The Judas Goat by Benjamin Thompson

The time was finally gone, and yet here, announced by the billowing dust speeding towards me, toward Us. 

“Go on…” the dull voice echoed around in my head before it reached my ears. Distantly, I watched my son of five years, Jake Epine the fourth, run wordlessly down the lane from the barn where we stood, towards the big storage barn. I leaned back in my purposefully rustic clothing, pressing my back against the barn, stretching out my legs for a minute or so. 

I looked at the big barn again. My son vanished past the door running full tilt. A short, heavyset man emerged, wearing a ten-gallon hat and an old gray, woolen, almost tweed suit. He made his way out of the barn, striding quickly towards me, but never once looking at me. I looked away from the man towards the road; the rapid cloud of dust seemed to hang in a stream, a stalled train of brown an eighth mile or so down the road from us, parallel to the horizon. I looked for the source of the dust as it, no, they, made their way down the now paved approach. My eyes raised from the driveway to the rapidly graying sky, blotchy and shaded. It seemed darker.

“Right on time, good, good news for us Jake, we only just finished moving everything inside.” The bigger man puffed beside me. In a haltered huff, I heard him choke down what was probably going to be a string of quick comments on my attire. Thankfully, he just kept breathing. 

“Don’t worry about it Dale,” I told him, “I don’t plan on being on camera anyway, so you know he’s not gonna give a damn. Actually, I bet you he’d prefer we were all dressed like this.” I gave a nod to my flannel shirt and faded jeans, the same jeans I’d worn to work for the past dozen or so years. “He’s trying to look like the traditional working man.”

“This isn’t chess Jake, it’s a lot of good for us, what with PETA and all, and he’s taking a risk with them too by comin’ here, so you don’t need to go making a statement or anything else over something that can only be good for this entire place” Dale rushed. The line of cars were now visibly rounding the bend towards us, 

“Well that’s good, Dale, because I’m no good at chess,” I said, as he turned and walked towards the cars. He gave a quick turn at that, but stumbled briefly, and puttered his way back towards the oncoming cars. 

I watched him as he made his way to the lane to direct the cars all around the driveway. They drove the circle driveway for forty seconds or so, squeezing everyone in to allow for a quick getaway down the circular driveway. About 30 cars in all. It was windy. 

That soft, familiar popping sound broke through the wind, as car doors began to shut, and then open, and shut some more. I looked at the people getting out of the cars. Most were impeccably clean in dress and appearance, but with a sickly, tired look. There were more than a few teenagers however, smiling ear to ear across the lawn at each other; must feel like an elementary field trip to those kids. Slowly but surely, aimless meanderings soon began to take meaning as everyone began to work together to set everything up. Advisors started advising, the news crews headed toward the barn, lugging camera equipment, and everyone else managed to find something else to do to help prepare for the upcoming rally, and the private slaughterhouse’s soon to be guest. 

I walked towards the lane, but instead of walking out to speak to Dale again, I steered briefly inside the big storage barn. Instead of finding the regular heard of sheep, who were now housed in the main barn, a growing number of people milled before a stage. A few people were setting up lights and cameras, but most of them loosely held cardboard signs. A few eager attendees brought signs that still had wooden stakes attached, probably taken straight from the front lawn. 

I headed back towards the open barn doors. It took me longer, there were a lot more people here now, and it was significantly louder. I looked across the fields to see another dust train, billowing down the road towards the complex. The sky looked dark. I stepped outside.

“Is that him? Lord it is! Alright he’s here everyone!” Dale was screaming in harmony with the new wind blowing through the small field in between the barns. At least Dale was happy about meeting the guy again, I thought. Personally, he could spend all his time till’ his dying days off in Oklahoma City, spinning around on his thumbs. 

“Hey, Jake! Hurry up, John’s almost here, can’t you see his car just comin’ down the road?” The wind was blowing. I heard every word Dale said to me, but pretended I didn’t. I just walked over to him. Instead of repeating his words, he grabbed my arm and pointed to the road. Then, he half dragged me over to the main barn, his tie slapping against my face the whole way there. Damn John anyway. 

Puhta puhta puhta… our feet crunched on the dirt as we ran past the Main barn (not to be confused with the Big barn), with its new host of relocated animals. I jerked free of Dale, and ran quickly inside and grabbed what I thought would be an appropriate mascot for the day; A small Judas goat. A Judas goat is a goat that, when barely trained, can and will easily lead a stubborn flock of sheep up the ramps into the slaughter house, for a small treat. It isn’t hard to guess where the name comes from. With a song in my heart, I walked back outside and continued on towards the driveway.

