Page 32 of Trick or Tease

GARRETT

I stood back and admired our handiwork, wiping paint off my hands with an old rag.

The wooden sign stretched nearly eight feet across.

“HOGAN’S HAUNTED FARM” painted in bold black against a weathered gray background.

Billy had added some nice touches to make the sign really stand out.

There was dripping paint effects that looked like blood, and shadowy outlines of bats in the corners.

“Not bad for a couple of amateurs,” I said, grinning at my brother.

Billy laughed, flicking a drop of red paint at me. “Speak for yourself. I’ve been painting barn doors since I was twelve.”

“I don’t think either of us is going to win any art competitions,” I joked.

He grinned and tilted his head to the side. “It’s not terrible. I think the letters are a little crooked though.”

I stepped back further, trying to imagine how it would look mounted over the entrance. “This thing’s going to be heavy as hell to get up there. We’ll probably need to hire a crew with the right equipment. Maybe rent a boom lift or something.”

Billy gave me a look like I’d just suggested we hire a marching band. “Man, you really have been in the city too long.”

“What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, he pulled out his phone and made a call. “Hey, John? Yeah, it’s Billy. We’ve got a big sign we need to mount up at the farm entrance. You still got that excavator?” He paused, listening. “Perfect. Can you swing by and give me a lift? Great, thanks.”

He hung up and immediately dialed another number. “Tom? Billy Hogan. Listen, we’re putting up our new farm sign today and could use some extra hands. You free?” Another pause. “Awesome. Bring your ladder if you’ve got it.”

I watched in amazement as he made call after call. Within ten minutes, he’d assembled what sounded like a small army of neighbors, all willing to drop what they were doing to help us hang a sign.

“That’s it?” I asked when he finally put his phone away. “You just call people?”

“That’s how it works out here, city boy.

We help each other out. John helped me fix my tractor last month, so I’ll help him with his hay harvest next week.

Tom’s wife brings us vegetables from their garden, so we give them free pumpkins in the fall.

It’s called community. The leftover pumpkins in the field feed the pigs.

We give them away and we usually get free pork chops and bacon. ”

I felt a little embarrassed by my first instinct to throw money at the problem. In Manhattan, everything was transactional. You needed something done; you hired someone. The idea that people would just show up to help because you asked was foreign to me.

And it shouldn’t have been because I did grow up here. It just felt like another life.

About an hour later, trucks started pulling into our driveway. John arrived first, his excavator loaded on a flatbed trailer. Behind him came Tom in his pickup, followed by three other neighbors I recognized but hadn’t seen in years.

“Garrett!” John called out, hopping down from his truck. “Haven’t seen you since you were knee-high to a grasshopper. Heard you’re some big-shot lawyer now.”

“Something like that,” I said, shaking his weathered hand.

“Good for you, bud,” John said.

Tom clapped me on the shoulder with a grin. “Billy tells us you’ve been helping get this haunted farm thing off the ground. That’s real nice of you to pitch in.”

“It’s been fun,” I said, and I meant it. “Billy and Sabrina have put in most of the work.”

“Well, it’s bringing folks together,” said another man I vaguely remembered as Mike from the hardware store. “My wife’s already planning to bring the grandkids once we get the corn harvested. Been years since we had something like this around here.”

As we talked, I started to realize something that hadn’t fully hit me before.

For these people, a trip to our farm wasn’t just a casual afternoon outing.

Mike mentioned having to wait until after harvest. Tom’s wife had asked if we’d still be open after she finished canning season.

These were people whose entire lives revolved around the rhythm of farming, where taking an afternoon off for entertainment was something you had to plan around weather and crops and a dozen other variables.

In the city, if I wanted to go to a show or grab dinner somewhere new, I just went.

Money wasn’t a barrier. But for these neighbors, time was the precious commodity.

They worked from dawn to dusk during harvest season, and a few hours at a corn maze represented a real sacrifice of their limited free time.

It made what we were doing feel more important somehow. We weren’t just creating another entertainment option—we were giving hardworking families something to look forward to, a reason to take that rare break from the endless cycle of farm work.

“Alright, let’s get this thing up,” John called out, firing up the excavator. The diesel engine rumbled to life with a cloud of black smoke.

I watched as Billy climbed into the excavator bucket like it was the most natural thing in the world, the heavy sign balanced against his shoulder. Tom hopped in beside him, and John slowly raised the boom toward the entrance posts.

My lawyer brain immediately started cataloguing all the ways this could go wrong.

No safety harnesses, no hard hats, no fall protection of any kind.

The excavator wasn’t even on level ground.

In Manhattan, this would require permits, licensed operators, insurance waivers, and probably a safety inspector.

There’d be forms to fill out in triplicate and meetings to discuss the meetings about the project timeline.

But I kept my mouth shut. These men had been doing things like this their entire lives. They knew their equipment, they knew their limitations, and they’d been looking out for each other long before OSHA existed.

