The morning light was almost pretty shining across the endless rows of corn stalks. The pale sun bathed everything in a clean, yellow-grey light. Silence and stillness filled the air, broken only by the occasional rustling as a breath of wind moved through the leafy stems. The soft drone of the tires against the asphalt was almost soothing.
Everything was OK. Adequate and satisfactory.
Richard stared out the window at the passing corn fields. He thought about the day ahead. It would be good day. Good in the sense that nothing bad would happen. No stress. Just enough work to avoid getting too bored. Good in the sense that it would fulfill all expectations. Good in the sense that the day before had been good. In the same sense that the next day would be good.
He was on his to work. A good job. Stable, predictable and reliable.
In a few years he would be promoted. He would continue to build up his investments in several rental properties his family had acquired across town. A good, stable source of income. He may even splurge on few new suits to match his new title.
A good life. It would fulfill all expectations.
The corn continued to flicker by. Each stalk more or less the same as the last. A good, reliable plant. A crop of it would produce more or less the same volume of the yellow grain as could have been expected from the year before. He thought about unfulfilled expectations. A few short years before he had made an announcement which rustled through the community like a sudden gust of wind. Being gay had not been in line with expectations.
And so for a time he was different. A different strain of corn for a new century. There would be no housewife for this man. No Mrs. Vogel waiting for him when he arrived home at 6:00 P.M. with dinner ready. No PTA meetings spurred by a demanding mother who expected the best from her child and husband. He would be different.
Of course, if the future Mr. Vogel was a good cook and wanted to make them food every so often, Richard would certainly not object. And if they did adopt, it would make sense for one of them to take a career break and focus on the immense task of raising the children. It wouldn’t be so bad to have a partner he could count on to help take care of family logistics. It only made sense.
Time had passed and the community had figured things out. There really wasn’t any reason why this new strain of corn couldn’t live up to expectations. On the inside, corn was the same after all. And this was the 21st century. All strains were entitled to a place in the field in this brave new world.
The corn was beginning to annoy Richard. He turned his head away from it.
Corn. The right side of the road was also corn. He turned his head forward.
An endless tunnel stretched out before him. Corn on the right, corn on the left, with a road running down the middle. A corn road. A road leading out of corn, and into corn.
He felt slightly nauseous. The corn pressed in on either side. A relentless barrage of the yellow-green stalks flew towards him in an unending stream. His heart began pounding as he drew in short, sharp breaths.
A grey rooftop rising from the field on his right jerked him abruptly back to reality. His office. He drove for another silent minute before turning down a side road in the direction of the rooftop. Two more minutes of rustling corn and he was there. He pulled into the large parking lot and picked a space a distance from the other vehicles. There was plenty of space here.
He sat in the car staring at the asphalt in front of him. Several minutes passed before he realized that he was still gripping the steering wheel. He slowly released the leather and let his hands fall to his sides. Taking a deep breath, he turned the car off and opened the door.
Richard stepped out of the car and looked around. A grey building, framed by the corn on either side. His stomach sat in a hard knot.
Enough corn. The thought rang in his head like a lead weight dropped into a steel drum.
Enough corn.
End
James B. Cutchin 