Papers by Nicole Archambault
The smell of pigs isn't something you ever really get used to. It's a physical reaction, a wincin... more The smell of pigs isn't something you ever really get used to. It's a physical reaction, a wincing and turning away. A watering of the eyes. Maybe that's why I despise them so much. This occurs to me as I shoulder the pen door open, to the noise of them-a chorus of grunting-which gets louder as they realize it's breakfast time. They push their wet, dripping snouts against my legs, and my stomach turns. I heave the slop into the trough as they nose up, jostling for position. I am not a morning person, and yet this farmer's life that I've inherited is a job that gets you up before the sun. I bang the bottom of the slop pail harder than necessary so the last few globs of leftovers and cornmeal slide out, and hang it back on its peg. I used to name them when I was a child. The great-grandparents of this snorting, heaving bunch were Muppet and Bob and Evelyn. Names that were hilarious to a child who didn't know any better. A faded memory of my father's face presents itself, that unhinging of the eyebrows that managed to make him look at once angry and disappointed. That look gave me the same shameful feeling as the moments after jerking off did, when the warm splat would land on my stomach and the tantalizing veil of fantasy would crash and burn around my twin bed. The realization that reality would never live up to such fantasies has a curious effect on young boys, or, at least, it had a curious effect on me. As one of the larger pigs nearly knocks me over in her Archambault 4 hurry to eat, I conclude that it is still having an effect on me. Perhaps that is the one thing we as people can never truly make peace with. Didn't Shakespeare say that the root of all heartache is expectation? They don't notice when I leave them to their breakfast. Not when I shove through the crowd of them, the points of my knees connecting with and sinking softly into rubbery, bristly flesh. Not when the doors shut with a creak-slam, closing them in. They don't realize they're trapped, despite the walls. My back aches mildly, and I plant a palm against the base of my spine. Along with being altogether way too early, the farmer's life comes with aches and pains that my twenty two-yearold body feels are insultingly premature. I stand there with my hands on the small of my back, a posture that I know makes me look older than my years and, in the words of the boys I grew up with, "like a nancy." At the moment, there is nobody around to think these thoughts or voice this opinion, though, so I do it anyway as I survey the land, as is my usual morning custom. My father would stand at the same spot most mornings, after he'd dragged me, still mostly asleep, through feeding the chickens, cows, and pigs. He'd look out on his land with an admiration that I in turn looked upon with envy. Whether in rain or sun, good seasons or bad, those hills and fields were his pride and joy. And yet here I am, left to be the captain of both. Fixing the shit he left behind. A hundred yards to my left, the screen door off the kitchen swings shut, its weak aluminum frame making a dull thwapping noise that drags me from my thoughts. Benjamin pulls up short as I turn around, like a deer who's caught the hunter's scent. His short, stubby fingers are still straightening his tie as we stare ill-humoredly at one another. His jacket pocket bulges
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Papers by Nicole Archambault