[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, two deadhead loggers find something remarkable in the Piney Woods of East Texas, putting them at odds with a large timber company.

And now, the usual content advisory…

“In Cypress Slough” deals with bullying, violence (including gun violence), homophobia, the destruction of wildlife and habitat, structure fires, mention of suicide, and swearing. Also, if you’re driving: be aware there’s a scene with approaching emergency sirens and one LOUD jump-scare (a gunshot).

Before we get going—really quick: did you know one of the founders of Podcast Movement is about to launch an audiodrama? (There’s even a possibility it’s out by the time you listen to this episode of Not About Lumberjacks.) Mitch Todd’s Andromeda Factory is on track to be out in the world soon, but you can listen to the trailer right now by searching for Andromeda Factory wherever you get your podcasts. That’s A-N-D-R-O-M-E-D-A Factory. I’ll include a link to the trailer in the show notes. And…I hear the guy who narrated this very episode of Not About Lumberjacks—ME!—may have contributed to an episode.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

In Cypress Slough

[Guitar Music plays…]

2010

The blur of colors in the trees changed everything: red, black, and white in exactly the right places.

“Did you see that,” Jorge said from the front of the jon boat.

Kade shook his head. “See what?”

“That bird.”

“Lots of birds out here.”

“Yeah, but that one shouldn’t be here.”

“You mean, like, it should be someplace else?”

“No. I mean it shouldn’t be here at all. It shouldn’t exist.”

Moments before, Jorge was telling Kade about the early efforts of over-water oil drilling up north on Caddo Lake. And then, there it was—so clear that it could not be disputed.

“Turn back,” Jorge said.

“I’m not turning around for a bird.”

“You’re not turning around for just a bird. I swear on everything I hold dear in life: I just saw an ivory billed woodpecker.”

[Guitar music fades out…]

* * *

Jorge and Kade met in junior high school, when a group of bullies cornered Kade in the locker room and Jorge stepped in to help. They both took a beating, but from that moment, the two became inseparable friends—parting only when Jorge left their hometown of Lumberton, Texas to study vertebrate zoology at Texas A&M University. When chemistry classes and financial struggles forced Jorge home, Kade was running his dad’s custom furniture shop and offered Jorge a job. In time, they struck out on their own, becoming known beyond the Big Thicket of East Texas for their custom builds. An article in Southern Living about their work with reclaimed sunken cypress logs found them with an abundance of orders and left them astonished by how much people would pay for something they viewed as routine work: building slab tables, benches, and desks.

Jorge convinced Kade they could make even more by reclaiming their own cypress sinkers. While Jorge never followed his father into offshore commercial diving, he shared his dad’s love for being underwater. They split their year diving the Neches River and its tributaries for cypress butt logs that fell off barges in the early 1900s and then building furniture through winter.

* * *

[A boat engine winds down…A trolling motor outters along…]

Kade turned the jon boat around, and Jorge went to the trolling motor when they slowed down.

“Just letting you know, I’m not spending the whole morning out here chasing a bird,” Kade said.

“Ten…fifteen minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

“You’re gonna get us lost. At the very least, stuck.”

[A canoe paddle being pulled from the bottom of an aluminum canoe.]

Jorge picked up a canoe paddle. “I’ll push us back out. No worries.”

He maneuvered the boat off the main waterway and into the trees. [A deep breath—in and then out.] Kade’s apprehension was noted by a quick intake of breath and a slow exhale, a reminder of the day when they were younger and Jorge convinced him to blaze their own trail on the sloughs and creeks in the trees. [Sound of trolling motor fades out.] Even Jorge was amazed how easy it was to get turned around in the seemingly multiplying stands of bald cypress trees. When evening settled in, he grew concerned, noticing the fear in Kade’s face each time he turned back in the canoe hoping Jorge had an idea about which way to go. When darkness further impaired their sense of direction and brought out the kinds of sounds that toy with an imagination, they spotted distant lights. A kind couple with a cabin at the end of an abandoned county road let them call their parents. They shared a dinner of pork chops cooked on the grill, green beans, and mashed potatoes while waiting for Kade’s dad to pick up them and their canoe.

[The sound of the trolling motor returns and fades. Overtaken by water lapping against the sides of the canoe.]

“Don’t worry—GPS,” Jorge said while holding up his Garmin global positioning device.

When they could go no further, Jorge leaned back in his seat and listened. The sound of water sloshing against the side of the boat and moving slowly around knobby tree trunks was only interrupted by bird calls and Kade occasionally taking a sip of coffee from a travel mug. Few pleasures in Jorge’s life beat sitting in a boat on still waters while thinking about how connected everything is. From where he sat, he imagined every nerve in his body stretching into the water and feeling the way south, to Sabine Lake, and emptying into the Gulf of Mexico through the pass. From there, he could go anywhere, but what mattered most was not losing himself in the moment. He stretched and kept his eyes slowly scanning the trees. He heard more than he saw: the calls of wood ducks and the grumbling of great blue herons; nuthatches and warblers and vireos. The distant call of a red-tailed hawk and the staccato drumming of a pileated woodpecker. But no sign, visually or audibly, of the bird Jorge knew he’d seen.

[Canoe paddle thud and a startled person in a boat seat.]

When he picked up the canoe paddle to push the jon boat back from the trees, he heard a startled rustle from Kade in his seat.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Kade said. “I was dozing. You probably could have gotten away with another fifteen or twenty minutes…”

* * *

[SCUBA sounds—intake of breath and bubbles…]

The two spent the day sending Jorge down into the murky waters, feeling his way along the bottom for sunken logs where Kade’s depth finder or Jorge’s instincts indicated they might have a hit. Kade dreamed about finding a barge’s worth of sunken cypress so they could focus only on building, but Jorge loved the hunt. Days out on the water with his best friend, diving into realms ruled by alligators and water moccasins, and sometimes coming up with a payday worth thousands was better than time holed up in their shop building tables and benches for overpriced weekend homes in the woods. Their efforts yielded two finds, which Kade marked in a notebook. The next day they’d return with their floating pontoon winch, Nolan’s Ryan, and pull them up. Jorge wanted to name the boat The Kildeer, [smacking hands playing rock, paper, scissors] but a two-out-of-three round of rock, paper, scissors went in Kade’s favor, and he got naming rights.

* * *

[A metal trailer hitch is released, and a canoe is slid onto a rack.]

When they got back to their shop, Jorge unhitched the jon boat and put his cypress strip canoe, The Gadwall, on the rack.

“You’re going back, ain’t ya?” Kade said.

“Yep.” Jorge went to his trailer home on the property and returned with his camera bag and monopod. “Wanna come along?”

“Nah. Gonna have a couple beers and watch the Astros game.”

“Your loss.”

* * *

[Sounds of a canoe paddled through water.]

For three days after work, Jorge paddled and floated the area where he saw the woodpecker. After a productive week on the river, Kade called for a weekend away from work. For him, it meant firing up his smoker and watching baseball; for Jorge, it meant two full days chasing a ghost. On Sunday morning, he spotted a nuttall oak along the shore stripped of its bark around a hole high up near the top. He marked the spot on his GPS device, grabbed his binoculars, and floated. [Water lapping along the sides of a canoe. The call of an ivory-billed woospecker!] He was eating a Clif Bar about an hour into his stakeout when he saw it. Even from a distance, there was no disputing what he was looking at. He now understood how the bird acquired the nickname “The Lord God Bird”; it was even more magnificent than he imaged.

As the woodpecker clung to the tree, Jorge followed the white stripes along its back to the white feathers at the ends of its wings, a pattern reminiscent of the gangly, awkward kid at school with the low-slung backpack. [Rusting and several camera shutter releases.] He slowly picked up his camera and took a series of photos. His heart raced as he viewed the ivory-billed woodpecker through the long lens on his camera. He switched over to video, watching the bird move around its roosting cavity. Before advancing closer, he checked his camera. The photos and video footage were in perfect focus—no Bigfoot-blur or distant footage to be argued over: Jorge had conclusive evidence the ivory-billed woodpecker was not extinct. [Momentary canoe paddling.] Paddling forward through the trees, his presence eventually startled the bird. [More camera sounds.] He raised his camera but was too slow. Still, he knew it would be back.

Jorge spent the day watching and filming the woodpecker in flight and at its roost. He was so enthralled with what he’d found that when darkness fell, the only thing preventing a repeat of the lost-on-the-sloughs incident from his youth were waypoints in a Garmin GPS device to get him back to the truck.

* * *

[Tires on gravel getting closer. Rustling, and a truck door closing. In the background, a crackling fire.]

When he pulled up, Kade was sitting at the fire pit between their trailers.

“I was just about to give you a call. Figured you were either lost, or that you chased it until dark and decided to spend the night.”

Jorge grabbed his camera bag and wandered over. “Or…I spent the day watching and filming it.”

“No kidding?”

“Not one bit. I got it!”

[A lawn chair dragged across dirt.]

He dragged his chair next to Kade’s and showed him some of the photos and footage.

“Well, I’ll be…” [Two beers pulled from ice. Opening and tossing bottletops into a firepit.] Kade reached into a cooler and came out with two Shiners. He unscrewed the tops, tossed them in the fire, and handed one of the beers to Jorge.

“Cheers!”

[Beer bottles clinking together.]

“Cheers.”

[A long sip of beer following by an “Ahh…”]

After a long draw from the bottle, Kade said, “So, now what?”

“I gave that some thought on the drive back. I’m taking tomorrow off. I emailed a biologist I found on the Parks and Wildlife website. Heading up to his office in Jasper to show him. I know what I’m looking at, but I want confirmation.”

“Sure that’s a good idea?”

“Yeah, why?”

“If the bird’s there, it’s there without our interference. Seems best to leave well enough alone.”

“Fair point. I thought about that, too. Cross Pine Lumber is still cutting tracts down to nothing up there. That area needs to be preserved. Some small-town sweetheart business deal gets made, and all that’s gone.”

“True. But it’s not so easy for bigger operations to move around like us.”

“That’s their problem.”

“Yep, it is. At least until they make it ours…”

[Crackling fire fades out…]

* * *

[Footsteps on a cheap floor.]

When Jorge stepped into the Department of Parks and Wildlife office, he was greeted at the desk by a biologist who said, “Jorge Martinez?”

“Yes. You must be Devin Spencer?”

“Indeed, I am. Been looking forward to this all morning. Come on back.”

[Footsteps on a cheap floor.]

Jorge followed Devin to his office, a small room in a back corner of the double-wide construction trailer serving as a field office. The desk and chairs looked like they’d been there since the seventies. Maps of the area covered the faux-wood paneled walls. The only color in the space was a small Pride flag on top of a short bookcase full of binders.

Jorge pointed at the flag. “Is that for you, or for a friend or family?”

“That’s mine. Why?”

“You just don’t meet many out people like us in the sticks.”

“Really?”

Jorge nodded.