A black limousine slowly ground around the gravel circle, crunching its way to a stop right in front of us. A gathering of cameras and reporters slowly formed next to and behind us, already popping off dozens of pictures. The chauffer got out first, and donned his hat. Almost regally, he walked around the front of the car, and then towards the back. He placed his hand on the rear door, paused… and opened it. With cheers from the crowd, and applause all around, out came the ever generous and benevolent John, smiling and waving to everyone. As he stood up, the people began to edge in closer, pushing us all into the middle. A quick jab in my ribs; Dale gave me a constipated look. I threw in a few off tempo claps. I put my left hand in my pocket, keeping my right on the goat’s leash, and slowly edged forward.

At that exact moment I was edging up, Dale lugged me forward by my elbow. His hand straight out (looking like the best of bird dogs), he thrust the two of us rapidly into the incumbent senator’s personal space. “DALE!” The big man cried out, vigorously shaking my short companion’s hand. “Ahah! It’s been months! Been keeping busy I see. Jake! How are you?” 

“I’m good John...” I replied. As he stretched out his hand to shake mine, I handed him the leash. “I’d like you to meet an old friend of yours.” His gaze followed the leash down to the goat, which had been properly groomed for the occasion. A large ‘I vote for WARNER’ badge was tied with blue ribbon to its shoulder.

“Still better to be the goat than the lamb, Jake.” He said quietly to me. Before I could talk, he spoke up to the crowd. “Good, good, so great to see everyone again! It’s been more n’ what, seventeen years since I’ve been back here? God Almighty I love this place.” John exclaimed. He has a special sixth sense for knowing when people can see right through veil of B.S. 

The three of us made our way into the big barn, Dale beaming on the other side of Senator John. Shaking hands and smiling around, I did my best to encourage our steady pace up to the main stage. As John climbed the main stage, he held on to the goat’s leash. Many of the workers let up a big cheer, and a laugh, for him and his new pet. 

I sat down in one of the three chairs at the back of the stage. One was for the senator, of course, while the other two were for Dale and myself, as leaders at the butchering plant. John sat next to me, giving me a cautious look. Dale walked straight up to a small pulpit (fitting, for the place and people), and began working up the crowd. “Greetings, employees and families of EpinBerg Farms. As most of you know, I am Dale Berg, head of relations and marketing of this fine company”. 

Polite applause and cheers swam up from the crowd. True, many people did know him, but only as they saw him now, as the short, heavy little man who was, for some reason or another, their boss. Dale gave them all a Benedictine nod, and launched into a quick speech on how great the life and people of the butchering plant were. 

Something about Dale’s particular breed of mass ass kissing never seemed to strike a chord with me. Comparable to every single company picnic he ever emceed, this was no exception. Sitting at the back of the stage, I could feel every light in the building pointed in my direction. The absence of light at the back of the room seemed to catch my eye; a quiet place in the midst of all of this to think. My mind wandered over to that little nook, and settled in, recapping the events that brought everyone here today. 

Fifteen years ago, times were pretty good. The economy seemed to be in one of those wonderful lulls between recessions. As one of the only mass producers of mutton in the Southern Midwest, times were great when they were good, and still good when they were slowing down. My dad is partially to thank for that. My dad, Jake Epine Junior (I’m Jake Epine the third) was the head of pretty much everything that was actual practical work around the butchering plant. He was an engineer by trade, and actually reinvented much of the machinery used in the plant today. He was head of engineering, of course, and was also the suedo director of everything else, like grounds keeping, animal care, and etcetera. It had been that way since the plant was started in the late 1800s. The Berg family was usually in charge of the business portion, selling stock and managing paperwork, and so it was always the Epine’s job to keep everything in perfect producing order. Occasionally, The President of Relations (the Bergs) and the President of Product (the Epines) had their differences about how to do the other’s job, but that probably happens with any joint enterprise. Things always worked out well though. 

This system was in good working order, until, in June of 87, My dad died under a combine. He had been under a lot of stress handling some legal stuff (Dale’s granddad was sick at the time, and my dad was covering for him). He decided he needed a break from all the paper work and went to the repair barn to fix up a few tractors. The particular machine was a circa 1930’s masterpiece, half a century old and still chugging. While checking out a new clutch problem the old beast had, the engine dropped clean out of it. We found out later that the foreign company that made the thing cut out a few of the engine mounts to save a few dimes in depression era expenses. He was crushed instantly. I never saw his body.

