Project Purple

13 - The Pickleherring

It was a two-hour peiod of reflection.

The Preacher, standing on the small platform, cleared his throat: "Hawthorne says in The Scarlet Letter that there can be no outrage more flagrant against our common nature than to forbid the culprit to hide her face for shame."

Jannie Adamson-the Pickleherring-looked out at the gathering in wide-eyed dismay, with her head, and hands, poking out of the circular slots of the pillory.

"You can do it, Jannie," the Goatwench said, as the men locked the top piece of the sturdy board into place.

The Pickleherring was being punished for indolence-for her inability to rise at sunrise with the rest of them; because her body needed the rest; because her bio-rhythms were different.

"I can't get up-my body won't let me; I try!" Jannie had pleaded-to dense, uncaring ears.

The Pickleherring could certainly not hide her face; she couldn't even move her head-now clamped inside the constraining head hole.

The Cowleech folded his arms: "What's the point of disabling her?"

Good question! - Her back would be sore; she'd be out of commission for several days now, no doubt. It was ludicrous! Yet she flopped there, flat-footed, in her supposed shame, with knees bent and elbows wilted helplessly.

"What if my nose itches?"

They were still in a crooked half-circle around the waist-high scaffold, arguing, as usual; but this time Jannie had a personal stake in the outcome.

"For Christ's sake," the Cowleech growled, "so the Picklehering oversleeps-She makes up for her late mornings by working right into the night."

Jannie agreed with that, all right, and displayed her keen agreement by nodding (if one could call it a nod; more like a choppy head jerk) though, really, she seldom worked past sunset; she got just as hungry as the rest of them.

The Governor shook his head, "It's happening with too much regularity." And the others seemed to agree-at least a majority, or so it seemed, which flabbergasted Jannie! - How could anyone be so vindictive? - It stupefied her!

Oh, how she hated that job title of Pickleherring. What was a Pickleherring, anyway? - Some kind of jester? Is that what they thought she was, a clown?

"I don't have jester skills, I can't juggle, I can't even tell a good joke!" Jannie had often protested.

And everyone just shrugged; no one knew why their organizers had assigned the absurd names-though some of the job titles made sense: the Goatwench was a wench, or servant, who milked the goats, and the Governor and Preacher were just that-governing and preaching. But the Cowleech certainly wasn't leeching any cows, the Buckskinner wasn't skinning any bucks, and she certainly wasn't pickling any herrings!

Jannie Adamson had been a Macy's store manager in Peoria, Illinois-until Macy's announced they were closing stores across the country, the Peoria store, included. That was why had she volunteered for the three-month project. There was nothing else for her to do, really, but sit around and watch TV with her mother. And she had considered herself quite fortunate they had chosen her-at the time. But it wasn't her fault she had a weak constitution, and life out here in this hog wallow was just sapping her of what little strength she had.

"The early worm gets eaten by the bird, so sleep late!"

That was a joke, but no one really got her sense of humor. The others didn't understand, and the Matron just shook her head, "Either you run the day, or the day runs you."