The Agoraphobic Farmer

THE AGORAPHOBIC FARMER

He stood before the open door with his boots on.  From the doorway he could hear the cows in the barn.  They weren’t making too much noise yet, but knew that if he didn’t get there soon they would be bellowing their discomfort for all the world to hear.
“Okay,” he breathed deeply, sneezing twice in quick succession, and took one step out the door.  From there he knew it would take another twenty-two steps.  Twenty-two small steps.  Not far at all, yet it felt like miles. The great drifts of snow that had banked around him through the long winter months had become a few slushy mounds turning liquid in the weak spring sunshine.  He poked the toe of his green rubber boot into a puddle, testing its depth.

By the time he reached the barn he would be sweating and panting as if he had run a marathon. Not that he had ever run a marathon.  Had never had any desire to test himself that way.

Two steps.

The cool spring air around him was thick and choking.  He struggled to breathe.  It felt as though gauze was wrapped around his nose and mouth. Stopping, he closed his eyes against the light, focusing on the crimson starbursts the sun made against his closed eyelids.

Another step.

The earth beneath his feet was soft and smelled of new growth.  He sneezed again and stumbled forward a step.  He had been grateful for the long, harsh winter.  He actually liked having to dig through the snow to reach the barn, liked the snow piled shoulder-high around him.

Staggering forwards, three steps. 

Then two more.


His wife felt trapped in the comfort of their home over the frozen months, making arguing both a hobby and a sport.  Nowhere to escape, he half-heartedly joined in, not enjoying the disputes but liking the apologies later.

Another step and another.

Having to remain cocooned in the house had not bothered him.  He had his model trains in the cellar, books to read.  And the twice-daily trips to the barn for milking, slipping and sliding across the frozen ground, snow-shovel in hand, clearing the way before him. Building the walls of his snow tunnel higher and higher.

Three quick steps.

The barn door beckoned him, huge and painted a comical shade of orange that clashed horribly with the traditional dark brick-red of the barn.  Jeremy’s fault.  His son had painted the barn the previous summer, had run out of paint before getting to the door and finished the job with something leftover from another project.  It was ugly, but distinctive.  It made the farmer smile.

Four more steps. 

And another. 

Two steps, his left foot sliding through mushy snow to hit the heavy wood of the barn door.  Breath huffed from his mouth in a great gust as he threw the door open, letting the warm, manure-scented darkness swallow him up.

489 words.