At the time, I was in college studying for an engineering degree, with a liberal arts minor. A liberal arts degree is kind of odd for someone like me, you’d think. Back in high school, I was on the debate team. That was actually where I met John. John was a member of my debate team… he was also the one who got me interested in politics and that stuff in the first place. In college, when I was studying to be an engineer, he was studying political sciences. We both kept on the debate team, and it seemed that we were always on the opposite side of the issues, when things came down to it 

The thing with John is that you could never really tell what his intentions were, on account of he played two bets on every flip of a coin. Take his ex girlfriend from his early years of college, for example. He was (and adamantly still claims to be) Pro Life, and yet I knew for a fact that he got her pregnant. The baby never came though. They dated for two years after that incident, until he dumped her for his current wife. The poor girl is probably still ashamed, which might explain the lack of public media attention. 

John and I used to be really good friends until my last year. We had a big falling out over a bunch of things. The last time we talked, I was packing my bags to head home, after dropping all of my classes; I had just heard the news that my dad died. I was the oldest in our family, and only had one younger brother. It was my responsibility to go and make ends meet. 

Last I saw John, he was laying on the floor of the hallway in front of our shared apartment. His last words to me were ‘Screw that (going home) Jake. You’re just a nobody.  And you’re gonna stay a damn nobody forever, unless until you learn to understand what’s really important. Trust me, Jake, your family’s gonna be fine on their own. It’s what your dad would want.” As I faintly recall, he was blocking our doorway to the hall as he spoke those words; I punched him in the face, stepped over his torso  (making sure my duffel bag dragged on the body) and walked down the hall. God forbid the man have the common sense to let someone put his family’s livelihood before money. 

With a hint of that angry smile you can only get after reminiscing of sweet revenges, I came back to reality with the mention of my name from Dale. To some cheers and applause, I nodded my head and smiled at the crowd. 

“So ladies, and gentlemen,” Dale finished, “With no further ado, I introduce to you our future state senator, and our endorsed candidate as the voice of our little piece of heaven, Mr. John Warner!”

To thunderous applause and cheers, John winked at me, and walked up to the pulpit. The smiling faces ate his act up, cheering and shouting like he was Hosanna in the highest Himself. Shaking hands with a beaming and very flushed Dale, the senator passed the goat’s leash to him, and turned to face the people.

Dale sat in John’s place on my left, with the goat, and pulled a snickers bar out of some inner pocket. As John grabbed for the microphone, Dale elbowed me lightly and offered it to me. “I’ve got moren’ one in this pocket just so’s you know.

I shook my head, as Senator John grabbed the mic from its holder. The real show was beginning. “Thank you, thank you, Dale,” the senator said, “ And thank you, you generous people, employees and friends of Epinberg Farms!”

Wild applause seemed to hit all of us on the stage. I felt my face grow a little flushed. I never much liked public speaking.

With a patient, yet beaming grin, he waited out the applause. “Man I gotta tell ya, it sure is a great day to be a blessed creature of God, in this city, in the great state, of Oklahoma!” Cheers rose up in answer, acclamation for his remarkable ability to tell the truth. The men and women I associate with every day were eating up the same mantra he used to woo high school and college students. It was almost magical, the way he could work his words into that simple crowd pleasing, easy to use formula. One, Two, Three, Applause. A pattern is all it takes to instill the love of the people. It sickened me.

“Now I love this state just as much as you good folk. But we all know that as blest as we are to be alive today, we have recently been steered into some trying times.” He allows a brief pause; aside from a few mumbles of consent, there is no need to worry about unruly applause yet. Where’s the need when there’s been no magic formula to pounce on? “What with the foreign markets choking out the little American man, it is truly a tough time to be the same honorable workmen which our fathers and grandfathers were. I believe, and I know you all do too, that the policies and tendencies of the current government to strip you of your jobs and rights is wrong. Nay, my friends, it is not just wrong, it’s a crime!” Wild cheers rocked the stage.  This is what the people truly came to see, what this whole speech was about. The man of action was now working for the little guy, rightly elevating the workingman’s status in the world.

“My friends,” John said ”I was raised in this community. I am proud, to be a member of this exclusive family of the American workingman. And I will not, see my family, pushed around!“ Great cheers once again took precedence on the stage. 

“Because of this, I promise that one of the very first things I will remember when I’m back in office is where I came from. I will remember who I am, where I came from, and most of all, who and what I’m fighting for. If I’m re-elected, I promise that I will push the Oklahoma for Little Business act, which will allow EpinBerg farms to grow into a true force in this state’s economy! We will prevail!” Cheers filled the barn, applause and supportive whistles sprinting up and down the lengths of the building. 

