This is a long drive for someone with nothing to think about

Rain splattered the windsheild as he drove down the highway, maybe going ninety. He was fat, thick fingered, blue eyed. But he was fat in a way where you couldn't tell, just by glancing at him, where his chin ended and his neck began. He was the kind of guy who ordered desert first at restaurants, and then complained about portion sizes.

Before we got in his truck, which smelled new and clean, he had offered me a beer. I accepted; we hit the road.

I had left my girlfriend behind in the farmhouse, because I thought she should have some time alone with her mother. I had hoped, secretly, when I told her that I was going to tag along with her step-dad, that she would tell me to stay, tell me that she needed me to do something else. She didn't say anything.

The road didn't wind, to my dissapointment, just a straight line to nowhere. When he started to talk about tractors and getting his barley in once the rain had dried, I started drinking faster. He asked me a question. About what? I don't know. He waited silently, and, when I didn't answer, he asked again.

He had this funny way of looking at meout of the corner of his eye, like he was trying to figure me out, trying to look like he wasn't already dissapointed by me.

"So, what are you going to do with your degree?" He asked. He asked me this question about every four minutes.

I always told him. He never seemed to understand. He furrowed his brow, rubbed his chin, did everything but say, "that's fucking stupid." It was like he was incapable of asking another question, of being interested in anything other than what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to tell that just because he is a farmer, doesn't mean everyone else has to be, too.

"Why are you taking English?" That was another question he always asked me. But, it was usually paired with, "was it because it's easy?"

"Yes," I told him. "I took English because it was the easiet thing I could think of."

He stared at me, perplexed. Probably wondering how his genius questions uncovered the real truth of the matter.

The ride took forever. I remembered my girlfriend asking me to be nice, to go with the flow. She was probably not even thinking of me, just bieng attentive as her mom taught her to knit.

I don't remember how we got there, but it took about a thousand years. We had driven out of the rain. It was just humid now, overcast.

He had driven us to a ghost town. There were houses, gas stations, a Mcdonalds, but not a single car or person out except for us. We were standing in a lot that contained a repoed tractor.

"Here it is," he said. "This is it." All I could see was the tractor. I had no idea what he was talking about.

He walked behind it, kicked the wheels with his boot, checked the hoses to see if they would pop off. I crossed my arms, and saw a bottle of Corona resting on the steps leading up to the cab. I wondered if he would drive us by a liquor store.

"Do you know what this is?" He said, smiling, pointing at something.

"No," I said.

He started explaining seeding, how the pressure rockets the fertilizer and seeds into the earth. He pointed at more things, and shuffled over to them, stroking them or holding them delicatley in his hands.

I must have lost track, allowed his voice to be swept away by the wind, because all I remember saying was something about how I'll have to learn how to use it some day.

It started to rain and we got back into the truck. We stared at the air seeder in silence.

He said, "so, did you learn anything?"

I told him that it was all white noise to me.