“Interesting,” Devin said. He pointed to a chair. “So, you said you have some photos and video you wanted to show me? Can you finally tell me what’s up?”

[A creaking chair, followed by the sound of Windows 7 booting up.]

Jorge sat down and booted up his laptop. “I have conclusive proof of an ivory-billed woodpecker living near Black Creek off the Neches River. I know you’re probably thinking, ‘Oh, he’s about to show me a pileated woodpecker,’ but trust me on this.”

“I wasn’t really thinking about anything—just waiting for you. But, now that I am giving it thought, I suppose that would be the most likely outcome.”

Devin gasped when Jorge opened the first photo. Leaning in for a closer look, he said, “This isn’t a prank?”

“Nope. I have video, too.”

After Jorge showed Devin the photos, he opened the videos.

“Listen,” he said. [The kanting of an ivory-billed woodpecker.] Not only did he have its calls, but he was close enough to see the massive woodpecker vocalize.

“How did you find it?”

“I reclaim sunken cypress logs and build furniture with a friend. I always keep an eye out for wildlife—especially when he’s driving the boat and I’m up front. I gasped, too, when I saw it. I kept going back until finally finding it yesterday.”

“Do you mind if I show this to others?”

“Not at all.”

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Jorge showed biologists with the Texas Parks and Wildlife Department and, eventually, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service where the woodpecker lived. Devin took part in the state surveys, pairing up with Jorge until the organizations had plans to preserve the area. Kade spent his days marking potential locations for Jorge to eventually explore and finally revamping the company website.

[A crackling fire…]

One evening while sitting around the fire pit, he said to Jorge, “We really need to hit the spots I’ve marked lately. Before they shut this all down. You know that’s coming, right?”

“Yeah. Not sure how much of the area will get protected, but it’s in the works.”

“Does that mean you’re done being a tour guide and can get back to work this week?”

“Yep.”

[Crackling fire fades…]

* * *

[Tires on gravel.]

Two days later, when they pulled off the dirt fishing road leading up to the put-in point for their boat, Jorge and Kade were greeted by four men blocking the way. One of them held a felling ax–two-and-a-half pounds of sharpened steel at the end of a 32-inch hickory handle. A red and black buffalo plaid flannel completed the lumberjack look.

“Is that Davy Boyd?” Jorge said.

Kade stopped the truck. “Lemme do the talking.”

[Truck doors closing. Footsteps on gravel.]

They got out and slowly approached the group.

“Morning, gentlemen. Davy. How can we help you?”

Davy Boyd held the ax in his right hand and pointed with his left index finger, a rubbery, sausage-like appendage with manicured nails. “It’s too late for that, thanks to him. Shoulda put you two boys down back when I had the chance.”

Davy Boyd was the school bully leading the attack on Kade the day Jorge met his best friend. Throughout middle and high school, the two thwarted attacks by Davy and his friends until one day reaching their end. They waited in the bushes for Davy to drop Carrie Johnson off after a Friday night football game. Carrie’s father was not very keen on his daughter’s choice of boyfriend, so Davy dropped her off at the end of the long driveway and at least had the decency to wait for her to get inside before leaving. When he turned around, Kade and Jorge jumped him.

[Grunting and the sounds of a fight. The cocking of a shotgun.]

Davy took the beating and worked his way back to his truck, where he pulled a shotgun from the gun rack in the back window. He leveled it at Kade and Jorge, sending them scrambling. [Footsteps retreating.] For years, Davy reminded the two he could have shot them dead that night and gotten away with it in self-defense.

“There’s no need to be mad,” Kade said.

“No need to be mad? I have a stand of timber worth about half a million dollars ready to harvest that they’ll likely keep me from. And Earl, here, was planning to put a couple cabins on his property and retire early. But none of these things’ll happen, now, ’cause the government’s gonna come in and restrict us at best…or seize our land at worst. And it’s all your fault!”

“I worried about the same thing,” Kade said. “Hell, I even tried convincing Jorge it might not be his best idea. But he has a point, too. Why should all of us benefit at the risk of a species going away forever? Maybe that’s the only ivory-billed woodpecker in the world out there. Or maybe there’s more–I don’t fuckin’ know. I do know I wanna keep going on with what we do back here as much as y’all…it’s a sweet gig. But Jorge and I will find another place for sinkers if need be. You own half the friggin’ county, Davy—you’re not gonna run out of timber. We have the chance to save something everyone thought was gone for good.”

“I’m sorry you two are willing to roll over and take it,” Davy said. “But we’re not. They shut all this down, and there’ll be hell to pay…”

Earl McKeen pointed at Kade’s jon boat. “You put your boat in on my land. I’ve always been good with that, boys…it’s only locals who know this spot. But no more. I see you on my property, that’s trespassing now. I see you back here again, if I’m in a good mood, I’ll put salt shot in your asses. If I’m feeling mean, I might do worse. You best get back in that truck right now and find another place to launch your boat.”

* * *

[Music plays—a news station intro. A woman’s voice: “Ivory-billed woodpecker mania is sweeping the region. With a confirmed sighting of the rare and elusive species, birdwatchers from around the world are descending on the Piney Woods of East Texas…”]

Davy’s, Earl’s, and even Kade’s initial concerns and fears were not unfounded. While no land was seized, a wider than anticipated territory was established under the Endangered Species Act, leaving even Jorge and Kade seeking new areas still within the limits of their permit. But what was a bust for some was a boon for others. Once the story reached the news, Lumberton, Silsbee, Evadale, and Buna all claimed the ivory-billed woodpecker as their own, even though the bird resided well outside the limits of the four towns. Buna went as far as painting its regionally famous Polka Dot House with cartoon woodpecker heads. Chambers of commerce decorated in similar fashions, anticipating the rush of people hoping for a peek at the bird. Restaurants created themed menu items, resulting in light-hearted rivalries between local burger joints offering up Big Woody burgers, Lord God Patty Melts, and Knock-on-Wood sliders. Barbers offered sleek ivory-billed woodpecker influenced haircuts, and every independently owned hotel seemed to change their name to the Ivory-Billed Inn. It was almost hard to fault them. With a confirmed sighting, birdwatchers from far reaches lined the Neches River bordering the protected area in the hope of catching a glimpse of the rare and impressive bird. When they weren’t on the water, they needed places to stay and things to do.

* * *

[A crackling fire…]

Jorge and Kade were sitting at the fire pit drinking beer when Kade said, “Ya know, I’ve been thinking: might be best to stop diving for logs and shift to building while this all blows over. We can’t even get back on Village or Hickory creek, let alone the river. It’s crazy.”

“It is,” Jorge said. “I got an email today from someone telling me he’s willing to pay me fifty-thousand dollars to take him back and see it.”

“You gonna do it?”

“Nope!”

“Why not? That’s a lot of money for a few hours in a canoe.”

“They’ve been picking up trespassers and fining them.”

“Yeah, but for fifty grand, I’d still be tempted. Pay the fine if you get caught, and still walk away with thousands.”

“It’s not worth it. If something bad happened to the bird when I was back there and I was blamed, that would cover the fine, but it wouldn’t account for potential jail time. And as the guy who found the bird, I feel a weird sense of duty to it and the people working to preserve things.”

“Like Devin?”

“Yeah, Devin, too.”

“How’s that going?”

“We stay in touch through email, but that’s about it.”

“You should ask him out for coffee or something. See how things have been going. It’s not like we’re busy right now.”

“True. But if we shift to building mode, we will be.”

“Stop with the excuses. You deserve to be happy. Even if we switch over, there’s a lot to get in order. That’s time to at least find out…”

[Crackling fire fades out…]

* * *

[Emergency sirens in the distance getting closer.]

Jorge awoke to the sound of distant sirens getting closer. He looked at the curtains, watching lights flash against them before realizing the sirens were distant enough that he wouldn’t see them yet. This was a different kind of flickering.

From Kade’s trailer, he heard his friend shout, “Jorge! Get out here!”

He pulled on a pair of hiking sandals and charged out wearing only his sleep shorts. [A slamming screen door. The sounds of a roaring structure fire.] It was a cool evening for the season, but he felt the heat from the fire.

Kade pulled a fire extinguisher from the back of the truck and ran for their shop. “Get the hose!”

[Running footfalls. The WHOOSHING of a fire extinguisher. Firetruck engine rattling and a second distant siren getting closer.]

By the time Kade emptied the fire extinguisher and Jorge joined his side, a fire truck and ambulance arrived. In the distance, another siren was getting closer.

* * *

[Dripping water.]

When the fire was extinguished, they assessed the damage with the company lieutenant. The insulation on one side of the steel-frame unit was burned away, and much of their curing cypress toasted. The portable sawmill looked like a total loss.

“I think most of these logs and slabs survived,” Kade said. “Or will at least be usable with a bit of work.”

[A chunk of glass scooted on concrete.]

The company lieutenant toed a piece of shattered glass on the floor near their timber. It looked like the bottom of a bottle. He pointed at a broken window.

“Is there any reason either of you can think of that someone might have started this fire?”

Jorge nodded. “Yes. Why?”

“We’ll bring in an investigator tomorrow, but this might be deliberate.

[Dripping water fades out…]

* * *

[A large pickup truck pulls up.]

When Davy Boyd pulled into his reserved spot in front of the Cross Pine Timber warehouse, Jorge and Kade were waiting. He flashed them a cocky grin as he pulled off his wrap-around Oakley sunglasses and placed them on his company cap. [A closing truck door and footsteps.] Davy stepped out of his Ford F-450 pickup truck and said, “What can I do for you ladies this fine morning?”

“You know damn well what you can do!” Kade said.

“Whoa, calm down there, Kadie-Boy. I haven’t even had my coffee. And no, I don’t know what I can do. Perhaps you can catch me up to speed…”

“Someone fire-bombed our place last night,” Kade said. “You can probably imagine why we might think it was you?”

“Nope. Sure can’t.”

[Footsteps.]

Kade made a fist and took a step forward.

“You might want to think twice about that. There’s a reason I carry my keys in my left pocket.”

[Rustling fabric.]

Jorge noticed the bulge from a pistol on Davy’s right side and grabbed the back of Kade’s shirt.

“I’m serious, fellas: I haven’t thought about your place until just now—not that I give a shit. I’m guessing you’re only gonna garner more enemies now that news has spread that your little buddy’s responsible forth whole area turning into a circus. Come around here again, and you two might get hurt.”

Davy Boyd pushed past Kade and Jorge.

“They’re doing an investigation,” Kade said. “If you did it, they’ll find out.”

Davy turned around and grinned. “You know damn well if I had done it that nothing would happen to me. Now, you girls get off my property and never set foot on any spot I own ever again. Understand?”

* * *

[Typing on a keyboard.]

