First Job

When detasseling corn, grasp the tassel neck firmly. Bend it a bit and pull in a steady motion. The stem will resist for a second, then slip out easily. If it breaks mid-glide, you’re pulling too hard.



We were a mix of high school freshmen and migrant workers. The only thing we had in common was that almost anything could sound like sex.



The supervisors would pick us up in a supermarket parking lot and we’d ride in a flatbed to the cornfields.



The migrant workers were white like us and about the same age, but you could tell us apart. They had hard little nut-like faces, their lunch was Twinkies and a thermos of Kool-Aid mixed with Vodka. They could put out cigarettes with their bare toes.



It didn’t occur to us to mess with these guys. We knew they could kick our ass for a dime and then ask for change. But we admired them, vaguely, as you admire anyone who feels more comfortable in a given situation or environment.



I didn’t know how they lived, where they stayed. I didn’t know any of their names. But then again, I didn’t know why we were detasseling corn. Still, a couple of them took a shine to me, and I liked that.



Some of my friends lasted all summer and socked away a few hundred dollars. By day 3, I realized I didn’t need the money anyway, and walked off in the middle of a job.



The guy supervising us had an old nut-like face, and told me I couldn’t visit the farmhouse to use the bathroom. That’s what the aisles in between cornrows were for.



We stared each other down.



It took two rides to hitch my way home. Country roads, crows, and corn, corn, corn. The parental units said they knew I’d be too soft to stick it out, and maybe now I’d be more appreciative of home and the country club.



They didn’t know anything. I had drunk Kool-Aid mixed with vodka, and could, if pressed, snuff out a cigarette with my barefeet. I could hitch a ride home. I had quit my first job. I had my first taste of freedom, and it was sweet.