Wisconsin gothic is driving in your car out in the middle of the country to search for corn stands. They’re bountiful here, you simply can’t go 10 minutes out in farmland without one appearing. On your way, you turn on the radio, but every station is either static, or music that you swear is in English, but you can’t make out any of the words no matter how hard you listen.
You pull into one stand, hazy and euphoric, only to find that there is no farmer there, just a stand, corn, and a sign.
“24 ears $5″ it says, and you almost can’t believe your eyes. How much corn do they have to be selling that much for $5. You know deep down that that many ears will never be fully consumed in your possession alone, but something compels you to leave the crumpled bill in the dusty box and start bagging the ears. Maybe it’s the unwavering trust the absent farmer has put in their customers to leave the money. Maybe it’s that strange feeling you get, the thick dustiness of the air when you walk around the barren farm. There’s a dog sleeping on the porch, but its chest does not rise and fall. You know for a fact it isn’t dead, time is just different out here, and you’ll have to come back another time to see the dog in another place.
You gather your corn, get back in your truck, and drive away, without a single word leaving your mouth. You don’t realize that you left the radio off until you turn the first corner and the farm leaves the view from your rearview mirror. When you do, your car erupts into life with lyrics that pull you in, music you recognize that invites you to sing along too, and you do. You sing and forget about the farm and its strangeness. You sing and forget the way you think perhaps you did see the farmer. They were hiding in the cornstalks themselves, and you forget that there was Something with a capital S that was Certainly Not a Man, with its long stalks for limbs, and the way it dumped ears and ears of corn into the farmer’s arms, almost limitless.
The unease remains wrapped around your shoulders for the rest of the car ride and stays with you as you distribute the excess corn to neighbors, shaking off the feelings of a place with no end.