Jorge took Kade’s advice and emailed Devin, asking if he wanted to get some coffee and chat. Devin replied, telling Jorge to bring a Thermos and meet him at the John’s Lake Road put-in point Earl McKeen told him to stay away from. [A truck pulling up on a dirt road.] Devin was already there when Jorge arrived. Earl was in his backyard. When he saw Jorge, he gave him the finger.

“Don’t worry,” Devin said. “He does that every time. We’ve tried talking with him…telling him the day may come when he can’t put in enough cabins on his property to meet the demand for visitors.”

“Yeah. But that finger was meant for me. He knows I’m the one who reported it. Threatened to shoot us if we ever put in here again.”

“Well, you’re safe with me.”

[A canoe sliding off a roof rack. Rustling fabric and items placed in an aluminum canoe.]

After they got the canoe from the back of Devin’s work truck, he tossed Jorge a personal floatation device and packed a few dry bags into the boat.

“So, what are we doing?” Jorge said.

“I have to check all the field cameras and autonomous recording units. You’ve not been back here a while. I figured why not have coffee and chat while checking things.”

[A canoe paddled through calm water.]

As they glided through the trees, Jorge adapted his breathing to the rhythm of paddle strokes. He loved being in the bow, blocking his view of the front of the canoe and imagining himself skimming across the water’s surface. It was that time of the year before murky floodwaters clouded the shallows where hungry white bass flashed bright like giant coins and vegetation undulated beneath the surface, like long hair waving in a breeze.

“How’ve you been going?” Devin said.

“It’s been a crazy week. Had a guy offer me fifty-grand to take him back here. I told him no, of course. Then our warehouse appears to have been firebombed.”

“What?!”

“Yeah. Looks like someone knocked out a window and tossed in a Molotov cocktail. Fortunately—aside from our sawmill—it wasn’t a total loss. And then my best friend decided to pick a fight with a guy who’s bullied us since high school, and now I’m here.”

[A slow breath, in and out…]

Jorge took in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. In the rush of everything, he’d not been on still water for over a month.

“So, I take it you were bullied because you’re gay?”

“Nah. At least not initially. I saw a group of guys beating up my best friend, Kade, and tried helping. We both got our asses kicked. Really, though, I think he got bullied more than I did. No one knew I was gay, but…they knew. So, they teased Kade for being my friend more than they picked on me for being gay. I’m sure you can imagine.”

“Yeah. Definitely not the best place to grow up gay. I hid it well. My dad always had his suspicions, but he let me act tough. I think he was relieved—just for my own preservation. He grew up outside and taught me everything he knew, so I was able to hide it and blend in. Until I went to college and didn’t have to hide it as much anymore.”

“Do you still see your dad?”

“Yes. My mom and my dad. How ’bout you?”

“My folks moved to Austin when I went to school, but I see them when I can. My mom was a Longhorn. I think she hoped when I visited Austin that I’d change my mind and go there.”

“You mentioned you dropped out?”

“Yeah.”

“How come?”

“Couldn’t afford it. And then business took off for Kade and me.”

“Is everything you make from reclaimed cypress?”

“Most of it. It’s become what we’re known for. I miss making more intricate furniture. What we reclaim from the water is mostly good for tables and benches.”

“Well, you might get the chance to get back to better things.”

Jorge turned around. “What do you mean?”

“State’s considering restricting sinker salvage. It’s destroying wildlife habitats.”

“I know someone who’s not gonna like that news…”

[Paddled canoe fades out…]

* * *

[A crackling fire.]

“You know I’m on your side with all this environmental stuff,” Kade said. “Right?”

“Yeah.”

“But you can see how some people feel it’s all too much?”

“Sure, I can see that,” Jorge said, “but it doesn’t mean I have to side with it. It’s like anything, really…if we’d cared more all along—been nicer all along—we’d not see so much push-back today. It only happens because we destroy everything when given the chance. Half the people who live out here are freaking out that white people one day won’t be the majority in this country, but the only reason to fear that is if you’ve been cruel all along—and you keep at it, instead of acknowledging the past and changing your ways. Same thing with protecting species. Look at how much we’ve driven to extinction because no one stopped us. Hell, our national bird was once on the Endangered Species List. If that doesn’t tell you everything you need to know, I don’t know what does.

“I love diving for logs. I love being in the shop with you, too, but I love being out on the water even more. And I know we can’t live without doing some kind of damage to other things, but I hate the thought of me not being smart enough to figure out a way to do something if it means saving something that can’t avoid its impending demise. The least I can do is care enough to consider something else. If hauling logs out of creeks and rivers destroys habitats, I’m willing to try thinking about how to shift what we do.”

[Sipping sounds.]

Kade took a swig of beer and said, “Yeah…you’re right. Of course. I suppose I got used to making simple furniture that paid well enough to let us putter around on the water a little more than half the year. Did you have a good morning at least?”

“Yeah. A great morning. Devin’s a really cool guy. And they think they might have heard another ivory-billed woodpecker. It was on one of their recorders. Distant enough that they can’t confirm it. But they’re hopeful.”

“Well, hope’s a good thing…”

“Indeed. To hope.”

“Cheers.”

[Beer bottles clanking together.]

“Cheers…”

[Crackling fire fades out…]

* * *

[A diesel pickup truck pulling up.]

Jorge and Kade were almost done cleaning up their shop when they heard the rattle of a diesel engine and tires on gravel. It sounded like a small semi tractor pulling up. When they stepped out to see what it was, they saw the grill of Davy Boyd’s pickup truck. Davy cut the engine and got out.

[A truck door closing.]

“What the hell do you want?” Kade said.

Davy looked at the shop. “Seems someone accused me of setting your place on fire. Cops came by asking me if I had anything to do with it. Any idea who might have told them to bother me?”

“No idea,” Kade said.

“Huh, that’s funny. ‘Cause when I asked around, they told me it was you two.”

“We didn’t say you did it,” Jorge said. “They asked us if we could think of anyone who might have done it. You and your friends threatening us on John’s Lake Road didn’t put you at the bottom of our list. So, yeah, we mentioned you and Earl McKeen’ names—why wouldn’t we? You, standing there with an ax, acting like some butch lumberjack and Earl threatening to shoot us if they put restrictions on the area. And you seriously wonder why we’d have them check with you? You’ve never been very bright, Davy, but come on.”

Davy looked at Kade and said, “You better shut your girlfriend up.”

[Rustling fabric.]

Jorge put his arm in front of his best friend and held him back.

[Patting hand on jeans.]

Davy patted his right hip and said, “Best listen to your little bitch.”

“Fuck you!” Kade said. “You’re pathetic. That gun…this truck. What are you compensating for, Davy? You’re only tough if you have that thing on your side or ten friends standing behind you.”

[A gun being pulled from a holster and set on the hood of a truck.]

Davy reached for the pistol. He pulled it from the holster and set it on the hood of his truck.

“There. You want to settle this, then let’s settle it.”

“There’s nothing to settle,” Jorge said.

Davy looked at Kade. “What about you?”

[A person being shoved aside.]

Kade shoved Jorge aside and said, “Yeah, there’s a lot to settle. Years of his bullshit…”

[Charging footfalls.]

Davy squared up, but Kade was on him before he could throw a punch. Years of letting other people do the hard work for him did Davy no favors. Despite towering over Kade, hauling logs out of rivers and moving slabs of timber around kept Kade fit. [Tackle sound.] He hit Davy just below the ribs with his shoulder, taking the wind out of him. [A body hitting the ground.] Before Davy could catch his breath, Kade went for a leg, toppling the mini giant. [Rapid-fire punches.] He climbed onto his chest and started punching.

Jorge let him get in a few shots before trying to pull Kade off Davy, but there were decades of grief being released in his best friend’s rage. [Fabric rustling; more punching.] Kade wriggled free each time Jorge tried grabbing him; he kept hammering Davy’s face with his fists. When Davy went limp, he didn’t stop. Even when Jorge did get a hold, Kade wrapped his legs around Davy’s body and refused to let up.

[A gunshot!]

BANG!

The sound of the gun brought Kade back. He looked at Jorge, who’d just fired a shot into a thick pile of ruined lumber.

“What the hell?”

Jorge said, “You won, all right? I had to do something. You looked like you were gonna kill him.”

As Kade caught his breath, he looked at Davy’s red and puffy face. Blood flowed from his nose. A fat lip redirected the rivulet toward his cheek.

[Helping someone up from the ground.]

When Davy came to, Jorge helped him up. Davy looked toward the hood of his truck.

“Looking for this?” Jorge said. He waved the gun in his hand.

“Give that back!”

“Why, so you can shoot us? Nah, you’re not getting this back right now. Both of you are too wound up for that. I’ll bring it by your office later today when you calm down and get cleaned up from the ass beating you just took. Right now, you’re gonna leave. You give us any more grief, and we’ll tell the cops you took a shot at us, missed, and Kade had no choice. And yeah, I know—you have friends in high places. But this is a little county, and I’m friends with a bunch of people with the state Department of Parks and Wildlife and even a few people with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I’m sure if I told them I didn’t think you were following all the rules the county lets you break that it would put a damper on your business. So why don’t you think about that?”

[A truck door opens and closes. The engine starts.]

Davy pointed at them; then shook his head and got into his truck. Beneath the hood, the engine roared to life. [A slap!] When Kade smiled and waved at Davy, Jorge slapped his hand down and told him to stop.

* * *

Later that day, Jorge drove to Cross Pine Timber and asked for Davy. Davy looked like a prizefighter on the wrong end of a bad night.

“Can we step outside?” Jorge said.

Davy looked worried for a moment, but seemed to catch on when Jorge patted his right pocket. [Patting sounds.]

[Background ambience: a slight breeze.]

“Here you go,” Jorge said as he handed Davy his pistol. “I know I don’t need to be, but I’m sorry about all this. I’m sorry you have a stand of timber you can’t get to right now. I even feel for Earl. I feel for Kade—he’s more on your side in all this than you know. Our days of recovering sinkers are numbered. It’s up to us to figure what we’ll do when that day comes.

“I don’t care if you can or can’t see any of this from my point of view, but I want you to think about how it is for Kade. You’ve been giving him grief for almost twenty years…for no reason other than you decided to target him and make his life hell. And then you went at him harder once he and I became friends. Even though he’s straight, you gave him more grief about being gay than me. Hell, you made fun of me for being a Mexican, even though my family’s been here for probably as many generations as yours. All I’ll say about your face is this: it looks like that right now because you brought it upon yourself. You’re a grown friggin’ man still acting like you’re in high school. You’ve got a good life, so let that shit go. You won the prize—isn’t that enough?”

Davy said nothing.

“You and Kade just need to ignore each other. But I want you to mull this over: this is all on you. Had you never picked on him, this wouldn’t have happened. Also, if you ever go at him again, I won’t stop him from killing you. ‘Cause I’m pretty sure in the rage he let go when he was on top of you, that was his intent.”

Jorge extended his hand.

[The smack of a handshake.]

