Battle of the Rhine

In the country, time is like roasted Italian cheese, and the days and nights are infinitely prolonged.Michael had borrowed a tractor, and in the fields where a few cotton buds had grown sparsely, with last year's shriveled bolls hanging listlessly on thin branches, he performed picking cotton for Quincy and almost drove the tractor into the ditch.

"If you run a farm like this, you will go bankrupt sooner or later," said the college student.

"I'm already very serious, you haven't seen how my old man does it yet!"

The tractor engine made a "chug" sound and bursts of black smoke came out.Quincy sat in the tractor bed with a withered yellow grass stalk in his mouth.Michael pulled the grass stalk off and stuffed it into his mouth.The wind rolled over the ground, and there was a layer of gray and dark yellow floating under the blue sky.

"Have you ever thought about it, after retirement..."

"I still have more than ten years to retire."

Michael grinned at the grass stalk.At his age, when he was 20 years old, he never imagined that he would live past 40 years old.The Fiennes family didn't think about anything, they were too lazy to use their brains.Mrs. Michel commented on the old Michael in this way, and criticized Michael with the same words. "You're young," he said, "I'm old—I look 15 years older than you, at least 15."

"Nonsense." Quincy looked into the distance, "Arizona is not as scary as you say."

"That's because you're still 'fresh'. People always find it interesting when they go to a new place." Michael took Quincy's hand and clapped it. "What's wrong?"

"I'm thinking, if you don't want to go back to Germany," Quincy pursed his lips and said in a low voice, "I can accompany you. We can open a small factory. The agricultural-based area will definitely need machinery or something... ..."

Michael blinked, "'Davarish' bullied you again?"

Quincy slapped him reproachfully, "Don't—"

The fake Davarishi is more ruthless than the real one, and everyone in the company says so.Since Alexander Schwarberg came in by air, everyone from the workers to the management has complained.He revised the new standard and fired Shorty the first week after it was implemented, which was to Michael's liking, but Davarish hated Quinnessy, and he didn't even bother to hide his distaste.

"'Short' can't do anything with real Nazis." Michael snorted.Schwaberg served in the SS and fought on the Eastern Front from 1941 to 44, belonging to the notorious Skull Division.Michael didn't believe that Schwarberg had really been a member of the Skeleton Division. After all, it was even more rare for an officer of the Skeleton Division to return to Germany alive than Michael's ability to learn Latin suddenly.

"He's jealous of you," Michael said. "That piece of crap, he's a heartless psychopath. You can smell blood on him if you're near him—I bet he's got a lot of them." Russian lives."

"He thinks I'm not trying too hard," Quincy said hesitantly, "and he's right."

Quincy had followed a regular pattern of life over the years.Go to work, leave work, go home for dinner.On Friday nights, Michael would take him out to eat.Germans don't like to reserve seats, every time they go to grab a seat, it's like fighting a war.Grabbing good Friday evening spots in restaurants had become Michael's regular entertainment.They rested at home on Saturday, Quincy read and played the piano, Michael tended the garden, and went shopping in the street in the afternoon.Go to church on Sunday morning, have lunch with Charlie's family, and go to a football game in the afternoon.As a result, one Friday shortly after Davarich's arrival, while Michael and Quincy were having dinner at their favorite restaurant, "Davarishi" appeared out of nowhere, looking malevolently between the two of them.

"What's the matter?" Michael stood up. "Davarish" just called Quinnessy to the office to criticize him for no reason before leaving get off work. Michael scolded the psychopath in the car for half an hour after hearing about it.

"Davarish" stared at Michael, nodded as if understanding, and said in the "noble" tone that Michael hates the most, "Oh—I see—"

"The law doesn't stipulate that I can't eat in restaurants on Friday." Michael pushed back directly, "I'm off work, I can do whatever I want!"

"Davarish" walked off, wishing them a pleasant meal before leaving.On Mondays, this guy holds a meeting and yells at certain engineers for their extravagant lives and moral corruption.Michael murmured to Sherman, an engineer in the office, "Is he crazy?" He looked at Michael and said firmly, "He must be crazy."

"If he thinks it's 'not trying' to have dinner on Friday night, go to church on Sunday, play football with his nephew, and buy the occasional player poster—" Michael leaned sideways on the tractor dashboard." Well, buying player posters is not very good, other than that, what's the problem? He never gets married, has no family, no children, doesn't even have a friend, and works overtime from Monday to Sunday. Is that 'hard enough'? In my opinion, he is not as good as our dog."

Quincy sighed. "You can quit your job when you go back. We can open a small factory and make parts and so on." Michael said, "Our savings are enough. I don't object to you coming here," he pinched Quincy's face, forcing He raised his head, "It's just that this place is too desolate. There are only two restaurants in the town, and you can't get used to the dishes. There is no entertainment here, so I just go to church on Sundays and listen to the pastor's nonsense sermons—really, I know how to preach." The pastor won't come to our town either. The weather is terrible...I'm afraid you can't take it, honey. You won't be able to eat with Charlie every week when you come here, and Carl Jr. is only in college...and, you How do you watch Bayern Munich? There are no good football teams in America to drive you crazy."

"You're right," said Quincy, the wind ruffling his hair. "There's not even a pomade store in town."

"Because cows don't need pomade, my dear," laughed Michael, ruffling his blond hair even more. "To use pomade, you'd have to go to Phoenix or California, and our Arizona cowboys don't need pomade or anything. high-end goods."

Michael drove Quincy back with a tractor and found tools to repair the black-smoking engine.Quincy helped him, and both of them were dirty and greasy, but Quincy's face was still fair as usual. "As long as you don't wipe your face with your hands, it won't be dirty." The college student said sternly, "You've got the wrong wire, idiot. I don't even understand how you've been in this business for so many years."

"I'll let you know tonight." Michael patted Quincy's butt, "Wait, little girl."

"Fuck you!"

The two took a shower, and Quincy wore Michael's old clothes—torn jeans and a huge gingham shirt that Michael had bought years ago for less than a dollar .Michael hummed a little tune and scrambled eggs. After a while, the doorbell rang, and Michael yelled, "It must be the milkman! I'll ask the guy to bring it—"

"I'll answer the door," said Quincy. "How much did you order?"

"One box!"

"Too much!"

Michael stuck his head out, trying to explain why he had ordered so much milk, but he was stunned: it wasn't the milkman standing at the door, but Mary Jean and Dan, and their three children - in order of size, From high to low, there are three big boys like Russian nesting dolls.