“I don’t go out much anymore, Will. The Cheetos trucks I told you about? They are coming more frequently.” Jerry crushed his cigarette in the overfull ashtray after taking one more drag. “Bringing in more and more of those . . . I’m not sure what you call ‘em, Will.” Staring into space, he stopped speaking.

“You know, I think drinking that might have something to do with it.” Will pointed to a cup of black coffee, not good coffee, but the cheapest coffee money could buy, McFrankie’s or some other off-brand flavor. It tasted like someone swept up all the discarded roasted beans that didn’t pass inspection for Folger’s or Maxwell House and were ground up and packaged after being exposed to open air for a few weeks. The taste was so bitter Will adamantly refused to sip it, not that Will drank coffee. He thought that too much caffeine changed your brain chemistry, a thing that even Jerry couldn’t get behind. He thought Will was nuts about the attention he paid to the food and drink he consumed.

“This comin’ from the kid that thinks that genetically modified organisms have infiltrated all of our food supplies from big seed companies, right?”

Will shook his head. “You know the seed companies can trace back to when and where they distribute their crops, right? Everything is so electronically connected, they can even tell you the date and time it was planted.”

“And you tell me I’m a conspiracy theory nut, Will?” Jerry stood up and stretched. Sounds of creaking and crackling emanated from his bones. It wasn’t the first time Will noticed the sounds. “By the way, that doc you said I should see?”

“Yeah. A chiropractor. Did you go and see Doc Clearfield like I said you should?” Both men looked out from Jerry’s porch, standing close enough to one another that they could touch. “He’s the best in the area.”

“Talks too much. I ain’t too fond of that. The Doc only needs to tell you what’s wrong. They ain’t needing to ask a bunch of questions. Ain’t doin’ me no good noways.” Jerry spit off the porch, just one more thing Will thought was a gross habit. Will came around, the closest neighbor to Jerry for several miles, to check on the septuagenarian. Jerry was a retired soybean and corn farmer. Retired in the sense that he didn’t work in his fields. Jerry, owning over 300 acres of prime farmland in Fonda, Iowa, was a permanent fixture and pseudo-celebrity in the small town. He employed over half the people in Fonda. Jerry was frugal, spending his money only when necessary, having lived through the Great Depression as a young boy. That was why he bought the cheapest coffee. That and Jerry had very few working taste buds. “No doctor is gonna lay hands on me like he wanted to. Kinda weird, William.” He spat again, fishing in his overall pockets for another Pall Mall. “And, if youns is thinkin’ he’s gonna get me to stop smoking?” He squinted and pointed a bony finger at Will. “You can rightly just forget it.” Will watched him light his cigarette, taking a huge drag and holding it deep in his lungs for a few seconds. When he exhaled, a blue plume of smoke slowly floated over Jerry’s head.

“He’s trying to help you live a little bit longer, that’s all. Besides,” Will waved the smoke out of his face, “if I thought it’d do any good, I’d suggest quitting to you. If I didn’t know it would fall on deaf ears,” Will patted his shoulder, walking off the porch, down the four steps to the gravel driveway. “You should have enough coffee and bacon to last a few days. If you need anything before then,” he pantomimed a telephone receiver, “call me.”

Jerry hooked his thumbs into his overalls and rocked on his heels. “Don’t you worry ‘bout me, William. I got what I need,” he held up the cigarette and coffee in his right hand, “right here.”

Will waved, walking down to his Ford F-350. A proper farm truck, it looked rough and a bit beat up, taking on a bit of rust thanks to the heavy snow last winter. The combination of the salt, sand, and snow was too much for the Navy blue-painted truck. Will bought the F-350 with a little over 87,000 miles, reasonably new for a farm truck. For seven years of staying in the same community, Will drove the F-350 more than 150,000 miles, quite a lot considering it was back and forth, surveying the fields he supervised.

“Will!” Jerry shouted off the porch. “I’m tellin’ you. Watch for the Cheetos trucks. Somethin’ ain’t right about them. They come by my house at least once a day in each direction. What’s up with that?” Rolling his eyes and smiling at Jerry, Will waved, driving down the gravel road.