Of course, you wouldn’t eat a sandwich after it fell into the muck of a pig pen. But give it a few weeks of scooping manure, and you might find yourself one day picking up that same sandwich, wiping the brown stuff on the side of your pants leg, and taking a bite.
Dignity in your back pocket, headphones around your head, goo smeared up and down your arms, and a bandana around your mouth so you don’t inhale it in. Don’t look the sow in the eyes; shove the large body aside, then jump to the ledge when they start to fight. Squeegee the feces to the pen’s drain; blink a million times as drops of dung splash in your eyes. Take a break and watch the rush hour of mice running across the raptors overhead.
Strip and wash your clothes as soon as you get home. Add an extra scoop of detergent and a second spin cycle. It doesn’t matter. The smell never leaves. Foamy bubbles dribble down your head. Wash again and then one more time. It doesn’t matter. The smell never leaves. Come home from a long shift at the farm to find the living room filled with the local Boy Scout meeting. Don’t look your crushes in the eyes. Run, dash; mortified.
Is it worth it? Where else can you get a job as a thirteen-year-old girl?
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Pig Dung
by Stephanie Daich
