A wise man once said "Sometimes you have to stop and smell the roses." To most people this means that there are certain times in your life when you need to take a minute to enjoy what life has to offer, unless your a gardener, then (Assuming that there aren"t any roses or they need tending to) it probably means you need to get to work. Which is what I had done every summer since I was fourteen. Although not a gardener my occupation did have some similarities, only my work was done a much larger scale. Where as a gardener used a shovel to gently till the earth, I used a thousand horse power diesel-eating monster to inflect deep lacerations over acres of lifeless land. Instead of the gently touch a gardeners hand placing each individual seed into the soft, dark brown soil. I used a thirty-foot wide planter that injected thousands of seeds into the ground with mechanical precision. Being a farm hand was hard, monotonous work but for a seventeen year old there was no better way to earn plenty of gas money.
The day started at "7:30 sharp" while Neil finished his usual breakfast of cigarettes and coffee, periodically briefing me on the morning agenda between puffs. For a me this was the best job I could have. I was constantly driving some sort of vehicle and always had access to a radio, which to most adolescents are the two most important elements to a happy teenage life.
After work I would go home, jump into the shower, put on my "street close" as my mom would put it, and grab something to eat. About the time I was done my friends would show up, unless they were hungry, (my mom was and is notorious for fixing large meals fit for a king), then they would be waiting on me in the driveway. Once the feasting was over my cohorts and I would go out for a night of mischief and unsupervised fun. This was my daily cycle of events everyday until one night.
It was a steamy evening in the middle of July when I received the phone call from my good friend Matt.
