He walked between the rows of plants. Each one rose to his waist and carried the smell of summer spice. The heat was scorching, the vegetation around him held in the humidity. The man wore a comically large straw hat, which hardly did the job of blocking out the sun. His bones were old, his knees bowed, a bone in his neck cracked each time he bent over to pluck another ripened red pepper. As sweat beaded down from his grey hair and dripped off his wrinkled jaw, he stepped aside to catch his breath. He walked to a lone apple tree at the edge of his pepper fields, snagged a fresh fruit from a low hanging limb and took a seat on an old stump.

The man looked with envious eyes beyond, to the green and rolling grasslands, where Mr. Garland’s cattle grazed, and his field boys tended their every need. He took a bite of his apple as he stared, imagining himself roasting one of those fine beasts over his own flames. George realized that his own wife didn’t treat him as well as these cows were treated, when she was still his wife that is.

He looked to the edge of Garland’s fields, hops hung high and grapevines grew atop miles of hanging line. Amidst those vines and fencing stood the three-story home of his neighbor. Thick, white columns contrasted behind the greenery, fresh paint on a new canvas could not have captured the stark white that shined amidst the vegetation. The man Sam had once made his profit in oil. Now, he made even more with his hundred-acre farm. George’s old wife experienced a new kind of life with that man, he thought. Sam was younger too, half George’s age and much more friendly. People liked Sam, everyone did.

George never truly questioned why Martha left him fifteen years ago, nor why she ended up remarrying his neighbor five years later. Martha was significantly younger than himself anyhow, and George never cared much for trying to live young to please her outgoing and frivolous lifestyle. Nor did he want to raise children, something she never shut up about -- that endeavor required too much selflessness for one man to possess, he thought, a man can care only for himself… and perhaps a broad if he be forced.

He never really understood how he had managed to marry her in the first place. He guessed that back then he was a kinder person, a wiser man with dreams and a decent property to make them come to fruition. In any case, it wasn’t that the man had captured the heart of his old young wife, that was hard to swallow but nothing compared to the real issue -- the man bested George in every perceivable way.

Sam had fatter cows, richer crops, greener grass. There was no mud on his land, no areas where plants died faster than they could be planted. He had a wider variety of crops, too, winery and brewery representatives lined up at his gate to purchase his hops and grapes. The only thing Sam didn’t have that George did was his peppers, and George hated peppers. But in Sam’s own twisted way, he bested George with the peppers too. He had a sneaking suspicion that Sam didn’t grow them only because George did, that the handsome fellow felt bad for marrying his wife and decided to throw him a bone. But besting Sam because of Sam’s pity wasn’t really besting Sam, he realized, and he didn’t like that at all.

George took the last bite from his apple and tossed it towards the pit of dirt and mud that rested between the pepper fields and his old house. That would be enough for today, he thought. He looked back at what he’d gathered: twelve baskets of peppers at a dollar apiece would be enough to get by for a few more weeks. Why he wanted to get by and not simply starve was beyond him. The only person he loathed more than himself was his neighbor, and in a strange and sour way it was why he continued to exist.

He loaded the baskets onto the wooden cart and nudged the donkey forward, she heehawed as crankily as she had been nudged. He began to follow the hoofed trail of the cranky ass, but his eyes were caught by a glare. Something hung below a plant branch, ‘twas so bright it stunned him as though he had seen the sun. He reached down, the skin on his hands was tanner and more cracked than sun-dried, boiled leather boots. He thought the blasted thing would fall upon the touch, but it was held by the plant more strongly than an unripe vegetable, yet its matter was hard as stone.

“Urrg.” growled the man as he failed to remove it. He struggled hard again and plucked it off as he fell onto dirt and weeds. He held it up, he couldn’t believe what he saw ¾ a golden pepper. It looked like a yellow rock. George took out the sweat rag from his pocket, spit on it, and rubbed. The purest golden shine was its crest. George didn’t believe what he saw.

He looked around from where he sat, at the low angle he could see them all, like stars on a clear night. He picked and picked until every last golden pepper was off the plants and into the twenty-four baskets. He couldn’t believe how alive he felt. As the sun settled behind the house of his neighbor, he looked on at it with a silly feeling. He almost laughed before he realized the dire need to hide his gold.

At home that night he scrubbed and washed them in his kitchen. It was after midnight before they were all clean. They sat in their buckets as calmly and as mystically as they had arrived, shining in waves as the soft wind from the cracks in the walls distorted the candle lights. George smiled at them before he retreated to his porch to smoke his pipe and begrudgingly drink a bottled pint made from Sam’s hops -- they were, after all, the best available, though he’d rather be stabbed in the gut than admit from where they came. Perhaps now he didn’t care as much.

The carbonated bubbliness soared down his throat as the strong smell of alcohol hit his nose. He swayed back and forth in his rocking chair slowly as he gazed out at the stars hanging over his neighbor’s lands.

He thought of sleep, but he wasn’t tired in the least. Why should he sleep, anyway? He needn’t wake early to work. He could hire hands to work or invest the gold and live off its interest for the rest of his life. Heck, he could buy Sam’s farm and hire him as a servant if he wanted to. His old young wife might see him a bit differently too, he thought.

Perhaps he would build a new house, north of his neighbor’s glory, bigger and whiter and unignorable and --

“Hi, Georgie.” said a young woman’s voice from the dirt ahead. The moonlight shone down on her, she wore a white sundress stitched with small green vinery, her personal dressmaker’s skill could not be ignored. Her black hair was braided and laid over her shoulder.