It took a moment, but Davy Boyd shook it before heading back inside.

* * *

[The sounds of a package being opened.]

Two days later, a package a little larger than a shoe box arrived, addressed to Bald Cypress Furnishings. Inside was a dead ivory-billed woodpecker and a note reading:

“This is what you get for shutting it all down and calling the cops on me. Send them again—this time, I’ll be ready.”

“You shouldn’t have stopped me from beating the hell out of Davy,” Kade said. “That son of a bitch…”

“I don’t think it was him.”

“Come on! You know it was.”

“No. I think he kinda gets it. Let me make this call…”

* * *

[News show music plays. A woman’s voice: “In Hardin County, Texas, a tense standoff between police and Earl McKeen, the man who killed the last ivory-billed woodpecker, ended in tragedy.”]

The last stand of Earl McKeen made the evening news even beyond the borders of the Big Thicket. An armed standoff with the man who killed the last ivory-billed woodpecker ended with him setting fire to his home and taking his life with a single bullet. Jorge and Kade watched footage of his burning house from a helicopter.

“You were right,” Jorge said. “I should have shut up. Earl might have been a crotchety old fuck, but he didn’t deserve that end. And the woodpecker did well enough without our influence. “

“Nah,” Kade said. “It lived right on the edge of where Davy was gonna harvest timber. So, who knows what would have happened with it, but it probably wouldn’t have been good. At least you cared.”

“Lotta good it did.”

“Yeah, it did. You brought a lot of people together. That bird brought hope back to this area. Maybe some kid growing up around here right now remembers this, goes off to school, and becomes a biologist like Devin instead of going to work for Davy. Maybe some of the dumbasses out here who vote for people like Davy’s dad consider this and vote for somebody better. I don’t know, but I do know I was wrong when I said you should have let well enough alone. Well enough only goes so far when people are willing to do whatever they want if they know they can get away with it. You did the right thing. Never forget that.”

* * *

[Windows 7 boots up.]

After dinner, Jorge booted up his laptop. He opened Outlook and composed an email.

[Typing on a keyboard.]

“Devin. I’m sure by now you’ve heard the news. I’m so sorry. I know it’s not my fault this all happened, but I can’t help but feel responsible to some degree. I’m glad there are people like you out there trying to make a difference. Jorge.”

[Outlook notification sound.]

He was dozing when he heard his email notification. He opened Devin’s reply.

“Jorge. Yes, I heard. I have a hard time feeling for Mr. McKeen. Take your stand, sure, but why kill the bird? I’m sorry you were on the receiving end of all this. I’m heading out in the morning to check field cameras and recorders—I’d love to have some company. Meet me at the put-in point around 6:30? Devin.”

* * *

[A truck pulls up on a dirt road.]

When Jorge pulled up, he could smell the burned remains of Earl McKeen’s house. He was happy to see Devin already there with a canoe in the water. On closer inspection, he noticed the boat had a square stern with a small outboard motor attached. He got out of the truck.

[A closing truck door.]

“Good morning,” Devin said.

“Morning.” Jorge pointed at the canoe. “What’s with that?”

“We’re gonna head up-river a bit. We could paddle, but this is much easier.”

[Sounds of a canoe being packed.]

As they put on floatation devices and packed a few dry bags into the canoe, Jorge looked north, through the trees where he’d found the ivory-billed woodpecker. One of the most beautiful places he knew now seemed devoid of life, despite still teeming with the energy of a rising morning.

[An outboard motor and canoe cutting through the water.]

As they made their way up the Neches River, they passed the spot where Jorge first caught sight of the bird. He wondered what its fate would have been had he never said a word.

[The boat engine is cut. Canoe paddling takes over.]

A couple miles up, Devin cut the engine. He and Jorge began paddling into the trees, following a winding creek deeper into the canopy. The creek gave way to a series of sloughs.

Jorge said, “My friend Kade and I got lost on waters like this when we were kids. He’s still nervous to come back to places like this.”

“What about you?” Devin said. “Does this bother you?”

“No. I love it. It’s places like this that keep me in the area. I’ve thought about leaving, but this part of the state is definitely not without its magic.”

“You’ll get no argument from me. If Kade isn’t game to get lost back in places like this, I am. Anytime you want to come out, let me know.”

“I’d like that.”

“Of course, I’d not object to seeing each other outside of all this, either. Maybe dinner sometime?”

“I’d like that even more.”

“Wonderful…”

They paddled in silence, sometimes following creeks—other times, shallow bodies of still water. Jorge lost track of time, but didn’t want to check his phone or ask Devin. Instead, he said, “Where are we going?”

“You’re patient. Most people would have asked that before even getting in the canoe. We’re almost there.”

“Where is there?”

“You’ll see…”

[The call of an ivory-billed woodpecker.]

Several minutes later, Jorge swore he heard the call of an ivory-billed woodpecker. He turned back to look Devin, who smiled and nodded.

The trees gave way to a clearing in the middle of it all, a large slough among the cypress trees. Across the water, a line of nuttall oaks stood watch on a raised shore.

“Psst.”

[Water lapping at the sides of a canoe.]

Jorge turned around to Devin handing him a pair of binoculars. Devin pointed to a tree with scaled bark high up.

Jorge sighted the tree and moved his view up to the hole. [Chirping of chicks.] Three tiny heads poked out, comical, big-eyed little wedges waiting for food. In time, their mother returned to the nest, sending the chicks into a frenzy. She wasn’t as colorful as Jorge’s woodpecker, but she was equally beautiful.

“We spotted another male,” Devin whispered. “And we’ve picked up recordings north of here that we think might be another. We’re hopeful there are enough for a recovery.”

[Coffee poured into a cup.]

He poured Jorge a cup of coffee and handed it to him before pouring one for himself. Jorge set the binoculars down and took it all in. Perhaps what he was looking at would make it on their own, a population of a species on the brink reclaiming what belonged to them long before progress and greed took over. But he knew that was unlikely. In taking his stand, the lineage of the birds before him might thrive long after he was gone and forgotten. The thought made him smile—and as he recalled all the times he was told to pay attention to menial things by teachers and bosses and other people who, in turn, missed the obvious beauty right in front of them, he chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” Devin said.

“Just thinking about how strange this has all been. And how disconnected people are to so many amazing things.” He watched the ivory-billed woodpecker feeding her brood. “The wonders of the world are everywhere, if only we’d open our eyes and listen…”

[The calls of an ivory-billed woodpecker. Water lapping at the sides of the canoe fade out.]

[Upbeat guitar music plays and fades out…]

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks…not just this episode, but some of you, every story and behind-the-scenes commentary for the six years of the show’s existence. I put 40-60 hours into each episode, which is a lot of time for something that makes no money or even gets many listens…but knowing you’re listening makes it worthwhile. So…thanks! Okay, onward…

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by River Foxcraft, licensed through Epidemic Sound.

Sound effects are made in-house or from Epidemic Sound and freesound.org. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

In December, the other now-annual tradition continues as I share a handful of very short short stories, one of which is always a Christmas tale.

[Quirky music fades out…]

[The sound of a chopping ax.]

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Intro music plays]

[Woman’s Voice]

This is Behind the Cut. The companion show to Not About Lumberjacks.

[Music fades out]

Christopher Gronlund:

Behind the Cut is a behind-the-scenes look at the latest episode of Not About Lumberjacks and likely contains spoilers of the latest episode. You’ve been warned…”

* * *

John Irving doesn’t write a novel until he can work from the ending back to the beginning. Other writers plot out everything before they sit down and begin writing stories. These kind of people are called planners by other writers.

And then there are writers who begin with little more than an image that intrigues them. Haruki Murakami once said, “When I start to write, I don’t have a plan at all. I just wait for the story to come. I don’t choose what kind of story it is or what’s going to happen. I just wait.”

These kinds of people are called pantsers by other writers because they write by the seat of their pants.

I am a pantser. I was going to begin this episode of Behind the Cut talking about how the last handful of Not About Lumberjacks stories were started with no end in mind. But then, when I looked at the Quick List on the site containing all the stories, I realized almost everything I write is an act of discovery.

* * *

In the fall of 1979, one of my best friends introduced me to a little game called Dungeons and Dragons. As fifth graders, we were just realizing there was a subculture that played wargames, and something blurring the lines between that and telling stories intrigued us.

But in those first couple years, the stories were contained within the walls of dungeons. Players might figure out a different way through a challenge, but you were bound by the environment.

Then came an adventure module called The Village of Hommlet. Sure, adventurers eventually found a dungeon, but the first part of the game was wide open. Players could do anything! And I loved running friends through that adventure because not knowing what would happen next fascinated me. From that point on, I loved running games in open places where maybe I had an idea for the evening, or even a larger story arc, but if my friends wanted to do something else entirely, I ran with it and made up adventures in the moment.

It was great training for writing stories.

* * *

When I started writing the latest Not About Lumberjacks story, “Milkboy,” I only knew I would base it on a shitty thing a friend and I did to our best friend in, I think, 1990…maybe ’91. Before common access to the world wide web was a thing, if you had a geeky computer friend like my friend Mark, you might have hung out on a bulletin board system—a computer running a network people called to share messages and files. (Yeah, it was all pretty much on some person’s computer in, probably, some crappy apartment like Tim and Mark’s.)

Mark belonged to a BBS and eventually let his roommate, Tim, create a profile and access things. Me as well.

One evening, Mark and I decided to create a fake online persona named Milkboy and mess with Tim. The earlier parts of “Milkboy” are wholly true. The real ending, though, went something like this:

Tim did want to meet Milkboy in real life. Mark and I knew we had a problem.

One day Tim was so kind to take Mark and me to the Modern Museum in Fort Worth, Texas…and then to dinner at a pizza place on the way home. There, Mark and I told him that we were Milkboy. Tim was rightfully hurt, and Mark and I felt like shit. (To this day, we’re surprised Tim didn’t stick us with the bill and leave us stranded in Fort Worth. But then, you can probably tell, Tim was kind of a better guy than Mark and me.)

It’s a funny story to tell when hanging out and talking about stupid things done in one’s early adulthood, but it’s not worthy of publication. It needed something more.

* * *

I’ve talked about my love for the “What If?” game before. I enjoy looking at even a mundane situation and asking, “What if…” and seeing where it takes me. Often, as a storyteller, it eliminates storylines that aren’t very strong.

Not knowing where I was taking “Milkboy,” one of those “What ifs” was, “What if Tim found out the truth and fucked with us in return? What if Tim not only said he wanted to meet Milkboy, but was going to introduce us to him?” (Yeah, this person we made up.)

That’s an interesting turn, which led to figuring out how to pull it off.

And that’s what I ran with for “Milkboy.”

* * *

I’m proud of all the stories on Not About Lumberjacks, but the stories created for the show—not the stories I’d written before it started—impress me the most.

