The Farm

“See you Sunday, baby,” said Marcus Jenkins to his wife, Tasha.
“Alright! Have a good day at work,” the wireless phone company retail store manager smiled.
“Love you, Kobe! Love you, Tiara,” the wastewater plant operator said to his offspring.
“Love you, too, daddy,” the youngsters rang out in unison.

Marcus walked out of the 1,600 square-feet, three-bedroom, two-and-a-half bathroom, Bungalow-style house they had purchased a few months prior. He started his dark blue 2012 Ford Expedition and headed off to work. It was a Friday. And, after he got off, he was going back to his hometown which was two hours away. He and his two younger brothers had inherited the old farmhouse, that included six-and-a-half acres of land, when his grandmother passed away last year. They were now fixing it up every other weekend.

The middle Jenkins brother was twenty-seven-year-old, Derrick. He now worked construction after spending a couple of stints in jail for misdemeanor possession charges. Much to his mother’s delight, he had cleaned up his act. Today, he didn’t have to work so he planned to make his own 45-minute trek out to the farmhouse around noon. He was father of two adorable little ladies – Adlynn, aged five, and MacKenna, aged four. It was just after 7:00 a.m. and he was slightly hungover from drinking last night. He stumbled to the kitchen and fixed himself a vodka and cranberry juice to help him even out. He checked his phone and saw the message letting him know that his friend would be there just before eight.

Derrick downed his drink and went to brush his teeth. He picked up some dirty clothes that were on the floor and threw them into his laundry bag He pulled the top sheets off the bed and laid down a large yellow beach towel. The five-eleven, two-hundred-twenty-five-pound, huskular brotha scratched at his musty dick through his green basketball shorts. He sat on the couch and flipped on ESPN. As he waited, he sipped on the orange Gatorade that was on the coffee table.