Big Corn

Big Corn

By

Chloé Sehr

“I’m so happy to be here,” I said. “You can’t know what it means to me to be here.” What else? What else? “Let’s give another hand to my big brother, Jonah!”

The crown clapped again for my very tall brother. He stood stoically stage right, broad shouldered and sunbaked. The picture of a farmer.

How many more public speech clichés did I know? I needed to stall. I had not prepared. “How’s everybody doing today?” I saw my ex-girlfriend, Tabby, in the crowd. She was looking at me with a cultivated disinterest. I was pretty sure she’d still have sex with me.

My brother was responsible for the crowd. He was very respected in our town, one of those strong, silent types that inspires a cult following, but farmers don’t make very good cult members, and my brother wasn’t ambitious enough to be a cult leader.

I had been away for a while. I was the success story. Went away to school in the big city. Business school after that. I was supposed to come back afterwards and use my fancy education to save our town.

The 80s had been brutal on our little hamlet in the heartland, populated by corn farmers. Grasshoppers had plagued the land, eating every kernel they could. Despite what the fable might suggest, grasshoppers are not lazy in the summer. Then, drought. Neverending drought. And just when things were as bad as they could get, they got worse when the mayor invested all available municipal funds into what we now know were junk bonds and lost it all. Now the kids are bussed to a school two towns over and the library is a liquor store and fireworks emporium.

It was up to me. It had been up to me for some time. The problem was, the 90s were too fun. I miraculously graduated from undergrad in between hangovers and business school was a cocaine-fueled hallucination.

I was not a success. I got a finance job out of school, which I kept by staying out with my boss until closing time several nights a week. He’d probably be dead soon. I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to do that much cocaine in your 50s. None of that mattered, because I was fired a week ago for making some bold adjustments to a Man Ray painting in my boss’s office late one night and being discovered naked and wrapped around his secretary, Lisa, the next morning. I recall doing none of this. Anyway, how was I to know my boss was sleeping with Lisa, too? I thought he was cheating on his wife exclusively with Ashley from Accounting. They went to Acapulco together! They brought me back a souvenir shot glass full of cocaine! They’re honestly a great couple, really.

So, here I was. Flown here on the promise of The Big Idea. The Big Idea that would save our town. I wracked my brain for any idea I’d heard in a bar, or from wannabees I’d interviewed that wanted to prove they were the next big thing, when all we were really looking for was someone with extreme moral flexibility and a high school teacher’s tolerance for booze.

Then, I remembered. A couple of years ago, I was trapped in a conversation at a party at some loft with a view of all the suckers below dodging rats and eating dollar slices. This girl was talking my ear off about some problem, or disease, or something, kept saying she had Celia. I couldn’t understand what she was talking about, but her cleavage was amazing, so I stuck around to see where things would go. She kept saying Celia, Celia, Celia. Finally, I asked her, who the hell is Celia, and why is she making you sick? She sounds like a bitch. She told me Celia was some wheat disease, and she couldn’t eat it or her intestines would explode, or something. It sounded kinda gross, so I told her I had to take a piss and I never went back. She was obviously making it all up. Who explodes because of a piece of toast? She also told me that her yoga instructor was Mata Hari, reincarnated, so obviously she was a crackpot.

But…this was something. I could do something with this. And it was the only thing I had. I smiled at the crowd.

“Brothers and sisters. Neighbors. Friends. I know why you’re here. You’re here to get answers. How can we save our town? What will lift this curse of bad luck?”

The crowd was listening.

“I know why we can’t get a decent crop. I know what threatens our livelihood and way of life. Wheat! Wheat!”

The crowd was looking at me like I was nuts, but no turning back now.

“You’ve seen the wheat farmers thrive, their crops flourishing, while ours shrivel and die. They encroach on our land, closer and closer, every day. Preliminary reports from the Department of Agriculture state that wheat yields far surpass corn and their numbers are growing!”

None of this was true. Or it was. How would I know? The crowd was starting to titter. They were buying it.

“But I know something that Big Wheat doesn’t know. The one thing that will crush Wheat and bring Corn back to its former glory!”

I paused for effect.

“Tell us!” Tabby was gazing right at me. We were definitely having sex later.

“Brothers and sisters, there is an insidious disease, suffered by millions of Americans. A disease no one wants to talk about.”

I saw some panicked faces. I guess some of them did read the non-local papers. I had to steer things back to my made-up disease.

“What I’m talking about is Celia, the deadly wheat disease. It takes the gluen from the wheat, creeps into your intestines and wreaks havoc! Explosions have been reported!”

The crowd was rapt.

“All we need to do, brothers and sisters, is spread the word. With Wheat out of the way, Corn can finally take its place at the head of the table again! Dr. Leech, can you spread the word to your patients?”

Dr. Leech was caught off-guard, tucking his flask back into his pocket. “Yes, of course. I…I’ve been concerned…about…Celia…for some time.”

“Ms. Vera, can you make sure all the seniors at the center are wheat-free? We have to protect our elders!”

“Sure thing. We can give the bread to the birds!” Vera was always one to help stir things up. She had been responsible for planning Senior Prank Day each year she was a senior in high school.

“That’s right. Bread is for the birds!” someone shouted.

“Bread is for the birds!” someone else shouted.

Then, everybody was chanting.

“Bread is for the birds! Bread is for the birds! Bread is for the birds!”

I surveyed the crowd. They were alive with purpose. They were against my imaginary disease, but more importantly, they were with me.

Jonah was clapping me on the back. “You did it. I knew you’d do right by us in the end.”

The crowd got louder.

“Bread is for the birds! Bread is for the birds! Bread is for the birds!”

And so it began.