His ears became red, though none would see it as he rose from the wooden chair. The dark, aged wood behind him provided little contrast to his field clothes and his tan face. His joints didn’t hurt in the least, his postured felt as it did the day he met her.

“I hate to bother you this late, Georgie, but our fence line was crushed by a falling tree, a few heifers got lose. Sam’s gonna be wandering through your property tonight, looking for them. Just wanted to let you know so you wouldn’t shoot him.” she then laughed as he remembered. Her teeth were white under the sky. Gosh he missed that laugh and that smile.

George didn’t feel like growling as usual. Almost methodically the old man asked if she’d like a drink and murmured something about having too many for himself. He reached down and lifted a pint from beside his front door. She walked up the steps, the wood porch creaked loudly, and she took it from him. The two stared each other in the eyes, two generations peering across from one another. At one time they were not so different, or at least they hadn’t felt that way. Now it looked as though George could be her father.

“How’s the boy?” he asked as he sat back in his chair.

“Truman is well.” she said, sitting beside him in the chair she once used every day, where she had nursed her baby boy in the shade. “He’s sixteen years now. He asks about his father often. He wants answers. We never tried to pretend that Sam was his father.”

“Why not?” he coughed, “It seems he makes a better one.” He sipped his beverage and looked out at the tall figure, miles away and hardly discernable, moving amidst the thick shadows of the cows and willow trees.

“You were a fine husband at first. The day Sam started his farm you changed.” She took a sip. She seemed to hold no ill will towards him.

“As did you.” he took a smoke from his pipe and blew a ring towards a spider web which hung between a porch post and the ceiling. “I didn’t realize at the time how much.”

“I changed because you changed. I needed a man to help raise my child. And you never wanted that for yourself.” she spoke calmly. “I didn’t leave for Sam, gosh that was years later when we fell in love. And now your boy wants to know who you are, and you don’t care... still.”

“You left me because I was poor and old. The least you could give me after all these years is some honesty. And that boy won’t care to know me once he sees me.” He got up and dumped out the tobacco from his pipe. Martha stared at him with sympathy, a look of pity for the man who had nothing left. “I’d like for you to leave now. Tell Sam to remove himself from my property as soon as he rounds up his cattle.”

“Of course, Georgie.” she said as if she were talking to a child that was disconnected from reality. She stood up from her chair and handed him her pint, she had hardly drunk a sip. She walked down the steps and they creaked as they always did. She moved away into the night lights, he gazed at her youth and beauty before she became another shadow of the night.

Before long, he was back in the kitchen, counting his golden peppers and thinking. A new farm, a new woman, a new family, servants. He would do it right this time, and he would have the money to make sure of it. He may be old, weak, and grey but that wouldn’t stop him from finding a woman who appreciated his status.

The next morning, he loaded up his wagon and bridled his horses. The baskets of gold lay rest in the rear, covered in a thick sackcloth so as not to be seen. The sun cast warm rays through the clouds, and dew covered the grass to each side of the path. He whipped the steeds to make them gallop.
Before long, he rolled over a stone and the cedar wagon wheel cracked, bringing him to an abrupt stop. He climbed off and calmed his horses. He was caught without his mallet, nails, and iron sheeting to fix the problem. The sun continued to rise, and the heat increased. He was too weak to walk home, his knees couldn’t bear it, nor could his lungs.

He waited for help. Eventually, a young man on a wagon came merrily down the path, humming something about a young maiden he hoped to marry, and whistling the sounds of trumpets. George rose from the dirt to wave him down.

“Hello there, sir. Seems you’ve had an accident.” the young man said, he had a sharp nose and a strong countenance. “I think I have just what you need.” He hopped off his horse and offered his assistance. Faster than George could ask his name he had the wheel dismounted and was adding an iron plate around the crack. “That should last you another trip or two. Won’t be too long before you’ll need to replace them both, I might add.”

“Well, thank you.” George said begrudgingly, as if the boy had not done a fine job. He felt obliged, if he wasn’t to pay him, to at least ask him a question about himself, “Where are you headed?”

“It’s no problem at all, sir.” he said as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Fixing a wooden wheel was no easy task, it took brute strength and focus, and often resulted in hand cramping from all the pushing, pulling, and holding everything still whilst you hammered sheeted metal and nails around the curved wood. “I’m headed to bring some lunches to a few widows in Cheapside. Must be terrible to be all alone like that, you know? A little food always brightens my day, so why not there’s?” George could smell it all ¾ sour bread, cakes and chicken breast, a combination that reminded him of Martha’s cooking. “Anyway, stranger, I best be going before I have to say I’m delivering dinner.” He hopped back on his wagon and waved goodbye as he prompted his horses.

George’s heart felt something it had never felt before. He wanted to give the boy something. He called out to him, “Young man!”
The cart came to a slow stop as the noise of gravel came to a close. “Yes sir?” he replied.

“I didn’t catch your name.” George said as he lifted his straw hat off his head.

The boy looked at him as if he had known him his entire life, “Truman.”

George stared at his face for a minute straight in silence. He recognized the jaw line and the widow’s peak. The black hair had been nearly as thick as when he had been born. “You mind if an old man helps you deliver your lunches?”

“I could use all the help I could get. Come on, stranger.” said Truman excitedly. George ran as best as an old man could and climbed aboard the wagon. Before Truman struck his horses with the whip he remembered, “If there’s anything on that wagon that’s valuable, you best load it on here with us so it isn’t stolen.”

George looked back at the now upright cart and his two old horses, the sackcloth in the back still hung over the golden vegetables. He looked back at Truman, “There’s nothing valuable in there, just some peppers.”

Truman shrugged his shoulders and prompted his horses forward, “I’ve always hated peppers.”