For a moment, though, “Milkboy” seemed like a story just going through the motions. It was good, but…if put against, say, the last five stories on the site, it would have definitely been a bit of a dip. It didn’t feel right—it needed something more.

* * *

There are probably more than a half-dozen quotes about sculpting attributed to Michelangelo with a gist of, “There’s something wondrful in that block of marble, and it’s my job to find it and make it real.”

I’ve read and watched interviews with other artists about how they know a piece is done, and most of them say something to the effect of, “I know it’s done when it feels right.”

“Milkboy” did not feel right…just as “Calling Out of Time” didn’t feel right until I reached the end. “A Deathly Mistake” as well…really most stories on Not About Lumberjacks.

“Milkboy” needed something more than, “Hey, let’s fuck with Tim. Oh, look—Tim turned the tables on us. Oh, wasn’t that funny?”

But what?

* * *

If you’ve listened to “Milkboy” you know it was released on Tim’s birthday. You know I’m still friends with Tim and Mark. So…I knew two things: the story needed another turn that put it into the realm of ridiculous…and, in the end, it had to be a heartfelt tale of decades-long friendships.

Enter Demon Milkboy…

* * *

Initially, I just thought it would be funny if Milkboy/Lance kept showing up. Turning it into a tale of obsession…either the guy Tim got to play Milkboy sticking with the role like a method actor, or…just being a bit off and obsessed with the three main characters.

Again, it was a good turn, but it still felt small to me. But as I started writing the scenes where Lance started following us, it started getting creepy. And…because, along the way, I realized I was writing a gift to Tim for his birthday (and a gift to Mark, as well), I knew it would end up being heartfelt no matter how far I chose to take it.

My goal was to make Tim and Mark laugh by how ridiculous the story would become (like something out of an old GURPS one-shot role-playing game night), I knew if the story could be a love-letter to our friendships, all the better!

* * *

I will go to my grave laughing every time I think about Demon Milkboy singing his version of the happy birthday song to Tim…particularly, the “Milkboy will never leave you…” line. It works better with the demon voice. [Demon Milkboy Voice] “Milkboy will never leave you…” See? Anyway, there are plenty of laughs once Demon Milkboy drops from the sky in front of Mark and me on the access road to I-35 in Denton, Texas (the town where I met Tim). But Tim and Mark, and many other friends, helped me battle my own demons. We’ve all helped each other through so many rough times over the decades, so…I figured out Demon Milkboy needed to become a symbol of the hard things that shaped us all before we even knew each other…but also a symbol about how the three of us are still alive because there were times we all thought about ending everything…and kept going because we had each other’s support.

* * *

There was still one problem with “Milkboy”—I felt bad for killing Lance.

Something I’ve mentioned to no one until now: Lance is based on a guy Tim and I worked with in our early 20s.

Like I said, Tim and I met in Denton, Texas when we both answered a newspaper job ad as door-to-door salesmen. We were to sell a sort of encyclopedia set-slash-learning system for kids.

Weekends found us traveling around Texas and Oklahoma, trying to sell our wares to people near military bases, middle-class neighborhoods, and they once dropped me on a reservation in Oklahoma. It was a shitty job, but I kept it because I liked Tim…and this guy named Jeff.

To see Jeff, you’d think he could own the world. He was handsome and fit; talented and kind. He had every reason to be a narcissist, but he was more interested in other people than himself. He had a way of making you feel special in his presence.

One night in Oklahoma, I was wandering the edge of my sales territory and saw Jeff across a highway in his. We both sucked at being salesmen, so we decided to hang out. That’s when Jeff confessed to me how much he struggled with life. He told me he hadn’t eaten in days because he was broke. (I at least had a second job on a sprout farm, so I at least had free access to garbanzos, adzuki beans, and other forms of protein. And, God—plenty of greens!)

We scrounged up enough change to get Jeff a hotdog at 7-11. I have no idea if they still sell hotdogs based on all you could fit into the little cardboard hotdog containers, but at the time…if you could cram that thing full of food and close it, you could have it for a flat price.

Jeff packed every space around the hotdog with chili. He could barely close it. I reached into his pocket and dug change to pay for it because the container was about to fall apart in his hands.

We wandered to a school yard, where Jeff planned to sit on a swing and eat his first bit of food in days.

He dropped the hot dog in the dusty dirt below the swingset…and then he broke down in tears.

He plopped down on the swing with his stomach, hovering inches over the exploded chili dog on the ground. He sobbed like he’d just lost a loved one…it was a mournful howl.

A passerby might have thought, “It’s just a chili dog, dude,” but there was soooooo much more behind those tears: feelings of failure, shame, and who knows what else?

When Jeff’s crying slowed, he looked up at me and said, “Would you think any less of me if I ate this thing out of the dirt?”

Of course, I wouldn’t—and I watched someone who looked destined for greatness I could only imagine eat a cheap chili dog off the ground, dirt be damned! Later that night, he told me about how he had a hard time making friends; how he felt like a failure in his family’s eyes; how he had so many aspirations growing up, but how life didn’t turn out the way he always thought it would.

Like I said, we all have our demons…

* * *

I didn’t want “Milkboy” to be a self-indulgent story full of inside jokes that wouldn’t appeal to a wider audience. I wanted it to be relatable to everyone, even though it’s perhaps the most ridiculous story I’ve shared on Not About Lumberjacks. (If I never wrote and shared “Booger,” I’d say “Milkboy” is definitely the weirdest story on the site, but people still tell me about how much the sounds in “Booger” got to them…)

Anyway…I went into “Milkboy” not knowing where it would end up, and, in the process…ended up writing one of my favorite stories ever.

Stepping into the unknown is never easy—whether it’s a story or life itself—but if you do it enough, preferably with the company of a handful of loved ones, sometimes the ending surprises you in the most wonderful of ways…

* * *

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks and Behind the Cut. Theme music for Behind the Cut is a tune called “Reaper” by Razen. Visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the music, the episodes, and voice talent.

In November, the annual tradition continues as I share the most NOT Not About Lumberjacks story of the year, in honor of the show’s sixth anniversary! What’s the story about, you may be wondering? Well, two deadhead loggers find something remarkable in the Piney Woods of East Texas, putting them at odds with a large timber company.

Until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

[Listen]

[Sound of an ax chopping wood. Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

I want to make one thing perfectly clear: this show is not about lumberjacks…

My name is Christopher Gronlund, and this is where I share my stories. Sometimes the stories contain truths, but most of the time, they’re made up. Sometimes the stories are funny—other times they’re serious. But you have my word about one thing: I will never—EVER—share a story about lumberjacks.

This time, we step back to the days of computer Bulletin Board Systems for a story based wholly on truth. (No, seriously—this was a pretty much true story, until we reach a certain point.) When two friends create an online persona to mess with another friend, they get what they have coming to them for their deception.

I know I said this month would be a mystery set in a bog, but that’s now been bumped to the first release of 2022. It’s a good story, and I didn’t want to rush it just to get it out. Besides, it was time for something lighthearted and goofy.

And now: the usual content advisory. Milkboy deals with emotional manipulation, stressful working conditions, infected food, passing mention of a grizzly death, demonic possession, and cartoonish violence. Oh, sooooooo much cartoonish violence! And, of course, there’s plenty of swearing.

Also, if you’re driving: be aware that anytime you hear characters in a vehicle after the mention of Yummy’s Greek Restaurant in Denton, Texas…there will be yelling, squealing tires, and even a collision. Really, from that point on…just expect the story to get louder and more ridiculous with each new paragraph.

The character of Tim in Milkboy is a real person…in fact, he’s the artist behind the two versions of the Not About Lumberjacks logo! I’m releasing Milkboy today, on October second 2021, in honor of his birthday. I’ve been fortunate over the years to receive artwork from Tim as gifts on my birthday, so it was time I wrote a story as a gift for one of his. I hope this effort finally absolves me from the sin of creating Milkboy and catfishing Tim before catfishing was a thing.

All right—let’s get to work…

* * *

Milkboy

[Jaunty guitar music fades in, joined by a trumpet.]

This is a story about the shittiest thing my friend Mark and I ever did to our best friend, Tim.

Mark had a Tandy 2500 386 SX computer (with an 85 megabyte hard drive), and we put it to good use the night we created Milkboy.

Milkboy was a digital construct, catfishing before catfishing was a thing—an online persona created to see if Mark’s roommate, Tim, would take the bait.

Of course, he did.

That Tandy system, while belonging to Mark, was a shared thing in the apartment where he dwelled, a system allowing Mark, Tim, and me to log into a bulletin board system run by Mark’s manager at Two-Dice Pizza. (We chatted with strangers in the Dallas/Fort Worth area long before any of us had easier access to the World Wide Web.)

* * *

[The bleeps and bloops of a dial-up modem]

It was my idea to make Milkboy. Tim started spending more time on Jared’s BBS than hanging out with us. Looking back, I can’t blame him: he worked several jobs—among them, illustrating children’s books, delivering newspapers, and managing fireworks stands in the summer—but his most tedious task was dealing with Mark and me. Much like an exhausted parent, when the day was done, Tim wanted to connect with someone who didn’t add to his life the kinds of stresses we did.

And so, one evening he logged into the BBS and met a guy who went by “Milkboy.”

We chose the name Milkboy because Tim’s dad was not only born and raised in Wisconsin, but he was a shining Son of the Dairy State. He bowled, played accordion, and drank beer. His work ethic ran rampant in Tim’s veins—and in Milkboy, Mark and I created a fake persona that took away the stresses of Tim’s busy days. Between all his tasks, Tim chatted online with a guy who loved Wisconsin as much as he did; who loved They Might Be Giants as much as he did; who loved the exact comic books as much as Tim. It was all so obvious to Mark and me that we figured Tim would quickly realize he’d been had, but I guess when your two best friends are the kinds of people who would make up a fake person online in instead of—you know—being kinder to you…you’d believe something too good to be true when compared to your reality.

* * *

Each day, Milkboy became more perfect. If Tim talked to us about how much he loved Too Much Joy’s new album, suddenly online, Milkboy did the same. Milkboy loved Legion of Superheroes comic books, Twin Peaks on television, and could sing along to every Dead Milkmen tune. If Tim liked it, Milkboy loved it! Milkboy was a refined work in progress we enjoyed creating more than any character in the stories we wrote and the role-playing games we adored.

Not quite two weeks into our deception, Mark was the first to bring up that maybe we’d gone too far.

“It was funny when we first made Milkboy, but I’m starting to feel bad. It’s not that funny anymore. It actually feels kinda mean…”

I agreed, but…it’s a rare day when you’re part of something so new, and I wanted to see how far our online ruse could be taken. That was apparently enough of an argument for Mark to say, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m curious, too…”

* * *

And so, Milkboy’s presence grew in our lives, a thing making the three of us happy—until somewhere, almost a month in, when Tim said something Mark and I had not anticipated.

