Lunch Break
ART NORRIS

The tractor, the mower and Al rolled along for the rest of the morning without a problem. On the last round before lunch, on the north side of the field, a coyote loped out of the tall grass and stopped fifty yards ahead of Al. The coyote stood, looking over his shoulder at the tractor, then started trotting along the windrows. It didn't look right to Al. The coyote's hind end had too much vertical movement. Al slowly gained ground on him and saw that the coyote's left rear leg was scrawny and hanging useless from the hip.

The coyote returned to the high grass before Al reached the corner.

Al stopped the tractor and walked to where his lunch sat under his jacket. Someone was standing just beyond the fence. He guessed—and he was right—that it was Barry Dunne.

Al called to him, “Hi guy! How goes it?” Al hadn't seen or spoken to Barry in over ten years, but they had never been close enough in the past to need any lengthy greetings now.

“Not bad,” said Barry. “Want a beer?”

“Sure. Thanks.” Al twisted off the bottlecap and dropped it into his lunch bag. Barry was already well started on his drink. He crossed through the fence without spilling and Al pulled a sandwich out of its plastic wrap. He offered half to Barry, who shook his head. Al balanced his beer on a fencepost. “I'd better have some of this before I drink more beer. Empty stomach, you know.”

“Beer loves an empty stomach.”

“Too well. It's been a while, eh?”

“It sure has.”

“Still working at the garage?”

“Yeah. No. Different garage.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You still playing in that band?”

Which one? thought Al. “Taking a break from the music,” he said. “Last band I was in, I left it in the spring.”

“You play guitar, don't you?”

“Bass, mostly.”

“Right.” Barry finished his beer and opened another bottle. “I used to play drums.”

“I remember. In school.”

“Yeah. Not much anymore, though.”

“No, eh?” Al drank a bit more from his beer. He felt a little lightheaded. Better go slow on this bottle.

“No,” said Barry. “No one to play with, really. Not since high school.”

“Yeah. That's too bad.”

“Is that why you moved to Vancouver? No one around here to jam with?”

“Well, maybe. Mostly I just wanted to go. Then I started with a band when I got there.”

“Yeah? What was it called? Your band?”

What was it called? Al couldn't remember. “It was a country-rock outfit.” What was the name? “It changed names a couple of times. Only lasted seven or eight months.”

“You can't remember the name?”

“Well, no.”

“Really?”

“Really. I don't remember.” Barry didn't seem able to believe it. “You see, bands start up and fold, or change members. Change names. Disappear. They aren't like families, you know. There's often more reasons to move along than there are to stay with a group.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. The people don't get along. The music sometimes isn't all that good. You get bored. The band can't get gigs after awhile. A band needs something special, or unusual or I don't know what, to hold together. And luck, too.”

“You played with a lot of bands?”

“Yeah. A lot. Sometimes only for a night or two.” God, how many bands had it been?

“How many?”

“God, I don't know. Dozens.” Hundreds? Al finished his sandwich and drank down a large mouthful of beer.

“That many?”

“That many.”

“Groupies?”

“What? Oh, groupies. Sometimes.” Al didn't like the expression, and he didn't use it often. “Not anymore.”

“Got a steady woman now.”

“Yeah. Betty. What about you? You got a girlfriend?”

“No, not me. Not for a while now.” Barry took a long swig. His beer belly started to escape from his shirt as he scratched his head with his free hand. “No, I'm a free man.”

“I try, in my way, to be free.”

“Yeah, well, here's to ya.” Barry raised his bottle.

“And here's to you.”

Barry pulled a third beer for himself. “Drink much?”

“Not as much as I used to.”

“C'mon, you're a rock and roll animal, aren't you?”

“Once in a while. Get headaches, though.”

“Drugs?”

“Used to. You aren't a narc, are you?”

Barry laughed. “Get real! No, really. Do you play better when you're stoned? They say you play better when you're stoned.”

“Do they?”

“Yeah, you know, frees the creative juices, shit like that.”

“Maybe it does.”

“So, do you?”

“Play stoned. I used to, once in a while.”

“Did you play better?”

“I'll never know. When I did, I was always too stoned to notice a difference.”

Barry laughed. “So. Are you around for long?”

“Until haying's done.”

“So I'll be seeing you around.”

“Yeah, for a while. Then I'm back to the coast.”

“And to Betty.”

“You bet.”

“Well, I won't keep you from your tractor.”

“That's all right.”

“See you later.”

“You bet. Take 'er easy.”

“You bet.” Barry turned and walked back to his trailer. Al watched him go, then pulled out a muffin. As he finished his lunch, he looked up and saw the coyote sitting beside the tractor. The coyote watched Al come across the swaths of hay, then yawned, stood up and limped back into the high grass.

After another hour of cutting, Al noticed more and more tufts of grass were surviving the mower. The sections along the sickle bar were getting dull. The coyote appeared once more as Al shifted the mower into road position, and watched as the big, loud machine left his hunting grounds. There was less cover for him now, but there was also less cover for the mice, moles and gophers.

Back in the farmyard, Al hosed the dirt off the sickle, unbolted it, and pulled it out using a length of smooth fence wire looped around the end. He lay the sickle on the work bench. A fresh, sharp sickle lay along the opposite wall. Al's uncle walked in from the field as Al was shoving the sickle into place. Herb leaned over the front of the machine and guided the sickle with a hammer, preventing it from jamming against the guards. He handed Al the wrenches he need to bolt the new sickle onto the drive arm. With the last few turns of the wrench, he asked Al, “How's it going?”

“Not bad.” What was the name of that band? “Blades just getting dull.”

“Not surprising.”

How many bands?

“You're way ahead of the baler, anyway.”

Playing stoned.

“Well, I'll sharpen this tomorrow. You might as well take it easy for the rest of the day. Sleep in tomorrow, too, eh?”

“Yeah, okay. I will.” Al looked up through the machine, past his uncle, to the clouds. “Thanks.”

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