nipples and trailing down to disappear into the old jeans he had put on that morning.
His classical good looks and easy demeanor had made him the envy of all the single girls in town and had even attracted the attention of a few of the married ones. There was even a time or two that he caught men looking at him. Each time he repulsed an advance by an admirer, it was followed by whispers and rumors. And that was OK. In fact, he preferred the enigma that swirled around mention of his name. No one knew about his trips to Chicago and Cleveland and the gay clubs he visited there, but being a country bumpkin didn’t really allow him to explore that very often. Instead, he was content to let them talk and toil away at the farm that had been his home since birth.
Brandon wiped off some of the excess grease from his hands on a dirty rag and took a swig of lemonade from the tall plastic cup next to his tools. His eyes invariably arched towards the cool, still waters of the pond and he could imagine a nice skinny dip later on. But that was for later. Right now, he needed to finish installing the carburetor in this damned tractor.
Toiling into the middle of the afternoon, Brandon had no sense of time passing. He rarely did when he was working on the farm. And he may have continued working into the early evening, but he was rudely interrupted by what sounded like a shotgun going off. He peered around the edge of the tall red engine block and watched as an old Honda came sputtering up his drive. Trailing a line of black smoke from the tailpipe, the car jerked and bounced as the driver tried to coax a little more distance out of it.
Out of curiosity, he replaced the tool he held and moved around to the other side of the dead machine to watch the spectacle. The Honda was definitely an older model, he guessed 12 or 15 years old. It was a compact car with only two doors and a shorter body than the newer models. The blue paint job may have been navy at one time, but looked more periwinkle now. Inside, he could only see the outline of one shadow, the frustrated and irritated driver. He couldn’t help but grin to himself.
With an exhausted burp and a sigh, the old car finally stalled in the middle of the gravel drive 30 yards from the house. With downhome congeniality plastered on his face, Brandon began to stroll down the grassy decline towards the metal corpse. As he drew closer, he saw the driver was a man and looked a few years than himself. He was dressed in a business suit that was probably more expensive than the car. With a groan and squeak, the driver’s door opened and ejected the red-faced gentleman.