“I’m gonna see if Milkboy wants to meet up in person…”

We knew right then that we should have stopped the night Mark asked if we’d taken it too far.

Mark said, “That’s great, Tim! Cool.” Then he turned to me and said, “Hey, I’m gonna walk over to the store for some snacks—wanna come along?”

“Sure,” I said. “Need anything, Tim?”

“Nah, I’m good. I’m gonna go message Milkboy.”

* * *

[A quiet evening outside.]

Before we even made it to the parking lot, I said, “We need to go back in there and tell him the truth, Mark. I’ll tell him it was all my idea because it was, so he takes it out mostly on me.”

“He’ll kill us,” Mark said. I’m not even fully joking…he’s so stressed right now that I can see him braining us with that metal T-square he uses for art.”

[Footsteps on pavement.]

Mark was lost in thought while we climbed the hill between the apartment and the gas station store. At the top, he said, “We can have Milkboy say he’s moving back to Wisconsin. That he’d love to meet Tim, but there’s some family thing needing attention, like when you went back to Missouri when your dad died. You can play that shit up and sell it. Tim felt so bad for you. Milkboy disappears and we swear to each other, here and now, that even if we’re all still friends in thirty years that we never tell Tim the truth about Milkboy.”

“Just have Milkboy fade away?” I said.

“Yep. A message or two to Tim, and he’s gone forever.”

As long as Mark and I stuck to our new plan, it was a foolproof fix to our reckless problem.

On the way back to the apartment, Mark said, “I’ll send the first Milkboy message tonight while Tim’s delivering newspapers in Denton. We’ve got this…”

* * *

[A front door opens and closes. The sound of plastic bags.]

When we returned to the apartment with a couple bags of junk food, no sooner than we walked through the door, Tim said, “It’s done, guys. I messaged Milkboy, and he said he’d love to meet up in person.”

I don’t know what our faces looked like, but Tim said, “What’s wrong, guys? I thought you’d think this is cool.”

“No, it is,” Mark said. “Really cool. You’re sure he said he wants to meet you in person?”

“Yep. I’m gonna reply in a moment, but there was a message waiting for me. He wondered if I wanted to meet up next week at Piccolo’s Pizza. You guys, too!”

“He wants to meet all of us?” I said.

“Yeah. He sees your posts on the board and he thinks you’re cool, too.”

“Okay…” Mark said. “Yeah, sure, Tim—we’ll meet up. Sounds great…”

* * *

[The bleeps and bloops of a dial-up modem. Typing on a keyboard.]

When Tim left the apartment that night to deliver newspapers, Mark and I logged into the BBS to check on Milkboy.

We couldn’t access the account we created.

We looked at the boards and saw a few Milkboy posts we hadn’t made—mostly about music, and a post about the updated GURPS rules on the role-playing board.

In the final issue of Grant Morrison’s run on the Animal Man comic book, Animal Man meets Grant Morrison in person. Of course, it’s scripted; Morrison wrapping up his time on the series and making a heartfelt statement about childhood. A writer in control of a character. We were the writers behind Milkboy, but somehow he seemed to take on a life of his own.

“It has to be fuckin’ Tim,” I said. “He somehow found out, and he’s fucking with us in return. I bet you he strings us along a few days and then next Friday, before we all go meet Milkboy, Tim’s suddenly like, ‘Oh, Milkboy had to cancel at the last minute.’ Hell, it’s Tim…he’ll probably feel guilty by tomorrow and confess.”

* * *

But Tim didn’t confess.

Each day, Mark and I waited for him to cave in…but he never did.

And each day, new Milkboy replies on the boards popped up.

Mark decided to message Milkboy while Tim was working—not to call him out, but to see if he’d conveniently reply only when Tim got home from his paper route.

“How’s this sound?” Mark said. “Hey. Heard we’re all meeting up on Friday for pizza and beer. Looking forward to it. We can swing by your place on the way and pick you up if you want so you can drink more than just a couple beers?”

[Soft music: horns, guitar, and xylophone.]

An hour after Mark sent the message, he got a reply from Milkboy: “Oh, man…that would be so cool. Thanks! But I’m meeting up with a friend from Wisconsin after dinner with you guys. That’s the only time he could hang out…he’s in town for the weekend visiting family. You know how it is.”

Maybe the Animal Man theory wasn’t too far-fetched…

* * *

When Friday rolled around, waited for Tim to say Milkboy bailed on us, but he never did.

We sat in Piccolo’s Pizza waiting for a stranger from the BBS to arrive. Mark was likely thinking the same thing I was: Tim was going to take this to the absolute end. He’d order a bunch of food and beer—maybe even order a couple expensive drinks for himself, since I was driving—and then he’d tell us he figured out the horrible thing we did to him and stick us with the bill. We’d pay it, of course, knowing we deserved worse than that, and Tim would have something to always go back to, like Mark reminding us how horrible it was for Tim and an old girlfriend to dare me to drink Mark’s Sea Monkeys for fifteen dollars.

But Tim’s big reveal that he was onto us never happened; in fact, we watched him stand up and wave his hand to a guy wandering into the restaurant wearing a They Might Be Giants Lincoln t-shirt.

If you were given the task to make the most attractive of all geeks, you’d make Milkboy. There was a kindness to his handsome gaze; a brightness in his friendly eyes framed by designer eyeglasses. He had a Superman curl of hair on his forehead, and as I watched him make his way through the pizza joint to our table back by the kitchen, he was built like the Man of Steel as well. [Sounds of a restaurant fade in.] I could see him fronting a boy band, but give him a little scruff, and he could easily play the bad boy who made hearts swoon in movies.

“Are you Tim?” he said.

“Yes…”

He stuck out his hand. “Great to finally meet in person, Tim. I’m Milkboy, but you can call me Lance.”

After Tim shook his hand, I reached out and said, “Hey, Lance. I’m Chris.”

He almost crushed my hand as he said, “It’s Milkboy to you… Remember that.”

* * *

Mark and I may as well have stayed home. The dinner discussion consisted of Tim and Milkboy talking about all the things they loved. Tim practically shrieked with delight when Milkboy talked about how he was reading his old Kamandi comic books—and Milkboy swooned with each band Tim mentioned. Mark and I fashioned Milkboy to be a reflection of Tim, but real-life Milkboy was better than anyone we could imagine. By the end of dinner, Tim and Milkboy discovered their fathers actually went to the same high school in Wisconsin!

When the waitress brought the bill, Milkboy pulled out a wallet thick with cash and said, “It’s on me, guys.” (At least he finally acknowledged that Mark and I existed.)

From the moment Milkboy left, to the time we all went to sleep, Tim couldn’t stop talking about how wonderful dinner was.

* * *

In the weeks that followed, Tim spent more time hanging out with Milkboy than us. They were inseparable. Tuesday comic book days became Tim and Milkboy days. Tim even blew us off on Mystery Science Theater 3000 nights to go watch at Milkboy’s house.

Yeah, Milkboy had a house. A product of stout Midwest breeding, Milkboy’s father taught him the value of a dollar at a young age, when Milkboy knocked on doors offering to shovel driveways in the winter, plant flowers in the spring, mow lawns in the summer, and rake leaves in fall. Milkboy wasn’t rich, but by our terms he sure as hell was. According to Tim, he even had a Shinobi arcade cabinet in his living room.

When Milkboy came to the apartment to hang out with Tim, the only time Tim’s new best friend acknowledged us was when Tim left the room. If Tim got up to go to the bathroom, Milkboy would turn to us and say, “I don’t know why Tim hangs out with you losers. You’re a part-time pizza man and you barely work at all. He deserves much better friends.”

Upon Tim’s return, Milkboy would look at him and say, “I was just chatting with Mark and Chris about the new Tick comic book…” which would send Tim off to talk about the week’s comic shop haul.

* * *

When we finally told Tim some of the things Milkboy said to us, Tim didn’t believe it.

“I know you two are jealous about how much time I spend with him, but I still like you. It’s just…he seems to get me better than you guys…”

* * *

And so, life clicked along like that, until the following month when I got a call from Mark. I could tell by the background sounds that he was at work.

[Sounds of a busy restaurant kitchen.]

[Mark: through telephone.] “I’m sure you planned to come over tonight anyway, but you need to head over right now. I’m leaving work. I have some big news to tell you…”

[A car driving along the highway.]

On the drive over, I imagined all the things it could have been: maybe Mark had sold another indie comic book story—he sounded that excited. Maybe he finally got a tech gig instead of delivering pizzas for Jared at Two-Dice. Or maybe it was about Milkboy…maybe Tim finally announced that he was bailing on Mark and becoming roommates with his new best friend. I was not expecting what Mark told me.

“Milkboy’s a drama student at the University of North Texas. He works nights at a convenience store where Tim delivers papers. Apparently, they hit it off and chat. Tim overheard you and me talking about Milkboy. He got so mad that he wanted to fuck with us back. So, he asked his chat-buddy at the gas station if he wanted to make a little extra money acting like Milkboy.”

“How the fuck do you know all this?” I said.

“I heard Jared talking about it at work. Tim messaged him and told him we were using his BBS to mess with him. So, Jared changed Milkboy’s login, and he and Tim took over.”

“That’s shitty of them!”

Mark raised an eyebrow.

“Okay, yeah…so, we’re the shitty ones. We deserve it. But Jared?”

“He thought it was funny.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that…”

* * *

The next time Milkboy visited the apartment, we waited for the usual barrage of insults from him when Tim left the room. We were watching Northern Exposure with Tim and Milkboy when Tim announced, “Be back in a couple…gotta go get rid of some of those sausages I had for lunch…”

[Footsteps on carpet moving away.]

Before Milkboy could tear into us again, Mark cut him off.

“Stop right there, Captain Thespian. We know you’re a big ol’ pile of bullshit. A drama student? And you have the gall to rip on us for the way we live our lives?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I said, “We know Tim paid you to pretend to be Milkboy.”

His gaze went to a beer stain on the carpet.

“When Tim comes back,” Mark said, “you’re gonna walk out that fuckin’ door and never show your face again. Understand?”

“I can do that,” Milkboy said. “Tim’s cool, but this whole thing is fucked up. And you two are assholes. Who the hell makes up a fake person to mess with their best friend?”

“It was a joke,” I said.

“Grow the fuck up, lint boy. That’s not a joke—that’s fuckin’ cruel!”

“Lint boy?”

“Yeah. You crash on everybody’s lint-covered floors and are only concerned with making enough money to buy comic books every week. You’re a little boy!”

“Hold on,” I said, “You recognized how fucked up this whole situation was, but still went along with it? Must not be making much acting money if you’re working overnights at a convenience store. You’re no better than us.”

“Am too.”

“What are you,” Mark said, “A fuckin’ fifth grader? ‘Am too…‘”

The three of us bickered back and forth until Tim returned to the living room.

“What’s going on?” he said.

Mark answered. “We know you know about Milkboy. And we know you paid this asshole to pretend to be him.”