“Little to the left!” Billy called down as they positioned the sign.

John adjusted the boom with the kind of ease that only came from decades of experience. Tom held one end steady while Billy worked to get the mounting brackets lined up with the posts.

“Perfect!” Mike shouted from below. “That looks real professional, boys!”

As they worked, the other neighbors and I held the guide ropes, making sure the sign didn’t swing too much in the breeze.

It was surprisingly satisfying. Working with my hands and other people.

Everyone had a job, everyone contributed, and nobody was checking their phone or thinking about how they could bank the favor.

“Got it!” Billy called out as the last bolt went in. John slowly lowered the boom, and both men hopped out of the bucket with grins on their faces.

We all stepped back to admire the finished product. The sign looked perfect, bold and eye-catching without being gaudy. The slightly weathered look Billy had achieved made it seem like it had been there for years rather than hours.

“Damn fine work,” John said, nodding approvingly.

“My nephew drove down over last weekend just because he saw something about it online. Said it was the best corn maze he’d ever been through.”

I found myself oddly emotional. These people had dropped everything to help us, asking for nothing in return except maybe the same favor someday. It was the kind of community I’d forgotten existed.

“Thanks, everyone,” I called out. “We really appreciate the help.”

The cheers that went up from our little group sounded like we’d just won the Super Bowl instead of hanging a farm sign. The energy was infectious. I found myself grinning and clapping along with everyone else, caught up in the celebration.

Before I could even process that we were apparently having an impromptu party in my driveway, the rumble of another engine cut through the chatter. A massive four-wheeler came barreling down the road toward us, kicking up a cloud of dust.

The rider pulled up right next to our group and killed the engine. When the dust settled, a woman in her sixties hopped off. She was wearing faded jeans, work boots, and a flannel shirt that had definitely seen better days, but her smile was bright enough to power the whole county.

“John Miller, you didn’t tell me you were throwing a party without me!” she called out, pulling what looked like a cooler from the back of her four-wheeler.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Marge.” John laughed, walking over to kiss his wife on the cheek. “The boys were just hanging their new sign.”

“Well, perfect timing then,” Marge said, popping open the cooler. “I was making sandwiches for John’s lunch anyway and figured I’d make a few extra. Good thing, since half the neighborhood’s here!”

She started pulling out wrapped sandwiches and passing them around like she was feeding her own family. The smell of homemade bread hit me. I wasn’t hungry but damn, I was not about to reject fresh bread.

“Here you go, honey,” she said, pressing a sandwich into my hands. “You must be Billy’s brother. I remember you when you were about yay high.” She held her hand at waist level. “Your mama used to bring you to the church potlucks. You always went straight for my chocolate cake.”

I was stunned. This woman had made extra food on the off chance that people might be hungry, then driven over on her four-wheeler to make sure everyone was fed. In Manhattan, I didn’t even know my next-door neighbors’ names, let alone their favorite desserts from thirty years ago.

“Thank you,” I managed. “This is incredibly kind of you.”

She waved me off. “Nonsense. That’s what neighbors do.”

I bit into the sandwich and had to suppress a groan of pleasure. The bread was definitely homemade, the ham was thick-cut and perfect, probably from a pig Billy had helped fatten up last year. It was better than anything I’d paid twenty dollars for in the city.

Around me, the other men were digging into their own sandwiches with the kind of appreciation that only came from people who understood the difference between store-bought and homemade.

The conversation flowed easily as I stood and observed.

They talked about the weather, whose corn was ready for harvest, whose kids were starting school where.

It hit me that this was what community actually looked like.

Not the networking events I attended in Manhattan, where everyone was calculating what they could get from each other, but genuine care.

These people had shown up because Billy asked, stayed because they wanted to celebrate with us, and now Marge was feeding everyone because that’s just what you did.

I found myself thinking about my apartment building in the city.

Forty-three floors, probably three hundred units, and I could count on one hand the number of people I’d actually spoken to.

If I needed help moving furniture or hanging something heavy, I hired someone.

If I was hungry, I ordered delivery. If I was lonely, well, I worked longer hours.

“My hardware store’s already seeing more business from people stopping to ask directions to your place,” Mike said to Billy.

“That’s the idea,” Billy said, grinning. “Rising tide lifts all boats, right?”

“Smart thinking.” Tom nodded. “We could use more reasons for people to visit Greenleaf. Been too quiet around here for too long.”

I watched the easy camaraderie between these men and felt something I hadn’t experienced in years—belonging.

Not the conditional belonging of the law firm, where my value was tied to my billable hours, but the simple acceptance of people who knew my family, remembered my childhood, and were willing to help just because I was Billy’s brother.

The guilt about the appraisal hit me again, sharper this time. These people were investing their time and energy in our success, and I was secretly working to potentially sell off what they were helping to build.