Hogtown By Nate Depke

We’d had huge floods across the state that year. I was fine. I had a boat. The pigs were the ones who lost out. They all drowned.

It’s weird, after the rain quit, they’d float in, from factory farms, so listless and dreamy, as if pig carcass bobbing up and down Main Street was part of the picturesque landscape of a small town. Their infiltration was slow at first. You’d see one. Two. The next hour, a half dozen more. By midafternoon there’d be too many to count. They were big as cars too. Bloated and waterlogged.

The real shit came after the water started to recede. That’s when decomposition would set in. Sure enough, the rot proved to be a big problem. It polluted the well-water. People got sick.

My mom lived nearby and welcomed the chaos. “It’s a sign from God,” she’d said. Fueled by her faith, she snapped pictures of the pigs washed up on the Town Hall’s front lawn and shared them with her Sunday school class two towns over. She told them to repent and find Jesus, said that deep down she’d always known hogs were filthy creatures, but that wasn’t exactly true.Growing up, mom dated a lot of pigs. I fucking hated every one of them.

I sometimes think about how distorted their faces looked as they floated by. It wasn’t for the faint of heart. That’s for sure. For hours I’d sit there and stick their bellies with rocks from my boat. I don’t know why. It was hypnotic, I guess. Like those pigs meant for me to do it.

I’m glad I got out when I did. I moved out of state and got an apartment in Greenville. It has a balcony and new carpeting.

© 2014 Nate Depke

Nate Depke is a groundskeeper in Maine. His writing has appeared in Crack the Spine, Jersey Devil Press, Pure Slush and Thick Jam.

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