Milboy stood up. “Tim…you’re a good guy, man. You definitely deserve better friends than these two. Later…”

[A door closes.]

* * *

When Milkboy closed the door behind him, Tim said, “What did you two say to him?”

“He was about to start insulting us,” I said. “Mark let him know we found out he was an actor.”

“How?”

“I overheard Jared at work,” Mark said. “He told me everything. When did you figure it out?”

“A few weeks in,” Tim said. “I realized Milkboy never posted when you were at work and Chris was at home. He only replied when you were all online. So, I contacted Jared. He thought my plan to turn the tables on you two was funny. Then I started chatting with Lance on my route and asked if he wanted in on it. We only planned to have him show up the night at Piccolo’s. He was gonna say that he had to go home to Wisconsin and that was gonna be that.”

“That was our plan,” Mark said. “We were gonna have Milkboy message you a couple times, saying he had to go home, and then he was gonna fade away.”

“We’re sorry,” I said.

Tim said, “You should be. Especially ’cause it’s almost my friggin’ birthday, guys! But it is kinda funny, and I can apologize to Lance next time I’m on my route. But if you ever do something like this again—I’m not fuckin’ kidding—I’ll kill you motherfuckers with my T-square.”

* * *

[Music.]

Things went back to normal for the three of us. We played Dungeons and Dragons, worked on comic books together, and hung out while drinking beer and watching TV. Then one evening, things got weird.

Mark and I were hanging out watching Mark’s Akira video when Tim got home from a series of school visits for his kid’s book.

[A door opens and closes.]

“Really fuckin’ funny, assholes!”

“What?” Mark said.

“Paying Lance to follow me around today. Fuck you!”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Tim?”

“Every fuckin’ school I went to, I saw Lance watching me.”

“Tim,” I said. “I swear. I mean, I know I don’t believe in God, but I swear to God…we learned our lesson and we wouldn’t do that.”

“Chris is telling the truth,” Mark said. “It wasn’t us.”

“You sure it was Lance?” I said.

Tim shot me a look. “Yes!”

“Well, maybe he’s fucking with you on his own,” Mark said. “Maybe he’s going all method actor and keeping up the role. But we have nothing to do with it this time. Seriously, Tim—it’s not us.”

* * *

It wasn’t just Tim who started seeing Lance.

Mark swore Lance was following him one night while delivering pizzas. And I never rode the Northshore Trail at Grapevine Lake faster than the day I was riding and saw Lance standing in the middle of the singletrack ahead of me. All three of us kept seeing him. [A man shouts, “Hey!” Running footfalls slap pavement.] Tim was the first to try chasing him down, but Lance turned a corner and disappeared. [Two people walking outside on a quiet night.] Mark and I saw him one night while walking to get snacks…standing just on the edge of the light cast by the gas station. We turned around to head home, but Lance was suddenly in front of us. [Two sets of running footfalls slap pavement.] Fight won over flight, and we rushed him…but he got over the hill between the apartments and gas station before us and was nowhere to be seen.

Like he’d just disappeared…

* * *

On a night Tim and Mark weren’t working, we decided to go to the source. [Interior of a car speeding down a highway.] We hopped in Tim’s Ford Escort and drove up to Denton—to the Howdy Doody convenience store at Bell and Coronado.

[Convenience store door chime.]

Lance was nowhere to be seen.

Tim approached the cashier and said, “Hey, the guy who’s usually here at night. Do you know where he is?”

“Lance?”

“Yeah.”

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?”

He pointed at a newspaper. On the front page was a story about how police were still looking for the killer of a guy found murdered in his apartment a week before. The article said it looked like a bear attack. The victim’s name? Lance Fusco.

We’d all seen Milkboy earlier that day.

* * *

[Interior of a car speeding down a highway.]

“All right,” Tim said on the way home. “We’re stopping at the grocery store on the way and stocking up. Mark and I are calling in sick to work the next few days. We’re holing up in the apartment, and we’re not leaving—for anything! If, for any reason we do have to go out, we go out in a group. All three of us, understand?”

The next couple days, we were like kids during a blizzard that closed school. We played video games and Dungeons and Dragons. We watched movies and we drank beer. (Okay, so maybe it was a bit better than being kids stuck at home.) We had several days of fun, until the day Mark and I did something stupid. On Tim’s birthday, while he took a nap to stay up for a night of celebrating, Mark and I made a quick run to Denton to surprise Tim with a Middle Eastern spread from Yummy’s Greek Restaurant.

* * *

[Interior of a car speeding down a highway.]

We were speeding along the I-35 access road on our way home when it happened: a body fell from the sky right in front of us. [Squealing brakes and a loud THUD!] Mark locked the brakes, but couldn’t stop in time. It was the most horrible sound I ever heard. When we came to a stop, we looked at each other.

Mark said, “Did that look like…”

“Milkboy…?” I said.

[Doors open and close. The hissing of a radiator.]

We got out of the truck, looking at the prone body in the headlights in front of us. Neither of us wanted to be the first to approach. We waited for the other to take the first step. [Footsteps.] I took a deep breath and started toward the body. That’s when Milkboy got up.

[Gravel rustles.]

It was Milkboy, but it wasn’t Milkboy. [Breathy growl.] He looked more like the vampire from Fright Night than Milkboy—a mouth full of fangs and glowing red eyes.

[Demonic voice.] “I’ve been looking for you two…”

[Feet leap from gravel.] He moved on Mark first. [Metallic noise.] Mark reached into the bed of his pickup and grabbed the cross-wheel lug wrench. [Demonic hissing.] The cross seemed to repel Demon Milkboy. The old Baptist side of Mark kicked in. “By the Holy Gospel of Jesus Christ, stand down! You will find no safe harbor in our souls, for we are imbued with His spirit! In Christ’s name, I command ye—leave now, demon, or suffer His wrath!”

[Footsteps stop.] Demon Milkboy stopped his advance. He turned to me.

“Yeah, what he said.”

[Demon Milkboy laughs.]

[Demonic voice.] “Then I will take your friend…”

[Feet on gravel and a WHOOSH! Wings flap.]

He leaped up and flew off into the night.

* * *

[A racing engine and squealing tires.]

The tires of Mark’s Mazda B2000 pickup truck squealed as we pulled into a Chevron parking lot looking for a pay phone. [A car door closes] Mark leaped out, forgetting change. [Rummaging through coins.] I grabbed a quarter from the dashboard, [A car door opens and closes. Running on pavement] ran to the phone, [Coin inserted into a payphone] and inserted the coin. [Fingers pressing buttons on phone] Mark dialed so fast that he messed up the number. [Hanging up receiver; triggering coin return, coin returned to phone, and dialing.] He hung up, pulled the coin return, and tried again.

[Tim: through phone.] “Hello?”

“Tim, it’s Mark. You need to get out of the apartment now. I can’t explain, but Milkboy’s coming. Get the fuck out of the apartment!”

[Metal rattling through phone.]

[Demon Milkboy through phone.] “Tim can’t talk right now. He’s…occupied…”

* * *

It was easy to forget there was a time in Mark’s youth when he walked door-to-door in the hills of Tennessee, spreading the Gospel and witnessing for Jesus Christ. None of us had any reverence for faith as adults; in my case, I never did. But Mark was once a Born-Again-in-the-Blood-of-Christ-Jesus Southern Baptist, known in the hills as the boy touched by the Lord Hisself. There were aspirations to get him on A.M. radio he was so fired up on God’s Word. But his family returned to Texas, where Mark discovered comic books, Dungeons and Dragons, and goth music were far more fun than church.

[Pickup truck with engine trouble rolling down the road.]

We puttered along I-35, hoping the radiator would hold up long enough to get us back to the apartment. We were silent at first—me thinking about how I had been wrong about Jesus and demons and everything my entire life.

“Okay, I think I have it figured out,” Mark said. “That thing is some kind of quantum manifestation. Remember Animal Man 26…like that. But not just a story…totally for real.”

“It’s a fuckin’ demon, Mark.”

“No. I mean, I get what you’re getting at. It’s real, but it’s not what it seems. It’s like how some particles, when observed, react to certain laws. But it’s all chaos when we’re not looking. It’s playing by certain rules…and expects us to do the same. So, when we get to the apartment, we’re going in with the full armor of God.”

“What the fuck is that?”

“The Belt of Truth. Speak only the truth when we confront it. We’ll also be protected by the Breastplate of Righteousness—we deserved to be called out for fucking with Tim, but none of us deserve this. The Gospel of Peace will protect our feet. As stupid as we can be at times, we’re still good people not out to hurt anyone. The Shield of Faith, the Helm of Salvation, and wielding the Sword of the Spirit might be a little bit harder for you, having never believed in any of this crap. I’ll go in first and pave the way. You just think about saving Tim and putting all this behind us.

“My biggest fear is how strong it will be when we get to the apartment. It’s gonna feed off Tim’s residual Catholicism in a way no former Baptist could ever sate it.”

* * *

[Two car doors close. Footfalls on pavement.]

The apartments were silent when we pulled up. Lights were out, and no one was around. We walked to the door of Mark and Tim’s place and listened.

We heard singing…

[Demonic voice.] “Happy birthday, Best Friend. Happy birthday, Best Friend. Milkboy will never leave you. Happy birthday, Best Friend.”

Mark looked at me and said, “Remember: Full Armor of God,” as he reached for the doorknob.

[A door opens and closes.]

[Flames crackle, wind blows, souls howl.]

The inside of Mark and Tim’s apartment looked like a fire and brimstone plane of Hell. A rope bridge crossed the living room, suspended over a drop into a fiery abyss that seemed to have no bottom. In the dining room, Tim was bound to the chair at the head of the table. [Muffled cries for help.] Demon Milkboy wore a party hat and lit the candles on a [Squishing sounds] worm-riddled birthday cake with his fingertips. The rest of the table was covered with books and dice and figures from our last Dungeons and Dragons session.

[Demonic voice.] “It appears we have company, Best Friend.”

“Leave him alone!” Mark said.

[Demonic voice.] “Leave him alone? But it was you who started this…two puny humans too stupid to realize it is unwise to meddle with things you do not understand!”

“We were just fucking around.” I said.

[Demonic voice.] “There is power in words. You two, of all people, should know that. What you have manifested will now be your undoing!”

[Flames intensify.]

The demon raised its hands like something out of Fantasia’s “Night on Bald Mountain” scene, causing the flames in the abyss to rise.

“Run!” Mark shouted.

[Footfalls across a rope bridge.]

We charged across the rope bridge as the fire climbed higher. Mark’s feet and body glowed, and I swear I saw a shield pushing back flames as he scrambled across. [Snapping ropes.] The bridge gave way just as we reached the other side—[feet scratching on gravel] just enough to cause me to lose balance at the edge. [Clasping hands.] Mark extended a hand, making sure I didn’t fall in.

