Page 71 of Catfish

Even though I’ve eyeballed the exit signs over a dozen times.

The phone lines for donations have been off the hook this week. I couldn’t ask for anything better right now.

Except being able to talk to—

The cry of what sounds to be an animal screeches close by, making me jerk in the direction of it. Peering around the room, the smell of a barn fills the area, and it's then that I see the source of the noise when a group of people move.

A fucking donkey.

Viola.

Geezus fucking Christ, Em wasn’t fucking kidding.

I search around for the old lady who always wears red to these events—honestly, I should've just fired her for that alone—and find her amongst a group of flannel-wearing men with jeans and boots on.

One actually has a toothpick in his mouth.

Viola spots me, waving me down with her blotchy hand. Striding towards her, I nod at people who greet me, knowing that Em was right—I was wrong. That alone was fucking annoying and setting my already shot nerves scattered.

“Governor,” Viola chants, raising her champagne glass. “I hope you’re enjoying the evening.”

“I am,” I reply, sizing up the man who’s chewing tobacco as he stares blankly at me.

Now, I’m not against the ways of the South. Never lived there, never wanted to, the simple way of life seems too boring for me. But I’m just not comprehending why we thought it’d be okay to chew toothpicks and tobacco at a fancy event.

At my fucking event when I have no fucking clue who these men are.

“This is Mr. Thompson and Mr. Henry,” Viola introduces, gesturing towards her guests. “Men, this is Governor Wade Lockwood.” I extend my hand, and they both take it, giving it a firm shake. “I brought them here because they had some ideas on how the South should be run.”

I perk a brow. “Oh?”

“Would you gentleman like to—”

“You gon’ ahead and do it, Miss Viola,” Mr. Henry says through his thick beard. “He might not understand my heavy accent.”

Okay…

I look back at Viola whose pasty skin almost looks translucent in the light of the room. Whose brain cells must be in limited supply because, last time I checked, this wasn't a frat party, and I made the guest list.

Not her.

“Well, Mr. Thompson and Mr. Henry think that help should be issued back into the farming systems.”

“Help?” I repeat. “So creating more jobs?”

She bobbles her head around. “Something like that.” She takes a step closer. “You see, the South is such a large part of the nation’s crops that we believe it should have the extra hand.”

My jaw twitches, but I keep my cool facade plastered on my face. "I can look into that...but none of the southern states produce the largest crop amount in the U.S. California has the most, followed by Iowa and Nebraska. So shouldn't that extra 'help' go to them?"

“We think that the immigrants should work the farms,” Mr. Thompson conveys, removing the toothpick from his chapped lips. “They came in here wantin’ to work then we should make ‘em work.”

“For a wage, I’m assuming,” I intone.

Both men laugh, and Mr. Henry speaks up. "Hell no. They came into this country illegally."

"So, you mean to work as slaves?" They both look at each other then back at me.

“Yeah,” Mr. Thompson spouts like he just told me the color of the sun was yellow. While I’m about to make his face red.

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