A slow frown darkened over my face. It was a subtle thing, but there it was. This was something new. What exactly was going on here? I began to rap my knuckles on my knee to an unheard tempo, actively thinking and paying attention to the Senator’s words. The applause was winding down again. 

The senator began to draw the opening of his speech to a head. “I’m sick of our successes, our achievements being stolen away! China? Mexico? Its hard to believe what some people will do for a quick buck in this country, and all at you, the hard working American, all at your expense. This isn’t fair! This isn’t American! And I’m not gonna stand for it!” Cheers seemed to resound from the roof to the ground, but I couldn’t take it anymore. Something wasn’t right, even though I didn’t know what. I quietly excused myself from Dale, who tried his best to freeze me with his eyes. I exited, stage right. 

I passed several friends in the wings, each of them cheering, a few with concerned looks at my departure. I gave them all the same ‘I’m in charge, so its alright’ look that I learned in college, and went on my way. I squeezed my way through an exit on the north side of the barn, pushing myself out into the dark afternoon air. The ground was soaked. Apparently, It had been raining these same cold, piercing drops for some time now. The storm still wasn’t here, but seemed to be brewing just off the fields, wating to barge in. 

I lurched into a slow jog down the gravel road, in a straight shot to my house. The wind wanted to bottle me back into the barn, to trap me there, but I pushed on. After a short time (both Dale and I lived on the property) I ran up my steps and into the somewhat large, but very vacant two story home. I sighed as my feet carried me through the house. Through the living room I walked, up the stairs, past pictures in rising order of my family. First came my son, and then my wife and son, and then my dad and mom. I took a right at the top of the stairs, down the hallway making for the study at the end. I came to the last door, which was staring out at the length of the hallway, and entered in. 

I shut the door. The rain seemed softer, much more amenable to my thoughts. I calmed down a little. Back when the old man died. I used to come in here a lot; my dad did all of his paper work in here. While it was never as much as old Mr. Berg, he still had his own share. The room was always the same; a sole dusty window with warped glass on right hand wall to let in a little light, with only that same little desk and a chair to bask in it. Of course, with the clouds and the storm there wasn’t much light to be had. 

Still sitting on the desk at the far end of the recently swept hardwood floor was a picture of my mom and dad, Dad smiling out at me. I looked at the picture of his beaming face. “I gotta admit Dad, I don’t like the man much. I know you’d have me let it go, but I can’t.” I sat down at the desk, in his old chair, and pulled the chain on the little brass book lamp. On the wall above the cherry-wood desk was a library of books and papers and folders, spanning three horizontal rows the width of the desk.

I liked to think he left me help in the old books above the desk. I still page through them from time to time, most often at random. This time, I grabbed a particular leather bound folder, laid it in my lap, and began searching. 

I knew it when I found it; what I was looking for. I don’t know how… It seemed to be exactly the same as every other pen marked file report in the old folder. I scanned through it, catching a few key phrases written in the side margins. . “E.B. won’t meet qualifications…” and further down, “bigger farms deficit”. What was my dad talking about? I looked at the title again; “Oklahoma for Small Business Act”, dated roughly thirty years ago, or about ten years before my dad died.

Without realizing it, I was standing there, hunched over the desk with the chair kicked backwards. I began to understand. I turned the paper over quickly, and there at the bottom, underlined with a bold, erratic line, was a sentence in the midst of a paragraph. 

The sentence read:

“Privately held Class B corporations (which included Epinberg Farms, I remembered) producing both their own resources and product, and in competition with private or public Class C corporations may be subject to government sponsored subsidization, with full compensation. Pending subsidization, subject private corporations are liable to a twenty percent monopoly tax.” 

 “What… what the hell?” I said to myself. I just stood there for a few seconds. “What is he doing…?” I let a pause hang in the air as I reviewed the document. A flash of lightning struck just outside of the sole window, and I bolted, old document balled up in my veiny fist. 

As I ran, everything fell into place. Down the steps… this bill would help class C businesses, those with under 100 employees… out the door… like John’s parent’s processing plant. 

My feet luffed each into their own unique and muddy grave, the wind whipping me onward towards the barn… howling its urgency, it cried ‘fasssssst’ with its unyielding breath. I was sprinting, and understanding. The bill, which John must have drug up from being shot down years ago, would mean that Epinberg farms, as specifically the only Class B meat producer in the state, could be bought out at the whims of the board on agriculture and livestock… which John chairs.