[Demonic voice.] “I see you wear the Armor of God,” Demon Milkboy said. “Tell me, Christopher—what do you really think about Mark?”

I imagined the Belt of Truth around my waist.

“I hated him at first. He wasn’t nice to me when I met him—he thought he was better than everyone he met. He was so fuckin’ pompous, and there wasn’t a face on the planet I wanted to punch more than his. But we each chilled the fuck out and got to know each other. There are now times I spend more time with him than Tim. I’m the writer I am largely because of Mark. More confident, too. I hope when we’re older that we still have each other’s backs.”

Mark laughed and said, “Didn’t work out the way you hoped, did it?”

“Well, what about you, False Warrior of Lies? What do you think of Chris?”

“I thought he was log-dumb when I met him. He’s still the goofiest person I know, but he’s not stupid—I was wrong to think that. And I resented him because I knew how much Tim loves him. But he’s also the reason I know Tim. We’re all sort of a fucked-up package deal, and I’ll die right here for either of them.”

“Your wish is my command!”

[Heavy footfalls running.]

Demon Milkboy rushed Mark, but I was faster. [Body tackle.] I hit him at the waist and knocked him back. [A whoosh and a thud.] One mighty swat from the demon was enough to knock me to my hands and knees.

[Demonic voice.] “The goofy one will be the first to die!”

I braced for the hit, but it never came. [Angelic energy.] A bright light filled the room. When I turned back to look, Mark held a twenty-sided die in his left hand and a silver glowing sword in his right.

[Demonic voice.] “Oh, you want to throw dice and play your little sword game? Be my guest! Your THAC0 is twenty. You cannot harm me!”

“We may throw the dice, but the Lord determines how they fall!” Mark said. [A 20-sided die tumbles across a table.] The d20 tumbled across the table and came to rest near the birthday cake.

[Demonic voice.] “Ha! You rolled a one! You are a weak little morsel.”

The light from Mark’s sword dimmed. [A heavy punch.] With one punch, Demon Milkboy knocked Mark across the dining room and into the abyss.

“Maaaaark!!!”

When the initial shock of losing Mark wore off and I remembered that I could still save Tim, I shouted, “What the fuck is wrong with you? Why the fuck are you like this? None of this makes sense! Who the fuck hurt you so bad that you go and do shit like this?”

I waited for the demon to come down on me with all its might, but it didn’t. I stood up and got face to face with Demon Milkboy.

“I asked you a question? Who hurt you?!”

[Demonic voice.] “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do! Someone hurt you really bad to make you like this.”

[Demonic voice.]“SILENCE!!!”

“I’ll shut up if you just tell me who hurt you!”

[Demonic voice.] “Everybody! Everybody, okay?! Everybody who picked on you at Walt Whitman Junior High School. Every motherfucker who pelted Mark with biscuits in the cafeteria. Every person who made Tim feel so self-conscious about himself that he shoulders unnecessary emotional weight every day. Every person who gave Lance a wedgie before he bulked up in self-defense. I am a manifestation of all that and more—I am the pain of youth made real!“

[A sizzling droplet.]

A single tear sizzled and evaporated as it rolled down Demon Milkboy’s cheek.

“I know that shit hurts,” I said. “But it’s in the past. That was then. It doesn’t mean the memories go away and stop stinging, but you find the people who love you and don’t let go of them.”

[Demonic voice.] “That’s easy for you to say. Nobody loves me…”

[A clasping bear-hug.]

I hugged Demon Milkboy as hard as I could.

[Demonic voice.] “STOP!!! NOOOOOO!!!”

It felt like I was holding a burning tree trunk as the demon struggled to get free. [Sizzling and yelling.] I bore the pain and held tight as it smoldered and lost power. When it was done and gone, I held Lance Fusco in my arms.

“What the fuck is going on?” he said.

[Hellish sounds diminish. A call for help.]

As the hellscape faded in the apartment, we heard Mark call for help from the closing abyss.

[Running. Clasping hands; a body dragged to its feet.]

[A sealing portal.]

Lance and I rushed to the edge and pulled him up right before it was sealed beneath the carpet. We removed the gag from Tim’s mouth and untied him.

“Are you okay?” I said?

“Yeah. I think so. I have no fucking idea what just happened, but I’m fine.”

“What about you, Lance?” Mark said.

“Yeah, I’m okay. The last thing I remember was sitting in my apartment thinking about how I still have such a hard time making friends. I got pissed at myself and started pounding myself in the head. I heard a pop, like my skull opened and released something.”

“It’s a long story,” Mark said. “I dropped Tim’s birthday dinner into the abyss, but we can order pizza, drink some beer, and catch you up on the last week. You’re welcome to stay and celebrate Tim’s birthday with us. Maybe play some D&D…”

“I’d like that,” Lance said. “Happy birthday, Tim.”

“Yeah, happy birthday,” Mark and I said in unison.

“Thanks, guys. If nothing else, it’s been memorable…”

We all looked at the birthday cake on the table. The roiling mass it was before morphed into a normal cake. Mark started singing.

“Happy birthday to you…”

Lance joined in: “Happy birthday to you…”

Then me: “Happy birthday, dear Tim. Happy birthday to you…”

[A breath blowing out candles.]

[Jangly guitar music plays.]

I don’t know what Tim wished for when he blew out the candles on that cake, and I never asked him. Maybe I will someday. I don’t know if Mark or Lance made a wish, but I did—I figured, “Why the hell not? We just fought a fuckin’ demon!” And so, in that moment, I wished we’d all still be friends when we grew older and gray.

I’m happy to report it’s one of the only wishes in my life to ever come true.

[Guitar music intensifies, and then fades…]

* * *

[The sounds of full-blown Hell. Flapping wings; feet landing on rock.]

DEMON MB:             Master…

SATAN:                      What is it, little one?

DEMON MB:             Master, I am sorry I failed you, but in my stumbling, I have discovered a new way to rule His children above. A manner of temptation and addiction unlike any we could have dreamed. A mechanism of division that will impregnate their existence with chaos and compel them to destroy each other without our influence.

SATAN:                      Oh? Do tell…

DEMON MB:             No, let me show you…

[The Bleeps and Bloops of a Dial-Up Modem.]

[Fingers typing on a keyboard.]

SATAN:                      [Laughter] Oh, how sinister. Oh, how utterly delicious…

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks. My voice is gone—you can probably tell. Uhm…I need to work at that kinda thing a little bit better! Probably should have read all the demon voices at the end because hooooooo, I’m sure that got a little rough at the end. But…happy birthday, Tim! You suffered through so many years of friendship with us, so…my voice just suffered for you. Anyway…

I’m gonna probably do the rest of this almost in the demon voice because it comes through better.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Birdies, licensed through Epidemic Sound. To save time creating an ambient Hellscape, I licensed one of Michaël Ghelfi’s many ambient tracks. If you’re in need of background sound for role-playing games, parties, your workday, or something to fall asleep to, Michaël has your back. I’ll also be sure to leave a link to his website and YouTube channel in the show notes.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org. I’m really losing my voice. Anyway…do I have a call at work tomorrow? If I do, they’re gonna be like, “What the hell?” and I’ll just go into the demon voice—and they’ll be like, “Wooo, something’s wrong with Chris. Why the fuck did we hire him?”

In November, the annual tradition continues as I share the most NOT Not About Lumberjacks story of the year, in honor of the show’s sixth anniversary! Yes: six years. What’s the story about, you wonder? Two deadhead loggers find something remarkable in the Piney Woods of East Texas, putting them at odds with a large timber company.

Anyway…visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

So…until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

* * *

[Quirky music fades in…]

Christopher Gronlund:

Thank you for listening to Not About Lumberjacks. My voice is gone—you can probably tell. Uhm…I need to work at that kinda thing a little bit better! Probably should have read all the demon voices at the end because hooooooo, I’m sure that got a little rough at the end. But…happy birthday, Tim! You suffered through so many years of friendship with us, so…my voice just suffered for you. Anyway…

I’m gonna probably do the rest of this almost in the demon voice because it comes through better.

Theme music, as always, is by Ergo Phizmiz. Story music this time is by Birdies, licensed through Epidemic Sound. To save time creating an ambient Hellscape, I licensed one of Michaël Ghelfi’s many ambient tracks. If you’re in need of background sound for role-playing games, parties, your workday, or something to fall asleep to, Michaël has your back. I’ll also be sure to leave a link to his website and YouTube channel in the show notes.

Sound effects are always made in-house or from freesound.org. I’m really losing my voice. Anyway…do I have a call at work tomorrow? If I do, they’re gonna be like, “What the hell?” and I’ll just go into the demon voice—and they’ll be like, “Woah, something’s wrong with Chris. Why the fuck did we hire him?”

Anyway…visit nolumberjacks.com for information about the show, the voice talent, and the music.

In November, the annual tradition continues as I share the most NOT Not About Lumberjacks story of the year, in honor of the show’s sixth anniversary! Yes: six years. What’s the story about, you wonder? Two deadhead loggers find something remarkable in the Piney Woods of East Texas, putting them at odds with a large timber company.

So…until next time: be mighty, and keep your axes sharp!

And now, some bloopers…

[Jaunty guitar music fades in, joined by a trumpet.]

[A wet belch.]

Christopher Gronlund:

Oh, belchy-belchy! Oh…? That smelled like a really good dinner belch. Cynthia’s been cooking lately…really good stuff. Lotta lime in that belch! Mmmm! [Sound of smacking lips.]

* * *

[Sound of distant emergency vehicles sirens.]

This fuckin’ sucks…

[Sirens intensify…Christopher mimics them.]

Now watch this be the day the apartments are actually on fire and they’re like, at the door pounding…like, “You gotta get out now! Everything’s on fire.”

And I’m like, “I’m in the middle of recording.” And they’re like, “Don’t matter, Hoss — if I gotta throw you over my shoulder and carry you down them stairs — that’s what I’m gonna do.”

And I’d be like, “I’d like to see you try. I look like a big guy, but I’ve got the weight of a fat guy, motherfucker.”

* * *

“The cross seemed to repel Demon Meek— … MeekBoy! He’s not meek—he’s fuckin’ evil…”

* * *

[Inhalation of breath, followed by a belch.]

* * *

Oh, this is shredding my voice!

[The sound of the cap on a metal water bottle being unscrewed.]

* * *

With one punch…Ugh, my voice. Getting shredded!

* * *

[Spoken line, but slightly garbbled.] With one punch…With one punch— [Mimics microphone sound.] Whoob whoob…Why is that sounding soooo bad?! [Throat clear.]

* * *

[Demon voice without deep processing]

Everybody who picked on you at Walt Whit— [Deep breath.] Everyone who picked on—Uhhhh, my voice! This is…this is terrible!

* * *

As the hellscape— Oh, my voice is gone. I-I can’t finish this, maybe… [Throat clear.]

[Music fades out.]