IF we managed to avoid a buyout, we would still have to raise our prices greatly to cover the twenty percent cut in profits, to the point of being unable to compete on any level with the class A or class C meat producers. The barn loomed up in shadow, right in front of me. I was wet, and cold, but my anger overpowered my discomfort. The thunder rolled around me from the storm outside. I could dimly hear beneath the winds the voices of the incapably unaware. I ripped open the door and ran inside.

I was pounded with new roars of thunder from the crowd. Jolted, but undeterred, I pushed towards the stage. I must have looked a terrible site, but no one could see me. All eyes were on the senator. He was shaking hands with Dale up on stage, and waving to everyone. He must have finished his address! I pushed my way past everyone who had acknowledged me upon my exit. None of them paid me the slightest heed. The people were crowding the stage, and John was shaking the hands of all the people, reaching up to him like sinners to the savior. None of them new, none of them had any idea. 

I kept pushing, and at last my feet found the steps. I pounded up them quickly, and began a brisk walk to center stage, and the now unused microphone. John’s wide smile died on his lips, his stout body rocked backward as he saw the murderous expression on my face. His knuckles clenched around the goats leash, which he must have taken back from Dale to do a victory promenade. He started shaking his head mutely. Dale immediately started walking towards me, but I stared him to a stop. The crowd was silenced by the angry thump of my hand on the mike, and the drama of the scene unfolding. I stared directly at the senator. He slowly rose up from the crowd, and turned to regard me fully. His jaw was set, and his blue eyes bored into mine. I stared straight back. There wasn’t a sound in the room. 

“Senator John….” my voice cracked. It felt like I’d been shouting for hours. I cleared my throat and in an even tone, declared: “Senator, John Warner, is a liar.” Wind howled outside the walls. Not a sound came from inside the building. An odd applause filled the room from the pouring rain striking the roof. I said it again. 

I turned to face the crowd. “Senator John Warner, is a liar. He wants you, and I, to believe him when he says, that he has our best interests at heart. Senator John Warner is a liar.”

I paused, for I was still tired from the run, and then continued again, walking down the stage a bit. “I know Senator John Warner is a liar, because it says so on this paper right here in my hand”. I held up the partially drenched, wrinkled piece of paper. “Before I left, Senator John was telling you about his Oklahoma for Small Business act. He told you that it would help small businesses. What he did not tell you, is that we are not, by his measure, a small business!”

I held the rapt attention of the entire room, which none the less was slowly giving its silence over to a soft mumbling. I poured my anger into keeping my voice firm, and loud. “The bill reads: ‘Privately held Class B corporations…’ that means us… ‘producing both their own resources and product, and in competition with private or public Class C corporations…’ like John’s Parent’s ‘…may be subject to government sponsored subsidization, with full compensation. Pending subsidization, subject corporations are liable to a twenty percent monopoly tax.’”

Louder mumbles filled the room. A cry of “Bullshit!” echoed out from somewhere in the center. I talked on. “This means! That our company can be bought by the government, at the digression of the board of agriculture and livestock, which John currently chairs. This means that, if we are not bought out, we will be taxed into a non-dominant role in the state-wide market, and further into foreclosure. This means, that we will all lose our jobs. This means, that we have been betrayed!” I shouted the last word. Loud this time, incredulous disapproval began to fill the air. I started talking over it now, adding fuel to the wounded fire, blowing it into blaze. “Senator John Warner is here to protect the interests of his people; mainly his family, those are his people. He is here to protect only his own interests. He is here acting on opportunity, not upon patriotism. John Warner is a liar, leading you astray to his own personal benefit. Exactly, I say, like his new found friend here.”

The crowd was positively roaring. Likening the senator to the goat was like putting him in the lot of Judas himself; and as a fact, the analogy was not far off. He dropped the leash, and opened his mouth to the people, but received no forgiveness. He was greeted with a hail of boos, and a barrage of balled up paper. The paper turned into the cardboard posters, which turned into much heavier things. Soon, the same yard signs I saw workers bringing in were being thrown like spears. At this relentless barrage, the Senator turned and fled, and was pelted once from the front now by food people had smuggled in. Dale had a pair of snicker’s bars in his hand, and threw them both towards the fleeing man, now practically swimming for the exit. One went wide, and the other struck the goat. The goat panicked, and ran after him. People were clutching at him, a fist came his way. He made it to the side door, and fled out into the dark rain, the goat trouncing fearfully at his heels.